Sea of Shadows

The ship heeled over instantly as the Helmsman executed his orders.

“Sir, my rudder is right thirty degrees! No new course given. All engines ahead flank!”

The big destroyer surged forward as all four of her gas turbine engines wound up to top speed, pouring 105,000 horsepower into each of her twin propeller shafts. The acoustic suppression systems muted the rising scream of the turbines to a barely audible wail, like the sound of a jet taking off in the distance.

“Captain,” the OOD said, “that’s going to take us right into them!”

“You’re damned right it is!” Bowie snapped. “If they want to play chicken, then we’ll show them how we do it back home!”

The course change spun the bow of the ship around toward the charging cigarette boats. When they were centered in the front bridge window, Bowie said, “Steady as she goes.”

“Helmsman aye! She goes two-seven-three, sir!”

Bowie nodded. “Very well. Brett, stand by to launch chaff.”

“Sir, we’re too close for chaff. It’ll be on the other side of the boats before it blooms.”

“I know that,” Bowie said. “It’s not worth a damn against laser-guided weapons anyway. I just want to scare the shit out of them.” He pressed the talk button on the comm box. “Terri, I want every gun on this ship pointed at those boats! Now!”

“Yes, sir!”

Bowie watched the boats through the front bridge window. They were getting larger fast, the range closing rapidly as they barreled toward a head-on collision with his ship. There would be no collision; Bowie was sure of that. The boats would sheer off, or the reinforced steel bow of the destroyer would crush their fragile fiberglass hulls like eggshells. They would turn, all right. But would they launch missiles first? And if they did, what would they target? The bridge windows? That’s what he would do in their position.

The TAO’s voice came over the speaker. “All guns are trained on the Sledgehammers, sir.”

Bowie glared at the onrushing boats. “All right, you bastards,” he said quietly. “Let’s see what you’ve got …”

He waited another five seconds while the boats grew ever larger in the window. Then he said, “Launch chaff, port and starboard!”

Lieutenant Parker’s response was nearly instantaneous; he slammed a button on his console. “Chaff away, sir!”

Blunt projectiles rocketed out of the forward RBOC launchers. Super Rapid-Blooming Overboard Chaff rounds hurtled through the air, passing over the charging cigarette boats and exploding on the far side of them, littering the sky with aluminum dust and metallic confetti.

Designed to fool enemy radar with false targets, the chaff had no electronic effect on the small boats, since they had no radar. But the effect Bowie wanted was psychological, not electronic.

He tried to imagine what his ship looked like to the men aboard the cigarette boats: 9,794 tons of steel rushing down on them like a freight train; chaff exploding overhead; and every gun on board pointed down their throats.

His grip tightened on the handrail above his head. “Come on, you bastards, turn …”

There wasn’t a sound on the ship except the muted wail of the turbine engines. Everyone on the bridge seemed to be holding their breath.

The boats grew larger in the window. They couldn’t be more than fifty yards away now. This was not going to work. The boats weren’t going to sheer away. They were waiting to get close enough to make their missiles count.

Bowie glanced up at his Officer of the Deck. The young lieutenant’s eyes were locked on him.

Bowie pressed the talk button on the comm box. “Stand by your guns.”

The boats weren’t going to turn. The bastards were calling his bluff.

A chill washed down his spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning or his damp running clothes. It had come on him suddenly, the moment that every military commander secretly dreads. The crux of a decision in which there was no good choice, where both action and inaction were equally likely to lead to disaster.

If he sank the boats and they turned out to be unarmed, the United States would find itself neck-deep in an international incident, and Bowie’s career would be over. A lifetime of hard work and sacrifice, gone in a matter of seconds. It would play out in the U.S. media as monumental incompetence at best, and criminal disregard for human life at worst. In the current political climate, the Arab press wouldn’t bother with half-measures; they’d cut straight to the chase and call it murder. And, under all the flack and the political posturing, four men would be dead. Four 12 men who might not be guilty of any crime more serious than harassing an American warship.

On the other hand, if he didn’t shoot the boats and they did turn out to be armed, the safety of his ship and crew were at risk. This could end with some of his men going home in body bags. And, of considerably lesser importance, his career would still be at an end.

How ironic was that? Ten minutes earlier, he’d been feeling sorry for himself, decrying the lack of excitement in his future career prospects.

Now, he was about to watch his career self-destruct, and it was the very least of his worries.

He watched the boats continue to close. His first duty was to protect his crew. He couldn’t wait for the Sledgehammers to take the first shot. It wasn’t really a very hard decision to make, but it hurt like hell to have to throw away everything he had ever worked for.

He opened his mouth to give the order to fire, but he was interrupted by a shout from the Helmsman. “They’re turning, sir! They’re running away!”

Bowie looked at the boats. Sure enough, they had peeled off and appeared to be running. He let out a breath that he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.

The TAO keyed her mike for a few seconds to let him hear the cheers coming from the crew in Combat Information Center. In the background, a male voice cut loose with a rebel yell.

The boats grew smaller in the window. Bowie watched them until he was certain that they weren’t coming back. Then he turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Stand us down from General Quarters.”

The young lieutenant was still a little pale. “Yes, sir!”

Bowie looked down at the cold, sweat-drenched T-shirt sticking to his skin. “Take the Conn, Brett. I need a shower.”

CHAPTER 2

WASHINGTON, DC

SUNDAY; 06 MAY

8:27 PM EDT

The Americans had an idiom: “It’s not so much what you say; it’s how you say it.” Although the phrase had no direct corollary in Mandarin, Ambassador Shaozu Tian of the People’s Republic of China had long since puzzled out the meaning behind the words. There was a certain sort of wisdom in them. Not exactly Lao Tzu, or even Confucius, but an identifiable kernel of truth nonetheless.

His hand slid across the seat to touch the folded black-leather shape of his diplomatic pouch. In the darkness he could feel the reassuring creases and nicks left by years of faithful service. His hand trembled slightly, and he stilled it with an act of will . It was unfortunate, he thought wryly, that one could not become a wise old master of statecraft without first becoming old.

The lights of the American capital city slid by the rain-streaked windows of his embassy limousine. Discrete shapes smeared into prismatic blurs of light and color as rivulets of water snaked down the glass beside him. Beautiful images, but confusing. An apt metaphor for his years in America.

The car was one of the new Zhonghua M-1s that the Party was so proud of. Five and a half meters of sleek, lacquered black steel, which they were heralding as the first truly all-Chinese limousine. When he’d first seen it, Tian had found himself smiling at the irony posed by the car’s very existence. China’s leading auto manufacturer,