Ian Slater - Choke Point

She didn’t know. A quick call to the CNO’s office in Washington, the transit coding causing a delay of only 1.5 seconds, gave her the answer. There was one in Bremerton, Washington State’s big maintenance yard. It was the USS Turner , a Nimitz-C class flat top, a nuclear aviation carrier.

“The Turner .” The President nodded. “Western Pacific Fleet?”

“Yes, sir. In for overhaul.”

“What’s its completion date?”

Eleanor, phone still in hand, relayed the question to CNO, then informed the President, “Estimated time of completion, five days.”

The President shook his head. “No. Tell them they’ve got twenty-four hours. I want the Turner to join the McCain , which I believe—” He brought up the CNO’s map on his computer screen. “Yes, there’s the McCain . South China Sea. I want McCain to steam north to the Taiwan Strait ASAP!”

And it was so ordered. The McCain would steam north immediately, the Turner to leave Washington State in the Pacific Northwest within twenty-four hours.

“The Turner’s CO didn’t like that, Mr. President,” proffered Eleanor. “Said it’s almost impossible to speed up overhaul from five days to one.”

“He doesn’t have to like it. He only has to do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get me the McCain ’s CO, Growly.”

“Admiral Crowley ,” Eleanor reminded him diplomatically.

“No, Growly ,” riposted the President. “Always bitching about how much more we give the other armed forces. He’s a pain in the butt.”

“Like Freeman,” put in Eleanor’s junior aide.

“Exactly, but Freeman’s retired, thank God,” replied the President, overhearing.

“Know their jobs though,” said Eleanor Prenty, giving her junior aide, who looked ready to join in the dissing of Freeman and Crowley, a withering look. It told the aide he had best hold his tongue, though Eleanor realized she was being hypocritical. She’d not only ignored Freeman’s phone message to call him, she’d forgotten all about it. Freeman, despite his legendary status among military types, was regarded as a “has-been,” and the truth was, he had no political clout at all. In short, he was of no consequence to the administration’s agenda.

“You through to McCain ?” the President asked impatiently.

“Not yet,” she replied, the image of the Nimitz-class carrier in her mind’s eye. The carrier was named after the Vietnam hero, Senator John McCain, who, after being shot down by North Vietnamese Communists, being held prisoner, and tortured in the “Hanoi Hilton” for years, would not cave in. Dragged out in front of the blinding TV lights in Hanoi with other American prisoners as Communist propaganda, McCain was blinking so much that it looked as if he might have a damaged retina. In fact, his apparent affliction was the personification of defiant cool, his blinking a Morse code message to those at home watching that what the Communists were saying was a load of BS.

Admiral Crowley was now on the line, his voice gruff as usual. He had to respect his Commander in Chief, but he detested politicians.

“Admiral!” said the President heartily, scrolling down Crowley’s file on screen in front of him. “How’s your boy Richard doing? Must be his final year at Annapolis?”

“Yes, sir,” came the admiral’s reply.

“Has his heart set on Fallon, I hear?” continued the President. Fallon was the top gun school in the Nevada desert.

“Well,” answered the admiral, “he’ll have to learn to walk before he can run.”

“I’m sure he’ll make it,” the President said, adding, “main thing is, Admiral, he’s following his passion. We parents can’t hope for much more than that.”

“True.”

“Admiral, there’s some kafuffle up in the Taiwan Strait. What we’re getting from Beijing and Taiwan is ’they started it first, not me’ stuff. You no doubt have been getting the traffic?”

“Commies are accusing Taiwanese marines of going after one of their offshore islands. Taiwan denies it. Taiwanese are accusing Chinese Communist patrol boats of going for one of their islands.”

“That’s it. Now I want you to take the McCain up there and put yourself between those two. Our other carrier groups, as you know, have their hands full at the moment.”

“Exactly,” said Crowley sternly. Was there an implicit criticism of the White House’s failure to push Congress for more naval appropriations in his tone? It was difficult to tell — he was normally gruff.

“Yes,” said the President noncommittally. “Well, Admiral, we’re already fighting World War Three against terrorists around the globe. The last thing we need is war on another front. We have to be extraordinarily careful.”

“I know the drill, Mr. President. Fire only in self-defense. No preemptive strikes.”

“You’ve got it, Admiral. Beijing’s terrified of any revolt that might spread. That’s why they’re so down on these Falun Gong groups, et cetera. They’re afraid of a chain reaction — a repetition of Tiananmen Square — spreading through China like wildfire, particularly now after Beijing’s had to loosen its grip somewhat and allow some budding capitalism. They’re afraid they won’t be able to keep control of it.”

“I’ve got the picture, Mr. President,” Crowley assured him, somewhat impatiently. Crowley, like Freeman, had a distinguished combat record, and their bluntness belonged more to the tradition of Admiral Bill Halsey and George Patton than to the kind of diplomatic expertise required in a multinuclear-power age where the intemperate remarks of Indian and Pakistani politicians about each other, for example, had taken everyone to the brink.

High up in the McCain ’s island that overlooked the carrier’s four and half acres of deck, the diminutive Crowley, who at just over five feet had barely made it into the Navy, put down the phone. The admiral was under no illusion that the President had been prompted — by an aide, probably — about his son’s expectations for top gun. Still, it was nice. The admiral would never ask for special favors from the President — that was strictly against his code — but hell, it didn’t do any harm that the Commander in Chief of the most powerful nation on earth knew your son’s name and where he wanted to go.

The sun was losing altitude in the South China Sea, a grand illusion as the world turned, the six thousand men and women who crewed the McCain and her air wing hearing the pipe sounding, “Now darken ship.”

Hundreds of miles to the north of the McCain , in Shihmen on the northern tip of Taiwan, Moh Pan bent low against the advance force eight winds of what had now been officially tagged as Typhoon Jane. Inside the Civil Defense office, Moh waited patiently for his turn to speak to the female clerk, a knockout from Taipei, her ash-black hair pulled back tightly, passing through a silver clasp. Her smile revealed the most beautiful teeth Moh had ever seen in a woman, and her figure was so magnificently proportioned, like the singer Chyi Yu, that he welcomed the wait. In fact, he insisted an elderly woman from his village go before him. He knew his wife would have insisted he demand instant service — his sighting of possible enemy ships or aircraft off the north shore possibly signs of yet another mainland Chinese incursion into Taiwanese sea and air space. Of course, Moh told himself, they could have been Taiwanese ships or aircraft, but it was wonderful standing here, just watching the young clerk breathe.

When his turn came to report, it would be important, he advised himself, to be thorough, not to rush. Perhaps, in the interests of Taiwan’s national security, he should show her on a map approximately where it was off the coast he had seen these “glints”—ask to see a high-scale map of the region, a pictorial accompaniment to his verbal report. A chance to demonstrate what everyone had always said about him — that he should have been an illustrator for the law courts in Taipei, where photographs of the accused were forbidden and readers had to rely on still-life sketches of the accused or victim. Perhaps she would like him to do a sketch of her. In a few strokes he could capture the essential aspects of the face. Moh felt himself becoming aroused.