“Of course,” Brody said. “Now that the outcome is a known quantity, we back out and let our ally look strong in the finish. I get it.”
Rickets shifted in his chair.
“I expected more emotion from you,” he said. “And I expected you to ask if the president had already formally agreed, but instead you’re acting like you foresaw this.”
“I did,” Brody said. “And I’ve ordered the fleet to prepare redeployment plans, and they’re ready to execute at a moment’s notice.”
Rickets’ face hardened.
“Redeployment plans? What are you up to?”
“You know damned well what I’m up to,” Brody said. “Korea was a diversion. Chinese submarine operations in Japanese waters was just a distraction. I have capital warships that can converge on Taiwan in time to alter the outcome.”
“Need I remind you, admiral, that taking action without consensus is unacceptable?”
“The Air Force and Marine Corps support me,” Brody said. “You’ll find the Army lukewarm to an invasion if you ask, but the general is unlikely to support you standing in my way. The chairman is abstaining from voicing his position, but he’s just waiting for me to act before he gets on board. I know he will because he knows that kicking the Chinese off that island is the right thing to do.”
Rickets stiffened in his chair as he pointed at Brody’s nose.
“You accuse me of playing politics when I take a rational approach. Now you’re rallying troops for your own glory at the risk of tens of thousands of lives. That’s selfish warmongering, and I won’t stand for it. Nor will the president.”
“He will when he realizes he needs to in order to protect his legacy,” Brody said. “He doesn’t want to be the president remembered for cowering to China, and I’m not about to be the Chief of Naval Operations who let it happen.”
“He doesn’t want to be the president responsible for unnecessary mass casualties when a brokered and diplomatically sound peace is within reach.”
Brody realized he was on the edge of his seat. He took a breath and pushed himself back.
“There’s no peace within reach while the fleet remains out of striking distance,” Brody said.
“Renard is taking care of that,” Rickets said. “Or did you forget that Taiwan is taking matters into its own hands?”
The thought of Renard had taken root in Brody’s mind. If nothing else, he realized, the Frenchman carried an encouraging charm. Needing a break from his anger, he exhaled and turned his attention to the monitor.
Rickets raised a remote from the arm of his chair, and speakers chirped. A dark screen presented the image of a Frenchman who portrayed newfound color and vigor.
“Good day gentlemen,” Renard said.
“I hope the Taiwanese Navy shares your spirits today,” Rickets said. “You look inspired.”
“I am. And the fleet is ready, I assure you.”
“Then everything is per plan, except our previously discussed exception about having only eighteen patrol craft available?” Rickets asked.
“There is one additional minor exception that has arisen, but for which I was well prepared,” Renard said. “Mister Slate will no longer be involved.”
“What’s wrong?” Rickets asked.
“I let him go,” Renard said. “I decided that I no longer needed him.”
Brody considered the news a reprieve, a chance to confront Slate again. It also seemed a bittersweet opportunity that increased his chances of rescuing Taiwan by increasing the chances of Renard failing and needing his fleet’s intervention.
“I delivered him to you because you told me you needed him,” Rickets said. “I’ve made decisions assuming you would succeed based upon assumptions that you had him in your service. You would upset this balance at this late hour?”
“I agree that it sounds underhanded,” Renard said. “But it was more of a realization.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Years ago I drafted a plan to allow Taiwan to stand against the mainland, and I eventually crafted a place for Slate within it. But my plan will survive contact with the enemy because I’ve had the luxury of time and resources to prepare an advantage. In the final analysis, Slate was only an insurance policy.”
“You’re not one to let your odds slip, even slightly,” Rickets said. “There’s something else at work here.”
Renard inhaled from a Marlboro, sighed out the smoke, and returned his attention to the camera.
“Indeed,” he said. “His heart is not in this. He doesn’t feel any loyalty — at least no loyalty to me, my team, Taiwan, or anything else that I can see.”
“We knew that going in,” Rickets said. “That’s why I applied pressure to get him there.”
“There’s more. I’m afraid the narrow escape from the submarine pen shook his confidence.”
“We heard the explosions and an abnormally effective countermeasure system,” Rickets said. “We assumed that was him, but I had no idea his escape was narrow.”
“It indeed was,” Renard said. “For the life of me, however, I cannot determine what mistake he might have made. I’ve heard the recordings from the islet’s hydrophone systems and from the Hai Ming itself. I’ll grant that the Chinese had reason to suspect the existence of our submarine pen, but it appears that a Chinese submarine had divine guidance in knowing the exact location during Slate’s departure.”
Brody knew that no submarine commander could launch a weapon without targeting data. He shifted in his seat and prepared a line of questioning for Renard, but Rickets preempted him.
“I know what happened,” Rickets said. “And I’ll share it with you so you can make better decisions about using your submarine pen, and so that you can have a prayer of talking Slate into reuniting with you.”
“Please,” Renard said.
“It was his surface hump.”
Renard squinted into the camera and absorbed the news as he inhaled from his cigarette.
“Damn,” he said. “I might have guessed. I underestimated mainland satellite technology.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Rickets said. “We had them pegged at three to five years away from having satellite radar systems good enough to identify submarine surface humps, but we now know that they accelerated the development.”
“To track American submarines, I presume,” Renard said, “until their drones heard Taiwanese submarine activity near the islet. Then they diverted the satellite to watch the pen.”
“And positioned one of their least capable, most expendable submarines at the door at periscope depth to await targeting data from the satellite,” Rickets said. “It was a turkey shoot. There was nothing Slate could do. I don’t know how he managed to survive and even take out the attacking submarine.”
“By escaping, even with help from my defensive hydrazine line designs, he has proven again that he is charmed,” Renard said. “However, the Hai Ming is on station without him, and it’s ready to support the operation. In fact, all is ready.”
“Who’s commanding the Hai Ming?” Rickets asked.
“I am, via telemetry,” Renard said. “The ship will be in constant hardwired communications via surface support, using its drones to locate the enemy. This is how I had originally designed the operation prior to Slate’s involvement. All is per plan, I assure you, even without him.”
For the first time since the secretary had restrained him, Brody’s cage gave way. Seeing daylight, he sprang with legerity and pointed at the monitor, flexing coiled muscles. Unsure if he should gore Renard, Rickets, or anything else in his reddened vision, he released a metered dose of bullish rage.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “The Chinese are surprising you with their technologies, they found your supposedly hidden submarine pen, and you’re missing your ace commanding officer. You’re only hope is launching the world’s first tactical nuclear operation, and you’re telling me to hold back the American fleet so you can take care of things.”