The base was crackling with activity, with sailors and Marines everywhere. East, toward the waterfront on the Uraga Channel, a forest of radar masts and antennae rose above the skyline of nearer buildings, marking the moorings for the fair-sized fleet of American warships in port. Overhead, a pair of F/A-18 Hornets thundered high just beneath the overcast, lazily circling on patrol. All ships, bases, and facilities were on the highest level of alert with the worsening of this latest international crisis.
The driver deposited him in front of the BOQ — the Bachelor Officers' Quarters — where he reported in and was assigned a room. Three hours later, he emerged, clean and clean-shaven, and wearing a fresh uniform, but with only a fraction of the catch-up sleep he needed. Informed of his arrival, Admiral Hartwell had dispatched a car and driver and suggested that he might like to grab a bite to eat at the facility O-Club. Gordon didn't feel like eating yet — his stomach was still operating on California time — so he elected to forgo lunch and hike to the HQ.
As he approached the building's front steps, he spotted a familiar figure on the sidewalk up ahead. "Good afternoon, Commander," he called when the other officer didn't see him right away.
Commander Garrett started, visibly surprised. "Frank!" He came to attention and saluted. "Captain Gordon! What are you doing here!"
"The same thing you are, most likely," Gordon said, returning the salute. "Thirteen hundred briefing?"
"Y-yes, sir! How did?… "
Gordon hefted his briefcase. "I'm giving the briefing. It's good to see you again, Tom. It's been a while."
"Three years, has it been?" Garrett said. "Yeah, it's been too damned long."
At least Garrett didn't seem to be holding a grudge still for what had happened at the inquest back in '99, Gordon thought. A good thing. Garrett didn't know it yet, but his career was about to do yet another wild one-eighty.
"How's it going?" Gordon asked.
Garrett's eyes appeared shuttered. Cautious. "Well enough."
"I… heard about you and Claire. I'm sorry."
Garrett shrugged. "Things had been heading in that direction for a long time. It was bound to come to a head sooner or later." He glanced at his watch. "Maybe we should be getting inside?"
"Affirmative. I… think you'll like the little surprise I've arranged today."
"Oh?" Garrett's expression became, if anything, even more opaque. "Anything I should know about, Captain?"
"Don't sweat it. It's good. I need you to volunteer for a pet project of mine."
"I don't know if that's a good thing or not, sir. The first lesson I learned in the Navy was 'never volunteer.' "
"That's okay. You were volunteered while you were out of the room. Let's get on inside, shall we?"
"Aye aye, sir."
"Believe me, Tom, it's not a death sentence." Together, they walked up the steps and into the building.
The briefing room was occupied by a long, broad table and plenty of chairs, most of which were already occupied by the time Gordon finished his preliminary talk with Admiral Hartwell and strode into the room. A senior chief entered a moment later, saying, "Gentlemen, attention on deck! COMFLEACTWESTPAC arriving."
The assembled officers, most of them Navy, but with a few Marines adding khaki to the ranks of blue, rose to their feet. Admiral Charles B. Hartwell entered with a brisk "As you were" and took his place at the head of the table. An aide, a Navy captain with a name tag reading OSTER, followed at his heels, taking his place at a podium at the far end of the room, in front of a large, rear-projection screen.
"Gentlemen," Captain Oster began without other preamble. "The Taiwan Crisis, as the press back home are calling it, is heating up. At zero-six-hundred hours this morning the PLA launched a CSS-1 intermediate-range ballistic missile with a high-explosive warhead from a launch facility outside Fuzhou. The warhead detonated on a runway at the Chiang Kai-shek International Airport, causing extensive damage and a number of casualties…probably at last two hundred casualties, as of our latest update, and including several American citizens.
"During the past week the People's Republic has launched no fewer than eight missiles in what they've described as a 'military exercise.' All of these missiles detonated harmlessly in the Strait of Formosa and were intended to generate fear and dissension within the Taipei government and the Taiwanese population in general.
"The attack this morning, the first directed against a specific target on land, was accompanied by what can only be regarded as an ultimatum. Taipei is to send a delegation with full powers of negotiation to Beijing by the end of this month in order to draft and sign formal documents of reunification with the People's Republic. Such documents would, of course, mean the end of the Republic of China, and the end of an independent Taiwan.
"The United States government, of course, though it has distanced itself in recent history from open support of Taiwan in order to avoid jeopardizing relations with Mainland China, remains committed to the independence of Taiwan. The President has, therefore, directed all military forces to maintain the highest alert status and readiness levels, and to deploy several key military units to the Taiwan Area of Operations." The briefing officer paused, then looked at Gordon. "Captain Gordon, of the ONI, has flown out this morning from CONUS to give us the latest brief on PRC forces and their projected intentions. Captain Gordon?"
Gordon rose and walked to the podium. He hadn't had much time to prepare his presentation — his sleepless night aboard the Herky Bird had been the best he could manage — but there was little to prepare for. "Lights, please," he said, and as the room lights dimmed, he added, "First slide."
The projection operator in the next room brought up the first image on the screen at Gordon's back. It was a full color picture of high detail and remarkable clarity, looking down obliquely on a submarine at sea… a Kilo-class boat with the characteristic long, low sail of Russian designs. It appeared to be lashed alongside a larger ship, an old and sharp-prowed surface vessel with "J503" painted on the bow in very large characters. The two were making their way through heavy swells, with a heavy fuel line strung between them. Evidently, the Kilo was taking on fuel at sea.
"Some of you," Gordon said, "will remember the incident south of the Aleutian Islands in 'ninety-nine, when one of our Los Angeles boats tangled with a Chinese freighter escorted by a Kilo-class diesel submarine. The details of Operation Buster remain highly classified, both for the mission itself and for the particulars of the ensuing collision and the sinking of the Chinese merchant vessel Kuei Mei."
Several heads at the conference table turned, as various participants looked at Commander Garrett. Those who didn't, Gordon thought, were likely those who didn't know that the Pittsburgh's former skipper was in the room.
"This is the Kilo involved in the Operation Buster incident," he went on. "We caught her about thirty hours after the collision with one of our reconnaissance aircraft. The surface ship, incidentally, is a Dalang-class submarine support vessel that just happened to be in the area."
Several chuckles arose from around the table at that.
"What is interesting about this is the way the Chinese were employing this boat. The Kilo-class submarine has a submerged displacement of 2,900 tons and a top submerged speed of twenty, maybe twenty-five knots, no more. She has two diesel engines that can only be run on the surface, or while snorkeling, and a rechargeable electric drive for use when submerged. A crew of sixty.