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Can’t say that I blame him. It’s like living in San Diego and having a missile heading for Oceanside. That close.

The Marshall P’eng
0305 local (GMT +8)

Captain Chang beat the Lake Champlain by almost a full minute in setting general quarter, but by the time he’d settled into his station, the verdict was already in. The missile would miss Taiwan, and, except for the remote possibility of impacting a fishing or commercial vessel, posed no threat to his country.

No threat, that was, other than the promise of more to come. How long would they be required to tolerate these increasingly menacing test flights before a mistake was made? The Chinese were either deliberately provoking them and the Americans or they were attempting to lull them both into complacency until the moment that they eventually struck. And strike they would, of that Chang was certain.

A radioman dashed up and handed him a hastily printed-out message. Chang took it and scanned the contents. He sucked in a sharp breath, then passed the message to his watch officer.

Taiwan had had enough. His government was officially requesting that the American ship cruising with them employ her weapons to destroy the test missile. It was invading Taiwanese air space and hazarding vessels off Taiwan’s coast.

Enough is enough. Let’s see if our ally really means what they tell us — that they are committed to a free and democratic Taiwan.

USS Lake Champlain
0311 local (GMT +8)

Norfolk stared at the message on the screen in front of him. Equal measures of deep concern and glee coursed through him. This was the moment every cruiser captain waited for, the time to use all the power of the ship as it was intended to be used. But another part of him dreaded what was to come. Not necessarily for him and his crew — no, they could take care of themselves. The unconscious arrogance that nothing, absolutely nothing in the world could penetrate his ship’s defenses was as much a part of a cruiser’s officers and crew as it was of any naval aviator. Inside this ship, the one they’d trained on so hard, kept up so well, they were all invulnerable.

But not everyone was so well-situated, foremost among them the Taiwanese frigate to their south. And not only the frigate — Taiwan itself was not heavily defended, not ringed with the Patriot batteries so common in the Middle East and Europe, not surrounded by flights of fighters. And while Lake Champlain could protect herself and her crew, and most probably the frigate as well, there was no way they could cover every approach. Sooner or later, a missile would reach its intended target, and the bloodshed that would follow already haunted him.

But for now, he had one task — destroy the missile in flight now, and hopefully, by doing so, dissuade China from launching more. He turned to his TAO, who had already assigned anti-air missiles to the target and was waiting for weapons release authority. A quiet, expectant air filled combat.

“Weapons free,” Norfolk said quietly. “Make every shot count, TAO.”

Because there’s no telling what this is the start of. Maybe it’s just a missile test shot, and this will all blow over. But maybe it isn’t, and if it isn’t, there’s a chance that I’m going to want every single missile I’ve got onboard later on.

A low rumble swept through the ship. Norfolk watched the monitor mounted in one corner. The picture showed the foredeck, the vertical launch cell hatch popping open, and then the nose of the missile emerging. He had just a split second to marvel at its size before a boiling cloud of steam and smoke swept across the deck and obscured the picture. As visibility crashed down to zero, the ship gave one hard shake, as though it were a dog coming out of the sea, then settled back into the water.

Norfolk shifted his gaze to the computer monitor. There was nothing more to see on deck — within seconds, the missile would be out of view and the radar return would provide the only information.

“Two shots fired, no apparent casualties,” the TAO reported. “Standing by for third shot.”

“Wait on it,” Norfolk said as he studied the geometry. Something clicked inside of him, and he knew without a doubt that the first missile would find its target. He knew, even before the computer-generated solution could flash onto the screen, that the second missile would find no more than carbonized metal and hot gases in the air.

Forty seconds later, Norfolk’s intuition was confirmed. Raw video on the radar scopes flared into tight balls of static, then faded to reveal empty air. The data link screen to his right flashed up the computer’s assessment: CONFIRMED KILL.

“Good work,” Norfolk said. “We could have made do with just one, you think?”

A flurry of cheerful comments, the aftermath of the tension, flooded the compartment. They were proud, more confident than ever, now that they had their first kill under their belts. It had gone flawlessly.

Perhaps too flawlessly. Because they don’t yet know just how screwed up your tactical picture can get in combat. Let ’em enjoy it now, but don’t let them get overconfident. If this is just the beginning, then they’ll learn soon enough what it’s like. And if it’s not, well, then, this could be the last time that they ever get to do it for real.

But something tells me this isn’t the last time. Not the last time at all.

With those sobering thoughts on his mind, Captain Norfolk settled in to wait.

THREE

Tony’s Chowder Shack
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Wednesday, September 4
1400 local (GMT –5)

Commander Hillman “Lab Rat” Busby was slowly savoring his way through a bowl of the best clam chowder he had had in at least five years. He had watched Tony prepare it, saw the sauce steaming, until the cook had gently stirred in the clams. It’d simmered just long enough to barely cook them, just to the point of tenderness, and then been dished out immediately into his eagerly held bowl.

A sprinkle of pepper, just the right amount, Lab Rat meticulously counting each grain. Then he positioned his bowl just so, and opened a packet of crackers to rest on the side of his plate. Then, reverently picking up his spoon, he dipped into the steaming bowl. He scooped out a small serving, making sure it included some clam bits — indeed, they were almost impossible to avoid, as thickly as they were cluttered in the rich white broth. He let it cool just a few moments, and then slid it into his mouth.

The sensation was completely indescribable. Lab Rat groaned a low moan of pleasure. The other diners glanced around nervously, but he ignored them. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, like clam chowder on the Chesapeake Bay.

“Everything all right, sir?” his waitress asked, evidently reacting to the concern of the other diners.

Lab Rat swallowed, regretfully leaving his mouth empty. “Yes, perfectly fine. Absolutely perfectly deliciously — fine.”

He glanced over at the grill, and saw Tony smiling back at him. The burly Virginia-born and — bred fisherman understood. It was the rest of these people, the tourists who didn’t have a connoisseur’s appreciation of clam chowder and the jaded locals, too accustomed to the luxury of perfect chowder, who didn’t understand.

“Gloria!” Tony shouted, loud enough to be heard over the noise in the seafood shack. “Leave the man alone — he’s from the West Coast.”

Sudden enlightenment graced every face, and they all murmured sympathetically. A few couples looked at him with pity.

Lab Rat didn’t care. He scooped up another spoonful of chowder, his mouth eager to continue the gustatory orgasm.