Mike Maden - Drone Command

Two armed guards grabbed the whimpering politician by his arms. Feng cried out as he was dragged out of the CIC, “He’s a madman! Turn around before it’s too late!”

“Where’s the George Washington ?” Ji demanded. Another mission-control officer had a God’s-eye satellite view of the American carrier on his monitor. Joysticks and a computer screen were also fixed at his desk. He would be the one to guide the Wu-14 to its hypersonic final destination.

“The George Washington is still holding just outside the red line, sir. But within strike distance.”

“Are they launching more aircraft?”

The officer glanced at his monitor. The George Washington ’s deck was covered with fighter-bombers waiting to launch.

“They’re holding so far.”

Ji took a deep breath. The Americans were hesitating just as he predicted. They were fearful of provoking his own powerful fleet. Fortunately for him, the George Washington’ s crowded flight deck was crammed with fully fueled and bomb-laden aircraft. That made it even more vulnerable to a missile strike.

Perfect.

Prime Minister Ito’s situation room was modeled on the American one, though its video displays and electronics were superior. One of the large video displays was linked to American satellite feeds of Ningbo naval base, and a second featured a live video link to the Liaoning at sea, its aircraft scrambling into the air as it turned a hard circle in an evasive maneuver.

A third video monitor was used for a live video conference feed between Ito and his cabinet with President Lane and his circle of civilian and military advisors back in Washington. Other video feeds showed the George Washington at sea and the remote North Korean launch complex at Musudan-ri, where the North Korean’s DF-41 MIRV was still on the launch pad.

Myers sat next to Ito. Pearce was still on board the Sword Dragon and wasn’t visible to either room but was audio linked to both.

“The Chinese are panicking,” Shafer said. Lane’s advisors were seated around the table while he stood, pacing.

“Maybe,” Lane said.

“Your handiwork, Mr. Pearce?” Ito asked. He was surrounded by his cabinet as well, along with the uniformed service chiefs of the ground, air, and naval forces of the JSDF.

“Yes, sir,” Pearce said over the speakers. “My drones are only throwing large electronic signatures to fool the Chinese. So far, they’re working.”

“By now Admiral Ji must realize they’re not really under attack,” Myers said.

“But at least we’ve rattled their cage,” Lane said on the video screen.

Tanaka shook his head in disbelief. “And when they figure out they’re in no danger, won’t they simply resume their assault?”

“Would you?” Lane asked.

“Of course!” Tanaka barked.

“Frankly, it’s that North Korean missile that scares the hell out of me,” Lane said.

“Join the club,” Ito said.

A collective gasp filled the room as a flash of light exploded on the Ningbo screen.

They’ve launched the Wu-14!” General Onstot shouted, pointing at the screen. A cacophony of panicked Japanese blasted over the audio system. Lane’s advisors sat in stunned silence.

“Cut the sound, please,” Lane said to a VTC technician manning the video teleconference controls. The MIC OFF sign flashed a moment later. Lane glanced at Ito’s cabinet room video monitor. Everyone there stood on their feet and pointed excitedly at the Ningbo missile launch. Lane swore Tanaka was smiling. Myers was clearly shocked.

“How long do we have, Admiral?” Lane asked.

The chief of naval operations stared at the screen. “Best guess, six minutes at most. Probably half that. Once that bird reaches terminal velocity, it will be traveling at nearly eight thousand miles an hour. Whatever you have in mind, sir, do it now.”

The George Washington lurched into flank speed. Giant white wakes foamed behind her fantail. With two nuclear reactors cranking two hundred and sixty thousand horsepower, the hundred-thousand-ton vessel could make more than thirty knots, half again as fast as World War II — era battleships like the USS Arizona .

“Can the George Washington outmaneuver the Wu-14?” Wheeler asked. She was a foreign-policy expert, not a military one.

“We don’t think so,” the CNO said. “But it’s damn well worth trying.”

The giant American aircraft carrier began launching its aircraft, too.

“Options?” Lane asked.

“Call President Sun. There must be a self-destruct on that thing,” Shafer said.

“Too late. Not sure he’d do it anyway,” Lane said.

“Pearce, you said you’ve got a software bug planted on board?” General Onstot asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you crash the damn thing into the drink?” the admiral asked. “Or can we blow it up ourselves?”

“Yes. To both,” Pearce said.

“Can we capture it?” Garza asked. “Guide it out into the Pacific; let the Navy pick it up off the ocean floor?” He turned to the admiral. “Would that even be remotely possible?”

“Depending on where and how you dropped it. Yeah, it’s possible.”

The service chiefs launched into a fevered discussion about pulling a salvage operation together on short notice.

Pearce’s voice rumbled on the audio speaker. “Mr. President, I need to speak with you privately.”

“The clock’s ticking, sir,” Garza said.

“You’ve got thirty seconds,” Lane said. He dashed to a private secure conference room designed for just such a meeting. Lane slammed the door shut. The room’s only window fogged electronically, shielding him from view.

“What’s on your mind, Troy?”

“I’ve put an option in play.”

“What option?”

Pearce explained.

Lane couldn’t believe his ears.

“You’re sure?”

“Ian guarantees it. That’s good enough for me.”

“You could’ve told me this before.”

“Wasn’t an option until the missile was launched.”

“Does Margaret know?”

“No, sir.”

A knock on the door. Garza’s voice. “David, you’re out of time.”

Pearce had just handed Lane a live hand grenade. Most presidents would have panicked. But Lane wasn’t like most presidents. His pilot training kicked in. John Boyd’s famous OODA loop popped into his mind: “Observe, orient, decide, act.” It had saved his life many times before.

Maybe it would save his country now.

Ji hovered over the shoulder of the mission-control officer. The computer screen was tracking the Wu-14’s downward trajectory.

“Speed, Mach 9 and accelerating,” the officer said. “Fifteen seconds to impact.”

A second targeting screen kept the George Washington in the center of a red target reticle. So long as the laser targeting reticle remained fixed on the center of the deck, the HGV couldn’t miss. A massive white wake trailed behind the nearly eleven-hundred-foot American carrier, which was now turning sharply.

“He won’t escape,” the officer said, grinning. “Mach 10!”