“What have we got?” Drake said, taking his seat at the head of the long table. McKeon sat to his immediate right, rolling his chair away slightly to give the President more space.
Admiral Ricks of the Joint Chiefs along with Secretary of Defense Andrew Filson sat across the table from McKeon. Forrest Beauchamp, the National Security Advisor, sat on the other side of McKeon from the President. The man spent most of his time writing vision statements and watching the television in his office — and that was just fine with the Vice President. When it came to national security, he didn’t want anyone to have this idiot President’s ear besides him.
Secretary Filson’s face was flushed red and his tie was pulled to the side of his collar, as if he’d just been trying to hang himself before rushing to the meeting. McKeon never had been able to put a finger on the man. He seemed to have a difficult time sitting still and often rose from his chair when it was his turn to speak. The constant motion was off-putting, but McKeon made allowances because the man was a hawk when it came to military operations — and that is just what they needed under the present circumstances.
Filson put both hands flat on the leather desk blotter in front of him as if to steady himself, and nodded to the admiral.
“Mr. President, two of our Ocean Imaging satellites have picked up an inordinate amount of submarine traffic out of the Yulin Naval Base in China.” He nodded toward a female Navy lieutenant named Robertson sitting at a laptop computer beside him. She had the short black hair and fine cheekbones Drake had a thing for and McKeon couldn’t help but notice the President appeared to be more interested in her than he was in the briefing. A few keystrokes later, Robertson pulled up a map of southern China on the video monitor at the far end of the table.
“Mr. President,” she said. “The PLA Navy keeps their submarines in caverns on the coast of Hainan Island off the southern coast of China. At present, we believe they have five working nuclear ballistic missile submarines, but those numbers could be low by as many as three. The water is fairly shallow there, maybe thirty to sixty fathoms so our OI birds have been able to—”
“Excuse me, OI?” Drake said, throwing her a flirtatious grin along with his question.
Robertson blushed. She’d obviously heard of the President’s reputation. “Ocean Imaging,” she said.
“Of course,” Drake said. “Please go on, Lieutenant.”
“Using lasers, synthetic aperture radar, and infrared, our birds are able to detect subs at that relatively shallow depth. Even when the sub itself is not visible, its wake stays viable for some time, allowing us to get a reading until the bottom drops away out in the South China Sea.” She used the laptop to add a series of stars on the existing map, forming a rough triangle from the Philippines to the coast of Ecuador to just north of Hawaii. “We have picked up readings on remote buoys that are consistent with a great deal of submarine activity.”
“Our assets?” McKeon asked, since Drake probably would not think of it in his lustful daze.
“We have Los Angeles Class Fast Attacks in the areas of concern,” Admiral Ricks said, apparently happy someone was asking the right questions. He pointed toward the monitor with his fountain pen. “The USS Boise, the Alexandria, and the Santa Fe are all prowling, but so far, they have had no contact.”
McKeon studied the chart, thinking over his strategy. This new intelligence was more perfect than he could have imagined.
“This much activity and only three submarines?”
“Three Fast Attacks checking out the areas from the buoy signals,” the admiral said. “We have boats attached to carrier groups around the world, sir, as well as Ohio class ballistic missile submarines well within the range of China. At any given time, nearly a third of our boats are in for refit or servicing. Budget constraints of the last decade have seen orders for new submarines cancelled, leaving the fleet aging and diminished.”
McKeon rubbed his chin as if he was musing over the possibilities. In truth, he’d been waiting for something like this. He turned to Drake and cleared his throat to draw the man’s attention away from Lieutenant Robertson.
“Mr. President, considering the state of affairs with China, I think it’s time to consider bringing the bulk of our naval forces to the Pacific.”
“Mr. President,” Secretary Filson said, giving an emphatic shake of his head. “China would see any such movement as a clear provocation.”
“Because they’ll see we know what they’re up to,” Drake said, shooting a glance at McKeon to show that, amazingly enough, he understood where he’d been going. “Who do we have in the Persian Gulf?”
“The Fifth Fleet,” Admiral Ricks said, giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “But, sir, they’re necessary to keep—”
“Put together a plan,” Drake said. “I want a full briefing on contingencies for moving them into the Pacific by close of business today.” He smiled at the admiral’s aide. “Now, Lieutenant… Robertson,” he said, looking at the pretty young officer’s name tag. “I’d like to be a little more up to speed on this Ocean Imaging technology. Do you think you could bring your computer to the Oval and enlighten me?”
“I… uh… suppose,” the young woman stammered. She turned to her immediate boss. “With your permission, Admiral Ricks.”
“He outranks me,” Ricks said, grimacing at the thought.
“Mr. President,” Secretary Filson said, bouncing his fist on the table. “I must advise against positioning too many of our forces in one area. The United States faces threats from all over the world. Some are perhaps even deadlier than China.”
McKeon gave Filson a serene nod. It was the smartest thing he’d ever heard the warmongering fool say.
Chapter 13
Ehmet Feng tied the father of the family to a chair and killed him last — slowly, after he’d been made to watch his wife and children beg and scream for their lives. Feng’s clothing was covered in blood, but he was the same size as his victim. The man’s wife had been a fine housekeeper before Ehmet had killed her, so it would not be a problem to find something freshly laundered that he could wear.
Yaqub had grown used to the cruelty of his brother over the years. Ehmet had a strict code of eye-for-an-eye justice. Even as a child, the slightest breach of trust brought more suffering and pain than Yaqub had thought possible — but something had happened to Ehmet in prison, as if some terrible demon had been released.
This man was an informant, the man responsible for telling Chinese authorities their identities after the train bombing in Urumqi — and, because of that, for their eventual capture by the Americans in Afghanistan. Death, even a slow death, had come as a mercy to the traitor. Ehmet had forced him to watch the killing of his wife and two small children. Yaqub could understand the reasoning behind it, but there was something broken inside his brother, something that looked for reasons to punish — and then relished the opportunity like others relished a delicious dessert. It made Yaqub want to sleep behind a locked door at night, for fear of what his brother might do.
Finished with the gruesome butchery, Ehmet dropped the knife in the bound man’s lap and looked up at a silent Jiàn Zŏu, who sat at a small kitchen table with a pile of papers and passports. The woman of the house had been preparing a late evening meal when they’d arrived and the snakehead had pushed all the food to the side to give himself room to work. As far as Yaqub could tell, Jiàn Zŏu wasn’t so much surprised by his brother’s violent activity as he was put out by the time it took when he felt they should be on the move. Head bent over a passport now, pen in hand, he seemed to have blocked out the wailing and death that had just taken place a few feet away from where he sat.