“Yes, sir,” Giannotti said.
“And I want you to be the officer of the deck when we execute it.”
Giannotti just stared back.
“You can handle it, Bobby.”
“Thank you, sir. But for the record, I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Waving the piece of paper, he added, “You realize this is the only thing that differentiates us from a terrorist flying a plane with explosives into a carrier.”
“I do,” Kelly said matter-of-factly. “But theirs not to reason why.” Then glancing at his wristwatch, he added, “I’ll brief the crew, and you’ll execute the order in ten minutes. Do you have any questions?”
Slowly he shook his head. “I just hope we’re not kicking off World War Three here.”
“Yeah,” Kelly said in a subdued voice. “If there’s any consolation, unlike the older Type 094 that carries twelve JL-2 SLBMs, the new Type 096 houses twenty-four, each with almost a five-thousand-mile range and up to four independent nuclear warheads in the ten-megaton range. If the bastard gets within a thousand miles from our west coast, it could shower us with little-to-no warning.”
After a heavy sigh, Giannotti added, “I’ll go to the control room now, sir.”
Giannotti rose from his seat with a flurry of questions on his mind that were well beyond his pay grade, but he understood that orders were orders and that the time had come for him to show he had what it took to command one of these boats. He took a deep breath as he approached the watch station for the officer of the deck. He relieved the lieutenant and then made a quick mental assessment of the operational situation.
Shortly thereafter, Cmdr. Kelly made his surprise announcement to the crew. They would be conducting a first for the attack submarine. Missouri had a direct order to kill the pride of the Chinese submarine fleet.
“Range to target?” Giannotti asked.
“Three thousand feet,” Chappelle replied. “Bearing three-six-zero. Speed one-five knots.”
“Ahead slow,” Giannotti ordered, in order to create a little more separation.
“Ahead slow, aye.”
Counting the seconds in his head, he asked again, “Range to target?”
“Three thousand five hundred feet, sir,” Chappelle replied.
After receiving confirmation from the weapon systems officer that Missouri had a firing solution, Giannotti took a deep breath and said, “Fire one.”
“Fire one, aye.”
Counting to five in his head, he said, “Fire two.”
“Fire two, aye.”
The pair of MK 48 ADCAP (advanced capabilities) heavyweight acoustic-homing torpedoes rushed out of their bow tubes, and their sonar and all-digital guidance systems locked on to the stern of the Type 096.
“Twelve seconds to impact. Type 096 starting evasive maneuvers. Both torpedoes have acquired. Type 096 has released countermeasures. Five seconds to impact. Countermeasures ineffective,” Chappelle reported before removing his headphones.
Although there were only two torpedoes, the large SSBN exploded three times — the third being the largest of the blasts, even rattling Missouri more than a half mile away.
Chappelle put his headphones back on, listened for a moment, then said, “Confirming breakup of target, sir.”
“Set depth six-zero feet,” Giannotti ordered.
A couple of minutes later, high-definition video of the field of debris floating south of the Luzon Strait filled two of the flat screens.
“Ahead one-third. Right full rudder,” Giannotti ordered, to maneuver the attack submarine around the perimeter of bits and pieces floating on the surface.
He inhaled deeply, staring at the debris, and for a moment questioned his lifelong dream of commanding an attack submarine.
Feeling the gaze of the men inside that control room waiting for his next order, Giannotti calmly turned to the radio station and said, “Inform Vinson. Mission accomplished.”
“Aye, sir,” replied the senior electronics technician, working his controls to relay the message.
A minute later, as they continued circling the flotsam, the printer next to the senior technician churned to life. Unfortunately, rather than receiving the standard acknowledgement reply from the fleet, and perhaps even an “attaboy,” Missouri simply received new orders directly from Admiral Swift.
After reading the directive twice, Giannotti sighed and said, “Set depth three hundred feet. Bearing two-seven-zero.”
As the crew executed his order to get them back to the Taiwan Strait, he gave the drifting remains of the Chinese sub a final look. He reached inside his shirt and found the cross he wore. Holding it, he said a silent prayer for the souls of those whose lives had just been taken. May the Lord have mercy on them… and on us.
Then he calmly left the control room in the hands of a lieutenant and headed back to Cmdr. Kelly’s cabin.
— 27 —
President Cord Macklin stepped inside the Treaty Room with Hartwell Prost in tow and found a contraband McDonald’s lunch on his desk, courtesy of his crafty DNI. But before he could turn to that, he sat and asked, “Is there any reason to believe they got a message out before they sank?”
“Given the Chinese sub’s depth at the time, it seems highly unlikely.”
“And it’s confirmed that we lost one of our satellites.”
“Confirmed. A high-energy laser punched a hole right through it.”
Frustrated and angry with the leadership in Beijing, Macklin struggled to suppress his displeasure and hostility. “Dammit. What are the bastards thinking? And how should we counter this?”
“We just sank their new sub, Mr. President, with considerable loss of life. I’d say that serves the purpose.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “I know you and Brad are into this ‘going downtown’ approach,” he said, making quotation marks with his fingers. “But perhaps we should focus on de-escalating for the moment.”
The president studied his friend, then nodded. “Soon, Hart. Soon. But first we are going to extract another pound of flesh.”
“Yes, sir,” Prost said, “but let’s leave the bastards a chance to save some face. You know that’s important to them.”
The president nodded, then spoke again, “Speaking of bastards, are we set on the other thing?”
Prost nodded. “Happening real-time,” he said, turning on the screen at the end of the room in time for the White House press secretary to reach the podium and brief reporters that three torpedoes had been fired at Vinson, damaging it.
“I’m going to catch hell for this,” Macklin said.
“Technically it’s all true, sir. One of them did damage the carrier.”
“And Denny reported it’s already been fixed.”
“A minor detail that will be released after, sir. But it’s all part of the illusion… so we can bag him this time.”
“Yeah, in return for the immunity deal I signed,” Macklin said with a sigh, before adding, “if it ever gets out that I pardoned the motherfu—”
“It’s the head we’re after, sir,” Prost reminded him, “not one of its tentacles.”
“I know that, Hart… still. The bastards killed hundreds of sailors, wounded Stennis, and sank North Dakota,” Macklin said. I’m having a hell of a time wrapping my head around the fact I actually signed the damn piece of paper.”
Prost was about to reply when Macklin waved him away, feeling quite disgusted with himself. “I need a moment, Hart.”