And so far, there was no sign of a Japanese response to the violation of their territory. He’d expected fighters, at least, but nothing showed on the screen.
Singhe had her head down in a reference on the ship’s LAN. He watched her for a while, telling himself he was timing her glances at the screen, but in reality just admiring the curve of her neck, the way she brushed shining black hair back from her cheek.
Finally four surface contacts popped up to the north. Singhe spoke into her throat mike. The symbols contracted, then winked blue. Friendly surface. Callouts identified USS Curtis Wilbur, escorting Stuttgart. JDS Kurama. JDS Chokai.
“What’s Kurama?” Dan asked her.
The keyboard rattled. “Wait one… Shirane class. Seventy-five hundred tons. They call it a ‘helicopter destroyer.’ ASROC up forward. Sea Sparrow for point defense. Hangar for two, maybe three helos. Optimized as an antisubmarine platform.”
“Just what we need. How about Chokai?”
“Kongo-class guided-missile destroyer. Ninety-five hundred tons. Aegis-equipped. Basically, us, except for our antiballistic capability.”
Dan nodded, impressed. Excellent fits for the mission. With three Aegis combatants, he could maintain an air picture from central Taiwan all the way to the Japanese mainland, and hold the line against anything short of an overwhelming air assault. With Kurama’s helos, plus his own, he could close the strait to submerged passage. A couple of frigates would have been nice, with low-frequency sonar “tails,” but maybe he could do this with the forces he had. Hold the pass until the cavalry arrived.
But why weren’t the Japanese responding in the Senkakus? The lines must be crackling between Washington and Tokyo. Or were the Japanese just going to roll over? They must know appeasement only encouraged aggressors. And if Zhang got an air base and missile batteries on the Senkakus, he’d have his jaws halfway around Taiwan. The islands were less than a hundred miles from the capital, and perfectly placed to interdict trade. Instead of a blockade strangling the mainland, the PRC could strangle Taiwan.
He got up and paced around, then was reminded by his stomach it was almost noon. He was desperately tired, but maybe food would help. “I’ll be in the wardroom, then my at-sea cabin. Call me if anything changes.”
Singhe murmured, “Aye aye,” as if only half listening. He left her staring up at the screen, dark brows knitted.
Dr. Leo Schell plunked down next to him at lunch. The major from the Infectious Diseases branch at Fort Detrick had joined them in the Maldives, to find out why so many crew members were falling ill. He was out of his white lab coat and back in Army BDUs now. For the crossdeck to Stuttgart, Dan guessed. “Guess I should say so long now. Skipper.”
They shook hands. “Thanks for helping out, Doc. I really appreciate it.” Dan said. To the messman, “Toasted cheese? And a cup of the tomato soup. Thanks.”
“I think you’ll be in good shape now. None of the samples I took shows any Legionella.”
“Okay, but how do we keep it from coming back?”
“Hyperchlorinate at least once a week to fifty ppm. I showed your medic, I mean, your corpsman, how to stain and test. If you get a recurrence, steam-clean again. And don’t stress the crew. They need rest. Post-legionellosis syndrome; they’re still under the weather from the outbreak.”
Dan reflected sourly that battle steaming in a wartime environment was pretty much the definition of stressing the reduced-manning crew Savo had put to sea with. “Well, again, thanks. We’ll be transferring you”—he tilted his wrist to check his watch—“in about two hours. Stuttgart’s on the radar. We’ll crossdeck you by helo at the same time we rearm.”
“Hey, I was hoping for one of those things you see in the movies, where they haul you across in a chair—”
“Helicopter,” Dan said firmly. “Things could light up around here very quickly. Sure you don’t want to stick around?”
“USAMRIID wants everybody back out of the field.”
“In case something nasty breaks out at home?” Before Schell could answer, the J-phone squealed. Dan reached for the handset under the table. “Captain.”
Mytsalo’s eager voice. “Sir, officer of the deck. Request permission to strike eight bells on time.”
For just a moment, Dan felt disoriented. The eternal traditions, combined with the technology of the space age.
The scrape of a chair, and a rangy, spare civilian in slacks and a golf shirt dropped into a seat opposite him. Dan blinked. “Bill. We don’t often see you in the wardroom.”
Dr. William Noblos was a physicist, not a medical doctor. From Johns Hopkins, the main contractor for ALIS, Savo’s still-developmental ballistic-missile-defense subsystem. Noblos had been with them since the Med, though when he wasn’t in CIC or in the Aegis spaces, he kept to his stateroom. Dan tried for a friendly tone. “We were discussing Leo’s crossdecking this afternoon. Did you want to leave with him? Stuttgart’ll be headed back to Guam. You’re a civilian, after all. And this is a war zone now.”
Noblos pursed his lips modestly. “I owe it to the ship to stay. Your team isn’t up to this, you know, Captain.”
“Thought you said they were improving.”
“I don’t want to say they’re dunces and you have no chance without my help. So I won’t.” Noblos sniffed, flicked a napkin open, laid it across his lap, and looked expectantly at the mess attendant. “Dressing on the side. Don’t let the bread touch the filling.… They’re still in the dark on the Delta AM on the array face. I explained how to calculate and apply a bias-correction factor. Several times. I guess elementary calculus is beyond them.”
“Chief Wenck’s no dummy, Bill. I can’t believe he’s not picking up on the tuning issue.”
Noblos shrugged. Dan contemplated saying something more, but finally didn’t. The guy knew his stuff, but it was like dealing with an oncologist with a lousy bedside manner. Still, the scientist was probably the key to making Savo’s unpatched, un-updated system work at all. To achieve that, right now, he could put up with an egotistical asshole. Oh, yeah.
But as soon as this crisis was over, the guy was off his ship. And he’d be writing a scorching letter to Ballistic Missile Defense. Noblos belonged in the lab, not out where he had to interact with human beings.
Everyone not on watch mustered at 1300, on the just-cleared mess decks. Dan sat in front, as usual, as Staurulakis and then Mills presented an operational overview. Geo, weather conditions, current intelligence. Emissions-control posture. Unit sectors, Savo’s mission, and their rules of engagement.
He hitched forward when Mills reached the part he’d asked him to research: the overall balance, allied forces — including Taiwanese — versus those of the mainland.
“The first requirement for a cross-strait invasion is air superiority. That picture’s adverse. Attack aircraft, fighters, and bombers number roughly six hundred versus three hundred, with follow-on reserves limited by airfield capacity, not airframes. If we add U.S. fighters out of Kadena and Iwakuni, the picture looks more even, six hundred to about four fifty. But the PRC still holds a numerical advantage, though their pilots may not be up to ours.”
One of the chiefs lifted a hand. “How about the Japs? Are they going to get involved?”