Mills said, “If the Japanese stepped in, that would even the odds. But based on what we’re seeing, they’ll stand aside from a battle for Taiwan. Or, at least, hesitate before they commit. Like a couple of our other allies.
“Any other questions?… Okay. The other side also holds a sizable advantage over the Republic of China in submarines, about ten to one, and in surface ships and amphibious units. But they won’t risk a crossing before the air war’s decided.
“The most striking imbalance is in missiles. DIA estimates over a thousand ballistic missiles, most likely with conventional warheads, are targeted on Taiwan, to suppress defenses, take out radars and command, and crater runways. Plus, between three and five hundred cruise missiles, although many of these may actually be for area denial rather than land attack.”
He looked at Dan. Who nodded, considered for a moment, then asked, “What’s the bottom line? The outcome? If they really commit to an invasion.”
“I’ve read the studies. Force balance isn’t the only issue. A lot of other factors are involved — sortie rates, munitions effectiveness, exchange ratios. The metrics are too variable to pick a winner. It’ll be vicious. But if there’s a bottom line it’s probably… yes.”
Cheryl Staurulakis said, “Yes, what? Ops?”
“The Chinese can seize the strait. Gain at least local air control. Enough to get a force across, and land.”
They fell silent. Not too long after, the exec called attention on deck. Dan rose and left, and the gabble of discussion rose behind him.
He spent that afternoon on a damage-control self-assessment, getting into his oldest set of coveralls for a couple hours of low-crawling, flashlight in hand, along with each compartment’s damage-control petty officer. They found closures that weren’t watertight, misadjusted ventilation airflow alarms, and some other minor deficiencies and electrical hazards, which they fixed on the spot. The automatic doors worked. The fire-suppression systems in the engine spaces tested out.
One message came through loud and clear, though he didn’t comment on it: the dust ’n’ rust were building up. Trash in the compartments. Dirty decks. Three-section watches, along with everyone being fagged from the aftereffects of the Savo Crud, probably made that inevitable. But all the inspection tags and maintenance were up to date.
A quick shower, a change to khakis, and at 1500 he held a ceremony on the bridge, pinning enlisted surface-warfare specialty pins — silver “water wings”—on eight petty officers, and getting pictures to send the families, when they got connectivity back. The rest of the day he put in with the Aegis, ASW, and strike teams, fine-tuning and double-checking the calculations they’d generated, and deconflicting them into an overall barrier plan for the task group.
His Hydra crackled as he lay melted into the chair in the little barbershop, all the way aft on the 1 level. The first time he’d felt relaxed all day. “Captain,” he grunted into the radio. Hoping he hadn’t been snoring while “Turbomouth,” the ship’s barber, cut his hair.
“Sir, Dave Branscombe, TAO. We have all units in VHF range. You wanted to be called.”
“I’ll be right up. Ask Matt to join us there if he’s awake. But don’t roust him if he’s off-line.”
The bridge was dark. A huge moon hung low, glittering coldly off three-foot seas kicked up by a steady wind from the west. From China… Lieutenant Garfinkle-Henriques, the supply officer, currently officer of the deck, oriented him, and reminded him the sonar tail was deployed, in case he wanted to maneuver.
Mills arrived lugging a three-ring binder stuffed with messages, ROEs, and references. They went over everything on the chart table. Then Dan picked up the handset. Cleared his throat, positioning the binder beneath the dim ruby pilot light and eyeing the call-sign board above the scuttlebutt. He pressed the Transmit button, and gave the encryption a chance to sync. “Steel Hammer, Cannoneer, this is Ringmaster, over. Request speak to your actuals. Over.”
“Steel Hammer” was the call sign for Curtis Wilbur, “Cannoneer” for Mitscher. Dan would have to remember that he himself would be “Matador” as CO of Savo Island, but “Ringmaster” when he spoke as Commander, Ryukyus Task Group — in Navyspeak, CTG 779.1. The task group would be further subdivided into the Japanese units, Task Unit 779.1.1, and the U.S. ships as 779.1.2. Collectively, their call sign would be “Steeplechase.”
“This is Steel Hammer. Stand by for actual. Over.”
“Cannoneer, actual on-line. Over.”
When both U.S. “actuals,” the skippers themselves, were on the line he said slowly and clearly, “This is Ringmaster actual. Stand by. Break. Request Japanese Steeplechase units come up at this time. Over.”
A few beats, then the crackle and beep of a new signal. “This is Mount Yari, over.” The words were faintly accented, but understandable. Dan had decided he wouldn’t insist on speaking to the COs, in case their best English speakers were already on the line.
“Mount Shiomi, over.”
It took a couple of exchanges before he got them straight. “Mount Yari” was JDS Kurama, the helo carrier; “Mount Shiomi” was Chokai, the Aegis destroyer. When he had everything clarified, he began passing sector coordinates, taskings, and frequencies. Speaking slowly, line by line, and making them repeat back. Making sure there could be no mistake, no chance for collision or gaps in the coverage. Doing it the old way, before everything had gone to satellite-mediated chat. Mills followed along, nodding as Dan completed each ship’s assignment.
When they were done, he took a deep breath. “This is Ringmaster. We’re here to hold the line against any attack. The more fiercely we resist, the more effectively we deter further aggression.” He clicked off, thinking, Jeez, that sounded pompous enough. Then back on. “This will be the coordination frequency. Stay alert. Keep me informed. Also, be aware of blue submarine activity in Orange Zone, sectors Alfa to Charlie.” Pittsburgh’s CO had chosen to patrol out front of the barrier, where quiet water and depths down to six thousand feet in the Okinawa Trough would give him better hunting. He hesitated, then concluded, “Ringmaster, out.”
When he resocketed the handset, he found Cheryl Staurulakis at his elbow. “Hey, Exec. How’d that sound going out?”
“Uh, pretty stuffy.”
“Yeah, got to come up with something catchier. Like ‘Molon labe’ or ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’”
“As long as it isn’t Custer’s last line,” Mills said.
Dan squinted. “What was that, Ops?”
“‘Gatling guns? We don’t need no stinking Gatling guns.’”
Staurulakis murmured, “He didn’t really say that. Did he?”
Mills shrugged. “Not in so many words. But he had the chance to take them along, and he turned it down.”
Dan grimaced. He found the HF handset in the dark, and reported to “Dreadnought”—Commander, Seventh Fleet, his tactical boss — that the strait was closed. A bored-sounding watchstander gave him a roger.
He stood near the open wing door for quite a while after they went below, watching a baleful moon above a restless sea.
5
The stocky woman in the flower-embroidered tunic and black head scarf dropped her bags on the deck of the hangar. She bent next to a stack of pallets and boxed parts, panting, hands on her knees, and blinked out at the gray ship a mile away. A helicopter hovered above its forecastle, lowering a gray container. The blue sea coursed between them like a massive conveyor belt, as if the ships floated fixed to each other by the black hose that dangled between. As if the ocean, not they, was moving.