Dan said, “We could cover him with our remaining regular Standards.”
Staurulakis shook her head so hard her hair bounced. “Against that many aircraft? cruise missiles? A ticket to the bottom of the East China Sea, Captain.”
He rubbed his face. “Fuck… I can’t leave him in the lurch. Not when he backed us up, before.”
“We had full magazines then.” He started to lift the handset; she grabbed his hand. “Don’t. You’re tired. This is the wrong decision.”
Dan breathed deep, trying to tamp down his rage. At what? At the universe, for being a place where men killed each other? Only the dead have seen an end to war.
Staurulakis, speaking so low no one else in the space could overhear: “I’ll execute, if you order it. But it’s the wrong decision. Zhang will fall. Someday. You want to be there to help topple him.”
He drew another breath, deep, down to his belt buckle, and clicked back to the HF net. “This is Ringmaster. I can’t advise you, my friend. But good luck, Min. Over.”
“This is War Drums. We will meet again. War Drums, out.”
He must have dozed off again. The next time he swam up out of the void, Captain Fang stood before him. Dan coughed, long and hard, until something in his side spasmed and cramped. He inhaled cautiously. Glanced around. Long past midnight. The invasion fleet was still moving out from the coast. “Chip. What is it?”
“Premier Zhang has proposed peace.”
“What? I’m not sure—”
“A cease-fire in place. Followed by a conference of foreign ministers. To decide the future of the Pacific.”
“He’s proposing that you surrender. And that we acknowledge it.”
Fang looked distant. “They’re rounding up officials in the cities they’ve captured. Special teams, with lists of street addresses. Taking the families, too.”
That didn’t sound good. “But the army’s holding out, right? You’re still fighting?”
“Our redoubts are strong. We have ammunition and determination. But they hold two perimeters, where they landed. Now they are trying to link the zones up, before pushing toward Taipei.” Fang glanced away. “I need to fight alongside my comrades. And see to my family’s safety.”
Dan told him he understood, he’d start making arrangements.
“I’ve already contacted my headquarters,” the liaison said. “They will have a fishing craft meet us. Off Miyako Jima. Early tomorrow, if possible.”
Dan checked the display, calculated transit times and air-defense coverage in his head; nodded. “You can use one of our boats for transfer. I’ll have the first lieutenant get a RHIB ready.”
Fang extended a hand; Dan took it. And for the second time that night, feeling like Judas on the eve of the Crucifixion, he muttered, “Good luck.”
At 0100 someone shook him awake again. Dave Branscombe this time, with the radio messenger behind him. Dan coughed himself back into consciousness and felt around for his mug. The coffee was cold, but he slugged it back anyway as he ran an eye down the clipboard. Then read it again. Feeling sick, and not from the rancid brew.
The message was from JCS, forwarded by PaCom to Seventh Fleet and from Seventh to Commander, Ryukyus Maritime Defense Coalition Task Group.
All U.S. forces were ordered to withdraw from forward positions, except for specifically tasked patrols, and submerged forces, which were to act in accordance with a separate reference. TG 779.1 was to pull back to Guam, conducting active ASW operations, transiting via a certain latitude and longitude. Dan said, “What’s this ‘Checkpoint Zulu’?… oh. Where the battle group last reported from.”
“So we’re pulling out.” Branscombe looked stricken.
Dan glanced around, at other stunned expressions as the news filtered down the consoles. Lips shaped the words retreating… running. They turned to him, blinking, as if appealing for rebuttal. As if he, somehow, could obviate, deny, ameliorate the news.
He swallowed the impulse to throw up. Or to panic, struggling under an avalanche of reverses.
Then steeled himself.
It had happened before. Defeat. Humiliation. Retreat. But always followed by reconstitution, resolve, and return. His job now was to save the lives entrusted to his care. Bring them home, to fight another day.
He bent to pull up Fleet Weather on his terminal, then grimaced, remembering. Still, the seas seemed to be lessening, and the wind indicator had dropped to twelve knots.
Which reminded him, he had to get Red Hawk in the air. Scout and sanitize their route out. Staurulakis, tousled and flushed, came in. “Exec. Glad you’re here. Orders on the clipboard. Review them and backstop me. Matt: I need a current fuel state. Distance to Point Zulu. Thence, to Guam. Figure six hours’ linger at the checkpoint. Expanding square, starting at the checkpoint coordinates. Next: draft a message requesting refuel en route, if possible. Otherwise, most economical speed, estimated transit time. Call Wilker. Get Red Hawk in the air, loaded out for ASW.”
“Right away, Captain.” Mills hesitated. “Do we want Curtis Wilbur to accompany us to the checkpoint? Or head direct for Guam?”
“We’ll travel in company. Mutual support. In case the worst happens, if…” He trailed off, not wanting to say if the forward bulkhead gives way or if one of us gets torpedoed. “Mutual support,” he repeated, forcing a confidence he didn’t feel. “A fighting withdrawal. Where’s Chip? Captain Fang? As soon as we get him off, we’ll pull in to close interval and haul ass.”
“In his stateroom, I think. Throwing stuff in his duffel.”
“Okay, good… Cheryl?”
She lowered the clipboard. Shook her head. “It might be good if you could get on the 1MC. Give the crew the word personally.”
“Good suggestion. This is going to be an all-hands effort. When they say ‘conduct active ASW operations,’ they mean—”
“‘Don’t get yourself sunk on the way.’”
“Exactly.” He pried himself up out of the chair, which seemed to have fastened a grip on him that was harder to break the more tired he got. He looked past the frightened faces at the consoles, peering between the curtains to Sonar. “Listen up! This will be an opposed transit, without air cover. We know they have subs loose out here. Let’s not fall victim.” He turned back to his command team. “And if there are any survivors, I want to find them. I know there’s some kind of multinational SAR effort going, but we’ll be the first surface units on scene.” He stopped, searching a zombified brain for the next order. “Uh, like I said, we’re gonna be on our own, once we leave Air Force cover. They’re closing down anyway — Kadena’s under attack.
“That means Condition One both antiair and ASW. Look at what systems both ships have operational. Set up a steaming formation that gives us three-sixty threat coverage.”
He saw his orders take hold. The faces lowered, spoke into microphones, regained some semblance of business. He paced back and forth, swilled down the last of the tarry midnight brew, and replenished his cup. At least the fucking waiting was over. And with the seas lessening, maybe they could get back to safety before that bulkhead went.
Unfortunately, a retreat was the most difficult military maneuver of all. When your back turned to the enemy, it was easy for a unit to disintegrate into panic, demoralization, and then, surrender.
He had to get the crew on board. He left Cheryl organizing things and slowly clambered up red-lit ladders to the bridge. Thoughts milled. He tried to kick and shove them into some logical order. But he was so fucking tired.… The bridge was dark. He blundered into bodies. Seizing him, Nuckols steered him to the 1MC panel. The boatswain put the mike in his hand and flicked a switch. “You’re on, Skipper.”