2034: A Novel of the Next World War(12)
That message wouldn’t come, and Hunt knew it.
What she also knew was that whatever was happening to her was happening within a broader context, a context that she didn’t understand. She’d been placed into a game in which her opponent could see the entire board and she could see but a fraction of it. The crew on all three of her ships were at general quarters. The master-at-arms had yet to offload the suite of computers from the Wén Rui, though that task would be completed within the hour. Hunt had to assume that her opponent, who was watching her, understood that, and so whatever was going to happen would happen before that hour was up.
Another twenty minutes passed.
Morris, who had been belowdecks checking on the Wén Rui, scrambled back to the bridge. “They’re almost done with the transfer,” she told Hunt, catching her breath. “Maybe five more minutes,” she announced optimistically. “Then we can cut the Wén Rui loose and maneuver out of here.”
Hunt nodded, but she felt certain that events would take a different course.
She didn’t know what would happen, but whatever it was, she had only her eyes to rely on in order to see the move that would be played against her. The ocean remained calm, flat as a pane of glass, just as it had been all that morning. Hunt and Morris stood alongside one another on the bridge, scanning the horizon.
Because of the stillness of the water, they saw their adversary’s next move when it came only seconds later. A single darting wake below the surface, jetting up a froth as it made its steady approach, closing the distance in seconds: a torpedo.
Six hundred yards.
Five hundred.
Three hundred and fifty.
It sliced through the torpid water.
Morris shouted the instinctual commands across the bridge, sounding the alarm for impact, the sirens echoing throughout the ship. Hunt, on the other hand, stood very still in these ultimate seconds. She felt strangely relieved. Her adversary had made his move. Her move would come next. But was the torpedo aimed at the Wén Rui, or at her ship? Who was the aggressor? No one would ever be able to agree. Wars were justified over such disagreements. And although few could predict what this first shot would bring, Hunt could. She could see the years ahead as clearly as the torpedo, which was now less than one hundred yards from the starboard side of the John Paul Jones.
Who was to blame for what had transpired on this day wouldn’t be decided anytime soon. The war needed to come first. Then the victor would apportion the blame. This is how it was and would always be. This is what she was thinking when the torpedo hit.
* * *
17:13 March 12, 2034 (GMT-4)
Washington, D.C.
Chowdhury leaned forward out of his seat, his elbows planted on the conference table, his neck angled toward the speakerphone in its center. Hendrickson sat opposite him at a computer, his hands hovering over the keyboard, ready to transcribe notes. The two had received orders from the National Command Authority, which was now handling the situation from Air Force One. Before the Chinese ambassador’s visit to the White House that evening, the national security advisor had laid out an aggressive negotiating framework for Chowdhury to telegraph to Lin Bao, which he now did.
“Before we agree to transfer the Wén Rui to your naval forces,” Chowdhury began, glancing up at Hendrickson, “our F-35 at Bandar Abbas must be returned. Because we are not the ones who instigated this crisis, it is imperative that you act first. Immediately after we receive our F-35, you will have the Wén Rui. There is no reason for further escalation.”
The line remained silent.
Chowdhury shot Hendrickson another glance.
Hendrickson reached over, muted the speaker, and whispered to Chowdhury, “Do you think he knows?” Chowdhury shook his head with a less-than-confident no. What Hendrickson was referring to was the call they’d received moments ago. For the past forty minutes, Seventh Fleet Headquarters in Yokosuka had lost all communications with the John Paul Jones and its sister ships.
“Hello?” said Chowdhury into the speaker.
“Yes, I am here,” came the otherworldly echo of Lin Bao’s voice on the line. He sounded impatient, as though he were being forced to continue a conversation he’d tired of long ago. “Let me repeat your position, to assure that I understand it: for decades, your navy has sailed through our territorial waters, it has flown through our allies’ airspace, and today it has seized one of our vessels; but you maintain that you are the aggrieved party, and we are the ones who must appease you?”
The room became so quiet that for the first time Chowdhury noticed the slight buzzing of the halogen light bulbs overhead. Hendrickson had finished transcribing Lin Bao’s comments. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, ready to strike the next letter.
“That is the position of this administration,” answered Chowdhury, needing to swallow once to get the words out. “However, if you have a counterproposal we would, of course, take it into consideration.”
More silence.
Then Lin Bao’s exasperated voice: “We do have a counterproposal. . . .”
“Good,” interjected Chowdhury, but Lin Bao ignored him, continuing on.
“If you check, you’ll see that it’s been sent to your computer—”
Then the power went out.
It was only a moment, a flash of darkness. The lights immediately came back on. And when they did, Lin Bao wasn’t on the line anymore. There was only an empty dial tone. Chowdhury began messing with the phone, struggling to get the White House operator on the line, while Hendrickson attempted to log back on to his computer. “What’s the matter?” asked Chowdhury.