2034: A Novel of the Next World War(7)
Then, as quickly as the turbulence sprung up, it dissipated, and Wedge was flying steadily. Once again, the Lockheed contractors on the George H. W. Bush radioed, asking why he’d disabled his navigation computer. They insisted that he turn it back on. “Roger,” said Wedge, as he finally came up over the encrypted communications link, “activating navigation override.” He leaned forward, pressed a single innocuous button, and felt a slight lurch, like a train being switched back onto a set of tracks, as his F-35 returned to autopilot.
Wedge was overcome by an urge to smoke a cigarette in the cockpit, just as Pappy Boyington used to do, but he’d pushed his luck far enough for today. Returning to the Bush in a cockpit that reeked of a celebratory Marlboro would likely be more than the Lockheed contractors, or his superiors, could countenance. The pack was in the left breast pocket of his flight suit, but he’d wait and have one on the fantail after his debrief. Checking his watch, he calculated that he’d be back in time for dinner in the pilots’ dirty shirt wardroom in the forward part of the carrier. He hoped they’d have the “heart attack” sliders he loved—triple cheeseburger patties with a fried egg on top.
It was while he was thinking of that dinner—and the cigarette—that his F-35 diverted off course, heading north, inland toward Iran. This shift in direction was so smooth that Wedge didn’t even notice it until another series of calls came from the Bush, all of them alarmed as to this change in heading.
“Turn on your navigation computer.”
Wedge tapped at its screen. “My navigation computer is on. . . . Wait, I’m going to reboot.” Before Wedge could begin the long reboot sequence, he realized that his computer was nonresponsive. “Avionics are out. I’m switching to manual override.”
He pulled at his stick.
He stamped on his rudder pedals.
The throttle no longer controlled the engine.
His F-35 was beginning to lose altitude, descending gradually. In sheer frustration, a frustration that bordered on rage, he tugged at the controls, strangling them, as if he were trying to murder the plane in which he flew. He could hear the chatter in his helmet, the impotent commands from the George H. W. Bush, which weren’t even really commands but rather pleadings, desperate requests for Wedge to figure out this problem.
But he couldn’t.
Wedge didn’t know who or what was flying his plane.
* * *
07:23 March 12, 2034 (GMT-4)
Washington, D.C.
Sandy Chowdhury had finished his energy bar, was well into his second cup of coffee, and the updates would not stop coming. The first was this news that the John Paul Jones had found some type of advanced technological suite on the fishing trawler they’d boarded and lashed to their side. The commodore, this Sarah Hunt, whose judgment Hendrickson so trusted, was insistent that within an hour she could offload the computers onto one of the three ships in her flotilla for further forensic exploitation. While Chowdhury was weighing that option with Hendrickson, the second update came in, from Seventh Fleet Headquarters, “INFO” Indo-Pacific Command. A contingent of People’s Liberation Army warships, at least six, to include the nuclear-powered carrier Zheng He, had altered course, and were heading directly toward the John Paul Jones.
The third update was most puzzling of all. The controls of the F-35, the one whose flight had brought Chowdhury into the Situation Room early that snowy Monday morning, had locked up. The pilot was working through every contingency, but at this moment, he was no longer in control of his aircraft.
“If the pilot isn’t flying it, and we’re not doing it remotely from the carrier, then who the hell is?” Chowdhury snapped at Hendrickson.
A junior White House staffer interrupted them. “Dr. Chowdhury,” she said, “the Chinese defense attaché would like to speak with you.”
Chowdhury shot Hendrickson an incredulous glance, as if he were willing the one-star admiral to explain that this entire situation was part of a single, elaborate, and twisted practical joke. But no such assurance came. “All right, transfer him through,” said Chowdhury as he reached for the phone.
“No, Dr. Chowdhury,” said the young staffer. “He’s here. Admiral Lin Bao is here.”
“Here?” said Hendrickson. “At the White House? You’re kidding.”
The staffer shook her head. “I’m not, sir. He’s at the Northwest gate.” Chowdhury and Hendrickson pushed open the Situation Room door, hurried down the corridor to the nearest window, and peered through the blinds. There was Admiral Lin Bao, resplendent in his blue service uniform with gold epaulets, standing patiently with three Chinese military escorts and one civilian at the west gate among the growing crowd of tourists. It was a mini-delegation. Chowdhury couldn’t fathom what they were doing. The Chinese are never impulsive like this, he thought.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
“We can’t just let him in,” said Hendrickson. A gaggle of Secret Service supervisors gathered around them to explain that the proper vetting for a Chinese official to enter the White House couldn’t possibly be accomplished in anything less than four hours; that is, unless they had POTUS, chief of staff, or national security advisor–level approval. But all three were overseas. The television was tuned to the latest updates on the G7 summit in Munich, which had left the White House without a president and much of its national security team. Chowdhury was the senior NSC staffer in the White House at that moment.