“You can do whatever you want with the bastards, ma’am,” Gomez said with a grin. “As soon as I get what I want from them… starting with the captain.” He pointed at the bearded man emerging from the conning tower last.
Briana took a deep breath, wondering which was the more merciful of the options for the wet and pallid crew gathered on top of their sinking vessel.
— 26 —
Launched a year before from Vandenberg Air Force Base, California, the low-Earth orbit servicing unit created by Space Systems/Loral in Palo Alto, California, made its final approach to the malfunctioning STSS-2 satellite from the US Missile Defense Agency (MDA).
Designed and deployed for the sole purpose of repairing and refueling satellites in low earth orbit, Restore-L fired its helium verniers, slowing as it neared the military surveillance asset.
On the third floor of a nondescript building at the Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas, twenty-nine-year-old Billy Culver, an engineer from Loral, sat behind his cluttered control console while his two uniformed clients from the Department of Defense looked over his shoulder.
Sipping his third Red Bull since the start of his midnight shift three hours before, Billy barely touched his right thumb and index finger against the joystick control next to his keyboard. Moving it with the same finesse with which he’d mastered Ninja Gaiden II and Flywrench, two of the most difficult video games ever designed, he maneuvered the service satellite right up to the underside of the SSTS-2. Tapping his keyboard, he focused two of its lenses on the graphite fiber exterior.
“Whoa,” he said when he saw the round charcoal area roughly six inches in diameter getting progressively darker toward a quarter-size hole in the center. “Nasty burn.”
“So, it’s confirmed, then,” one of the DoD men said as Billy snapped photos.
“No shit, amigo,” Billy offered.
“Good,” the other DoD man said.
“Anything else, dudes? Gotta get to a job from GE next.”
“Actually, two things,” the first uniform said. “What you saw is a matter of national security and—”
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah,” Billy interrupted. “I get it. I have clearance, remember?”
As the DoD men exchanged another glance, Billy added, “And the second thing?”
“The photos. Could you send them to the email—”
“Already done, dudes.”
Within the hour, the images made it to the Pentagon, then the White house, confirming the suspicion that the SSTS-2 had been hit by a ground-based laser two days earlier, as it had cruised over the Chinese missile site at Guangdong.
Sitting on a sleeping berth in a cabin belowdecks, Yuri Sergeyev awaited his fate.
The submarine commander knew he was in an impossible situation, and the more he considered it, the more he questioned the order to surface. At least dying at sea in the execution of his mission would have given his family a chance to live and prosper in Chile.
But now…
As he contemplated his limited choices, a man in civilian clothes entered the stateroom. He looked Asian but his deep-bronze-colored skin suggested perhaps Indonesian or Filipino ancestry.
“Captain Sergeyev.”
Sergeyev nodded, then asked, “And you are?”
The man didn’t show any annoyance at the question. “You may call me Bill, though I won’t pretend that’s my real name.”
Sergeyev nodded. “Of course not. My crew is being looked after, Bill?”
The dark Asian man again didn’t show any reaction. Instead, he reached into a pocket of the cargo pants he wore and produced Sergeyev’s phone.
“Captain, in all seriousness, the fate of your crew depends on this conversation. If it goes well, they will be treated well. If it does not…”
Sergeyev nodded again. He understood the threat. “In that case, please treat them very well.”
The man looked questioningly at the captain. “And why would I do that?”
Rubbing his bearded chin, Sergeyev tried to think this through one more time, because once he crossed that line there would be no going back.
“Because, Bill, I can give you what your government wants.”
The man tilted his head. “And… what would that be?”
Sergeyev nodded toward the small, encrypted satellite phone and said, “The identity of my employer… and his location.”
Standing next to his XO, Cmdr. Frank Kelly frowned as he looked around his control room. Now that the crew of the Type 212A had been transferred to USS Zumwalt, COMSUBPAC had assigned the Mighty Mo to Rear Admiral Jack Swift, commander of the Carl Vinson Carrier Strike Group, while operating in the strait.
Kelly’s new orders: intercept and track a Chinese Type 096 ballistic-missile boat that had entered the north end of the strait twenty-four hours earlier as part of the escort for the aircraft carrier Liaoning.
Lying in wait, engines off, Missouri had fallen in its trail as the Chinese submarine had cruised by at a depth of two hundred feet, its crew apparently unaware that a US hunter-killer submarine had turned into its baffle.
While Liaoning remained in the northern part of the strait, a good distance from the Vinson carrier group, the Type 096 had headed south.
For the past seven hours, Kelly had tracked it down the strait fifty miles off the coast of China, past the islands of Dongshan Dao and Nan’ao Da before reaching the Penghu Archipelago. The Type 096 had then continued south into the South China Sea, presumably headed to Yulin Naval Base, home of the ballistic submarines of the PLA Navy.
“Need a word in private, Bobby,” Kelly told Giannotti. “Let’s go to my cabin.”
“Yes, sir.”
When they entered the commander’s small stateroom adjacent to Giannotti’s and across from the junior officers’ quarters, Kelly shut the door and then opened his safe. “Have a seat. You want to be sitting down when you read this.”
Kelly reached inside and produced a classified document that had arrived along with their new orders but labeled COMMANDING OFFICER — EYES ONLY.
“This has been authenticated, direct from the White House by way of Admiral Blevins to Commander, US Pacific Command to Commander, US Pacific Fleet. From there it was relayed to Admiral Swift, who passed it to me.”
Giannotti frowned. “Boss, very few good things actually float downstream, and I get the feeling this isn’t one of them.”
Kelly sighed, then handed it over. “Read the president’s direct order.”
Still frowning, Giannotti read the directive and looked at Kelly as his scowl broadened to the point that it creased his forehead. “Skipper, am I missing something, an exercise?”
“No, Bobby,” Kelly said. “It’s not a test or an exercise. It’s the real thing.”
“As opposed to what we’ve been doing for the past week?”
“This one’s straight from the top,” Kelly trailed off. “Though it’s unusual, to say the least.”
“Yes, it is,” his executive officer replied, a troubled look on his face. “Definitely getting hot in the strait.”
“Any doubts?” Kelly asked.
“Not if it’s been authenticated by COMPACFLT,” Giannotti replied, referring to the commanders of the US Pacific Fleet.
“The admiral wants it carried out as soon as practical, but left it at my discretion,” Kelly said with determination in his voice. “I’ve sat on it for the past several hours. In my view, this is as good a time as any. Concur?”