Ian Slater - Choke Point

His mind no longer on Alicia, on women, on anything but the care he must take to arrive secretly at the launch point an hour away, Rorke reviewed all the known idiosyncrasies of the Encino . The crew was already in “ultraquiet” mode, signaled by simple voice command from Rorke. No klaxon had sounded his order, and no klaxon would sound “Battle Stations” at launch point. There would be no noise on the sub that might alert hostiles. All mixing machines in the galley, all washer-dryers, and so on, no matter how quiet their rubber mountings, were to be turned off. In the galley the cook’s menu changed to ground prime beef hamburgers — better than any in the civilian world — ready to be quickly cooked in a silent microwave, its ear-piercing “done” alarm permanently silenced, replaced by a colored light indicator. Those not on duty had to be in their bunks, and, if using Discmans, Walkmans, and the like, were allowed the use of only one earpiece. The chief of the boat, otherwise known on Encino as “Old Testament,” ritually informed every newcomer to the boat, “God help the man I find curtained in his bunk who doesn’t hear an order because his eardrums are being bombarded by some rap crap!”

A towel hastily pulled around his waist, an auxiliaryman caught in mid-shampoo, all water noise cut off as “ultraquiet” was answered, emerged from the stall, mumbling obscenities, his hair still streaked with suds. A torpedo tech made way for him, flashing him a mocking “Come hither!” look that the suds man returned with a murderous glare. Every one of the fifteen officers and 149 enlisted men now knew this was no drill, and in their bunks men turned to their private comforts: a picture of family, a Bible, girlfriends, and, for some, a passage from the Koran; for others, there were dreams of what they’d do if God, or Fate, spared them from fatality in this strangest of conflicts of constantly shifting “trouble fronts.”

Rorke had not told them that America had been attacked in the Northwest. Some were bound to have loved ones there, and why burden men on the boat with the anxiety of not knowing, of being unable to do anything out here deep in the netherworld of ocean? The best they could do, that he could do, Rorke knew, was get on with the job. Though badly shaken by the loss of the Utah , he was confident that he could get the 360-foot-long boat to launch point at precisely the right time — providing he could keep Encino in perfect trim. Encino did not have the bow thrusters some other boats had, which allowed them to hover at launch point, but barring any unforeseen circumstances, he told himself, he should have no trouble.

The more superstitious among the crew, however, who nursed their captain’s death and recalled Rorke’s clumsy arrival — he’d slipped and fallen while coming aboard on the rain-slicked gangway — took these as two very bad signs, several of the crew believing in the theory that things come in threes.

“Eternal Father Strong to Save” was the hymn played over McCain ’s PA to the carrier’s five-thousand-plus men and women, the boat’s starboard aft elevator space crowded with off-duty personnel for whom the ship’s quartermaster had distributed song sheets. The religious and nonreligious who had gathered here were as diverse as American society itself, but all were bound by a patriotism so deeply felt and honored it aroused sniggers and embarrassment among other Western nations, except, ironically, in Russia, once its bitterest foe. But no one could be embarrassed now as the stentorian voice of the padre led the huge ad hoc choir in rough unison with such feeling that no one but the most self-indulgent cynic could fail to be moved by the swell of love for fallen comrades, so intense it could be heard by lookouts aboard the Aegis cruisers guarding the flanks of the huge man-o’-war.

Admiral Crowley had determined that there would be no burial in the light of day for the enemy to take advantage of. When morning broke, he and the entire battle group would be ready to attack Penghu, the President surely giving first licks to McCain , whose air wing had been so grievously harmed by the PLA air force and for which everyone on the carrier held Beijing, its protestations notwithstanding, totally responsible.

A complaint was brought to Commander John Cuso that “Eternal Father Strong to Save” was “sexist,” said it referred to the creator as being masculine.

“What do we do?” asked the chief petty officer from the section in which the complainant originated.

“I’ll file it,” promised Cuso. “Consider it later.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the CPO left, Cuso balled the complaint in his fist and chucked it into his wastebasket. “Filed.”

Marte Price didn’t like the CNN makeup studio in Port Angeles. She said it reeked of fish. Everything reeked of fish, her producer told her, the smell coming from the thousands of dead fish in the strait.

When Charles Riser arrived in the cab, the odor of Jack Daniel’s was still on his breath, though he’d vigorously brushed his teeth. He knew he would have to begin with an apology. It wasn’t only good manners, but a tactical necessity, if she was to believe what Wu Ling had told him: that General Chang must have discovered the rumored deal between Beijing and Li Kuan’s fanatically American-hating terrorists.

What surprised Charles was Marte Price’s immediate and good-natured acceptance of his contrition. A woman who clearly didn’t hold petty grudges, he thought. He told her the story about how Mandy was murdered by Li Kuan’s thugs in Suzhou.

“And this General Chang tried to help you find out where Li Kuan was?”

“Yes. Then he disappeared. His girlfriend—”

“Wu Ling, right?”

“Yes.” Charles was impressed by her attentiveness and memory.

“You told me you told State,” she said, “but that they don’t believe you, or rather, they think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill — not of Amanda’s death, but that your bereavement has made you paranoid.”

“Something like that.” She was remarkable, insightful and quick. She paused and patted the pockets of her jeans. Her top, “on-camera” half was captive in a no-nonsense, gender-equality black business jacket and a high-collared, almost prudish, white blouse which was mocked by her lower, more casual attire. He liked her — a lot. He could tell she believed him about Chang’s discovery of a Beijing-Kazakhstan deal, which, if it could be proved, would result in crippling trade sanctions against China — the removal of its highly coveted U.S. “preferred-nation” status.

“Mr. Riser, I have contacts — good contacts — at State,” she said. “They’ve suspected China of making such a deal with Li Kuan for months and—”

“They have?” cut in Charles. “Then why on earth—”

“Charles — may I call you Charles?”

“Of course.”

Charles Riser, she saw, was a decent man, a genuine cultural attaché, not a spy using the “cultural” cover. But he obviously didn’t understand the enormous economic war between the U.S. and China that was going to be one of the defining U.S. strategies of the twenty-first century, as the battle between Japan and the U.S. had been in the latter half of the twentieth.

“The problem, Charles, is that State, the administration, needs concrete proof of such a deal before they can act.”

Riser fell silent for several moments, and she saw there were tears in his eyes. “They always get away with it,” he said. “They should have got that bastard Kuan in Afghanistan.”

Marte didn’t respond at once. There was no need. She knew what he meant. Why did the Li Kuans of the world, who murdered, raped, his child, so often evade punishment? Six Americans, the best of the best, led by David Brentwood, had died inside some damn cave in Afghanistan, and still Li Kuan was at large.