Island Warriors

Coyote reckoned — who would be seriously sea sick most of the time. All it took was one sailor puking in Combat to set off the rest of them.

And the replenishment ship — well, there was no way that they could match the United States’s speed. And that included the USS Jefferson.

“Jeff holding up all right?” Coyote asked.

Ganner nodded. “For now. The fact that she’s underway at all…”

Ganner didn’t need to finish the thought. Jefferson—and Batman — had pulled off something like a miracle. Coyote shuddered to think what corners might have been cut in getting her seaworthy, but in a frank conversation with Batman, the more senior admiral had assured Coyote that Jeff was more than capable of giving the newer carrier a run for her money. Although the flight deck and associate gear was not fully operational, Jefferson was fully loaded with everything that both carriers would need for the deployment. Everything from bullets to beans, as the saying went. During the two days she’d spent in dry dock, supply troops had packed every empty inch of her hull with the stores intended for the United States, and those supplies would be ferried to her via helo. Logistics make or break a battle group, and having Jefferson along had solved at least one major problem for Coyote and his staff.

“But she’s stressed just like the rest of them, not as much from the seas as from being shorthanded,” Ganner continued, bringing a surface sailor’s perspective to evaluating the issue, one that Coyote acknowledged without fully comprehending. There were things his COS knew deep in his bones, intuitions that he had about surface ships that Coyote would never be able to match. But then again, the COS would never really understand at a gut level how a barrel roll or a wingover affected a pilot and crew.

“Letting them drop behind is a ballsy move,” Coyote mused. He stared at the plot, imagining the howls of protest he’d get from the small boys. And how would Batman onboard Jefferson react?

None of them would want to be left out. To let the carrier go ahead of them, unprotected, would go against every fiber of their being. The cruisers and destroyers, he suspected, would be poised on the edge of virtual mutiny at the idea. Sure, they’d understand the necessity and they could damned sure do the numbers themselves. But protecting the carrier was their primary role on this mission, and to be left behind would be a direct insult to their capabilities.

Still, with over-the-horizon targeting and non-organic sensors, the cruisers could still provide some potent protection to the carrier. And if it looked like things were starting to go down, he could always slow and let them catch up.

“Get the staff together,” Coyote ordered. “We’re going to take a hard look at this. I’m leaning toward doing it, COS, but I have to admit it worries the hell out of me.” He stared glumly at the tactical plot, already imagining the storm of protest he’d face. “Draft the message. Let’s have it ready to go.”

USS Jefferson

1910 local (GMT +10)

Batman stared down in disbelief at the message in his hand. “What the hell — he can’t do that!” he roared. He slammed the message down on the desk. “This is insanity.”

All around the battle group, similar reactions were taking place in the other wardrooms. Pens were picked up as skippers drafted hasty howls of protest, and the communications circuits flamed with P4 and highly classified messages. Washington and Seventh Fleet got into the act as well, albeit without the sense of personal outrage that the escort ships had.

Twelve hours after Coyote recovered his last aircraft and send the message off, the decision was made. The situation in Taiwan was critical, so critical that it justified the risk. The USS United States would proceed at flank speed toward the island and her escorts would catch up as they could, having due regard for the safety of their ships and crews.

“Well, I’m not going to stand for it.” Batman turned to his chief engineer and fixed him with a steely glare. “You make sure I’ve got the juice to keep up with her. We have to stay within easy aerial resupply range, you got it? No excuses — not now.”

The most immediate result of Coyote’s message was an impromptu naval Olympics, as Batman’s orders were echoed on every surface ship attached to the battle group. The competition between the surface ships to maintain position on the carrier was fierce. As they chivvied for position, each one eking out a few extra turns on the propeller and sacrificing a few hours of sleep for speed, it quickly became apparent that despite her injuries and hasty repairs, the USS Jefferson would be the winner.

NINE

Pacini’s Restaurant

New York

Thursday, September 5

1930 local (GMT –5)

Pacini’s was not the most popular restaurant in New York City, but Wexler thought it probably served the most authentic northern Italian cuisine in America. It was quietly and tastefully decorated, and its patrons paid a premium price for privacy. Pacini’s didn’t advertise. It wasn’t reviewed in food magazines or in newspapers. Its clientele patronized it weekly, had standing reservations, and kept it a secret. The arrangement suited both the owner and his customers.

“Has Ambassador T’ing arrived yet?” Wexler had made plans for dinner with the Chinese ambassador even before she’d learned of the bug in her office. An audacious move, one suggested by Brad, but one that made sense as soon as he mentioned it. China was outraged over the destruction of her missile, and thus T’ing was obligated — at least temporarily — to be furious with Wexler. But both of them were too experienced in the ways of diplomacy to let the respective emotions of their parent countries close down the flow of communications between their diplomatic envoys. T’ing, even more than Wexler, was certain to understand this. Now that the initial flurries of confrontations and demands were over, it was time to get down to work. And even apart from the issue of test missiles and shooting them down and such, Wexler had other reasons for wanting to maintain contact with T’ing. Very small reasons.

Late yesterday, Captain Hemingway’s team had repositioned the Little Insect bug, shielding it from anything other than conversations that took place in her office. It was Wexler’s job to try to find out just what T’ing knew about it.

But they don’t know for sure yet, do they? I mean, even though Brad said he’d never seen another nation use it — and just how much did he know about that sort of thing? — it didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

And even if it were a Chinese entity of some sort, that didn’t mean that T’ing knew anything about it. In fact, she was quite certain he wouldn’t know about it. They would shield him just the way she was shielded from the more distasteful practices of their respective governments.

But if that was true, why did she feel so apprehensive about seeing him? She knew she was capable of dissembling with the best of them. Years of experience in diplomacy had taught her to hide her thoughts, maintain a bland expression no matter what she felt or thought. Could she pull that off with T’ing? She wasn’t sure. And nervousness had made her, the one who was usually late for their appointments, early tonight. So she sat alone at their favorite table.

Finally, she saw T’ing appear at the entrance to the restaurant. The maitre d’ greeted him warmly, and led him to their regular table. There was a small expression of surprise on his face at seeing her already seated there.

“You’re quite early, Sarah.”

She forced a small laugh. “I shall have to do this again just so you won’t be so surprised. I finished up early and if I’d stayed another moment, Brad would have brought in another pile of papers for me to sign. You know how he is.”