2034: A Novel of the Next World War(10)
Time was short; he would be out of fuel within the hour. He had one choice.
It likely meant he wouldn’t be smoking a celebratory Marlboro on the fantail of the Bush anytime soon. So, he reached between his legs, to the black-and-yellow striped handle, which was primed to the rocket in his ejection seat. This is it, he nearly said aloud, as he thought of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, all in the single instant it took him to pull the handle.
But nothing happened.
His ejector seat had been disabled too.
The engine on the F-35 let out a slight, decelerating groan. His plane began to cast off altitude, corkscrewing its descent into Bandar Abbas. One last time, Wedge stamped on the rudder pedals, pushed and then pulled the throttle, and tugged on the stick. He then reached under his flight vest, to where he carried his pistol. He grabbed it by its barrel, so that in his grip he wielded it like a hammer. And as his aircraft entered its glide path toward the runway, Wedge began to tear apart the inside of his cockpit, doing his best to destroy the sensitive items it contained, beginning with the small black box situated behind his head. This entire time, it hadn’t stopped its humming.
* * *
08:32 March 12, 2034 (GMT-4)
Washington, D.C.
Air Force One, with the president on board, was slicing across the Atlantic on its way back from the G7 summit, its last round of meetings having been curtailed due to the burgeoning crisis. Touchdown at Andrews was scheduled for 16:37 local time, more than an hour after Chowdhury had sworn to his mother that he’d be home to facilitate his daughter’s pickup with his ex-wife. Taking a reprieve from one crisis, he stepped outside the Situation Room and turned on his cell phone to deal with another.
“Sandeep, I refuse to stand in the same room as that woman,” answered his mother as soon as Chowdhury had explained. He pleaded for her help. When she asked for the details of what was holding him up he couldn’t say, recalling Lin Bao’s familiarity with his texts. His mother continued to protest. In the end, however, Chowdhury insisted on remaining at work, adding, lamely, that it was “a matter of national security.”
He hung up the phone and returned to the Situation Room. Hendrickson and his two aides sat on one side of the conference table, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Lin Bao had called, delivering news that had yet to filter from the George H. W. Bush, through Fifth Fleet Headquarters in Bahrain, up to Central Command, and then to the White House: the Iranian Revolutionary Guards had taken control of an F-35 transiting their airspace, hacking into its onboard computer to bring it down.
“Where’s the plane now?” Chowdhury barked at Hendrickson.
“In Bandar Abbas,” he said vacantly.
“And the pilot?”
“Sitting on the tarmac brandishing a pistol.”
“Is he safe?”
“He’s brandishing a pistol,” said Hendrickson. But then he gave Chowdhury’s question greater thought. The pilot was safe, insomuch as to kill him would be a further and significant provocation, one it seemed the Iranians and their Chinese collaborators weren’t ready to make, at least not yet. What Lin Bao wanted was simple: a swap. The John Paul Jones had stumbled upon something of value to the Chinese—the Wén Rui, or more specifically the technology installed on it—and they wanted that technology back. They would be willing to arrange a swap through their Iranian allies, the F-35 for the Wén Rui.
Before Chowdhury could reach any conclusions, Lin Bao was again on the line. “Have you considered our offer?” Chowdhury thought of his own larger questions. Ever since the mid-2020s, when Iran had signed onto the Chinese “Belt and Road” global development initiative to prevent financial collapse after the coronavirus pandemic, they had helped project Chinese economic and military interests; but what was the scope of this seemingly new Sino-Iranian alliance? And who else was a party to it? Chowdhury didn’t have the authority to trade an F-35 for what would seem to be a Chinese spy ship. The president herself would decide whether such a swap was in the offing. Chowdhury explained the limitations of his own authority to Lin Bao, and added that his superiors would soon return. Lin Bao seemed unimpressed.
“While you’re holding the Wén Rui we are forced to interpret any stalling as an act of aggression, for we can only assume you are stalling so as to exploit the technology you’ve seized illegally. If the Wén Rui isn’t turned over to us within the hour, we and our allies will have no other choice but to take action.”
Then the line went silent.
What that action was, and who those allies were, Lin Bao didn’t say.
Nothing could be done within an hour. The president had already indicated that she wouldn’t be moved by ultimatums. She had summoned the Chinese ambassador to meet that evening and not before, which according to Lin Bao would be too late. While they assessed their options, Hendrickson explained gravely to Chowdhury that the only naval force they had within an hour’s range of any other Chinese ships was the Michelle Obama, an attack submarine that had been trailing a Chinese merchant marine convoy up and around the Arctic deltas that had once been the polar ice caps. The Obama was tracking two Russian submarines, which had closed to within ten miles off the stern of the merchant convoy. While Chowdhury considered this development, puzzling over the appearance of the Russians, he was reminded of a story about Lincoln.