Ashes of Victory, page 16
“Tell me, Jake,” said his right-hand man, Lieutenant Gustavo Pacheco, who stood next to his commander by one of the Super Stallion’s side windows. “Of all the damned places we could have gone to set up shop, why here? I mean, didn’t we just lose nine brothers on a carrier just like this one?”
Although Pacheco was right, of course, and the pain of losing team members—some of whom he had personally trained—was still incredibly raw, Russo ignored him. He kept his eyes on the SDV swinging slightly at the end of a thick steel cable as a sailor on the flight deck guided the pilot.
“We’re sitting fucking ducks here, amigo,” Pacheco added. “I mean, look at it. Just a big fat target ripe for a big fat missile, and that ain’t no way for a brother to die. No, sir.”
“We go where we need to go, Gus,” Russo replied as the SDV finally reached the flight deck and the crew disconnected the cable and began to secure it. “And this carrier is a step closer to getting some payback instead of sitting on our fat asses in Norfolk feeling sorry for ourselves.”
As the Super Stallion’s pilot shifted over amidships to drop them off, Russo added, “Besides, if it were easy . . .”
“Yeah, they would have sent the army,” Pacheco said.
“Copy that,” Russo replied.
But the commander also wasn’t happy with their current predicament. Unfortunately, arrangements had already been made for his team to use Lincoln as his staging area while waiting to get word on the whereabouts of whoever was responsible for the attacks against Truman and Stennis.
And now this mess, he thought, looking at the distant columns of smoke to the north and south as the large helicopter finally settled on the flight deck.
Russo jumped off and was greeted by a young petty officer with instructions to escort him to see the captain.
As his team unloaded their gear from the helicopter, Russo followed the sailor to the island. Looking around the deck, he had to admit that Pacheco was probably right on the money. At the moment, he felt more like a sitting duck than a SEAL.
— 15 —
UNITED NATIONS HEADQUARTERS, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
SECRETARY OF STATE BRAD Austin had never pulled a punch in his life and despised those who did. In the old fighter pilot’s opinion—and he considered himself as much a fighter pilot now as he had decades ago in the skies over Vietnam—you had to commit yourself to a mission and either be all in or not at all.
Staring at the impassive faces in the United Nations General Assembly, Austin knew that at least some were directly responsible for the attacks on Truman, Stennis, and now Lincoln. He also knew that many more, although not responsible, had taken joy in the pain inflicted on his nation. Then there were those who remained neutral, unwilling to take sides, even secretly. And finally, there were the usual handful of true allies of the United States, like Britain and Israel.
Slowly he stood and approached the dais as the murmuring diplomats quieted and all eyes focused on him. He took another moment to look deliberately around the hall at the sea of sullen faces before he spoke.
“Mr. Secretary General. Mr. President. Distinguished delegates, colleagues, ladies, and gentlemen. Thank you for inviting me to speak with you today on such short notice. I sincerely appreciate this opportunity to address a serious matter for all of us.”
He paused a moment to gaze at the crowd again. “The United Nations was formed in 1945 to promote peace and international cooperation. Over the years, this organization has been instrumental in defending freedom by providing a foundation for our mutual security. Today, I come before this body asking the United Nations to work with us to help defeat a growing threat to humanity.”
Scanning the audience, Austin observed the lack of reaction. “Many of your governments have supported our war on terrorism, and we are extremely grateful for your assistance. However, we need to do more, and we are requesting your help.”
A collective unease settled over the audience, many of whom only now realized this was not going to be a pro forma speech.
An edge of anger crept into his voice as Austin continued. “Violent terrorists have brought their armed conflict back to the shores of our country.”
Austin looked directly at the delegates from Iran and Yemen. “They’ve aligned themselves against all humanity and America in particular. We are determined to defeat them, and America will assist every nation that joins in our effort.”
He then made eye contact with Ambassador Adel al-Faisal sitting in the middle of the delegates from Saudi Arabia. “These thugs and killers,” he said, the anger in his voice rising, “should have no friends in the United Nations. Not one,” he said, looking directly at the Saudi delegation. “Every member of the UN should immediately denounce terrorism as a plague on civilized society. These wicked people wreak havoc on all, including children, without a shred of mercy or shame. There isn’t a negotiated solution to be found. Nor should there be. There is no way to reason with those so irrational, with those so deranged, that they would attack a pier full of women and children, and the United States will not make any attempt to do so.”
Austin paused and grimaced. “We’re going to continue to prosecute the war on terrorism, and the governments that support terrorists, and we will wipe them from the face of the earth.”
Another audible murmur, this time a tad louder, rose from the delegates. Two from Iran and one from Yemen began protesting loudly.
Austin saw Ambassador Adel al-Faisal begin to stand up, apparently ready to storm out. Another member of the Saudi delegation urged him to sit down.
That’s right, pal. Best not to storm out when someone is preaching hellfire against terrorism, unless you want everyone to know you support it.
Steeped in his conviction, Austin waited a few moments, then said, “The United States of America is one of the original signers of the United Nations Charter. We remain committed to the UN’s stated purposes. America and the United Nations have a moral obligation to eradicate terrorism and secure a lasting peace.”
Austin saw deep frowns on the faces of many of the delegates. “On behalf of President Macklin, I call on the UN Security Council to adopt a new anti-terrorism and anti-arms-proliferation resolution that must include every member of the UN.” He paused and then repeated with emphasis, “Every member.”
Noting many scowls, Austin moved on. “As the president’s representative, I am compelled to inform you that he’s going to honor his sacred oath of office. UN resolution or no resolution, President Macklin is going to protect his country and its citizens. No matter where in the world they are, the United States will defend its interests.”
In unison, delegates from Saudi Arabia, Iran, Yemen, Pakistan, and even Sweden stood up and interrupted Austin, shouting that he was out of line and demanding that he sit down.
He paused to let them finish. The Swedes sat down first, followed by the Saudis and then the others. But still, no one walked out.
Austin then continued in an even-tempered voice. “My statement should not be regarded as a threat. It should be accepted as fact. We hope to work with the UN to end the wave of terrorism currently targeted at our naval forces. But we will not engage in years or months or weeks or even days of debate. The UN can act quickly and decisively to rid our civilized society of terrorism . . . or the US will act as it sees need.”
He noticed the representatives from Israel, Great Britain, Germany, and Australia nodding vigorously in agreement. Some of their delegates even clapped, drawing glares from the Iranians and the Saudis.
Keeping his poker face, Austin added, “The United States is ready and willing to help draft the new resolutions. We look forward to working hand in hand with all members of the UN.”
He paused to smile faintly. “Together we can show the world how effective the United Nations can be. Thank you for your time and attention.”
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC
FIRST LADY MARIA-EDEN MACKLIN turned to her husband as they enjoyed a light dinner in the residence and slowly shook her head. “I’d say that was a bit arrogant.”
President Cord Macklin could not stop the wry smile that spread across his face as he reached for the remote control and shut off the TV. “Actually, that was reasonably mild for a Marine Corps fighter pilot, and especially for Brad.”
“Uh-huh.” Maria gazed at her husband. “Because political correctness is a foreign language Secretary Austin has never mastered,” she said with an unfavorable look.
“That’s what’s so refreshing about him, darling,” the president countered. “He doesn’t sugarcoat anything, straightforward in Zone 5 burner at all times.”
“Well, for better or for worse, darling, there will be consequences because of his speech. There were quite the number of pissed-off delegates in there,” she murmured with a brief frown.
Consequences.
Macklin nodded to himself, then stared at his wife across the small dinner table before his gaze drifted to the blank television screen. Next to it was a large, framed photo of Lt. Cord “Cordy” Macklin standing by an F-105G in the flight line at Korat RTAB in Thailand, taken six months after he had been shot down. By then, the US had introduced the “G” version of the Thunderchief, known as the “Wild Weasel III” because of its new radar capabilities to counter the increasing North Vietnamese SAM threat. He stared at his raggedy old Wild Weasel patch on the lower right corner of the photo, bearing the goofy-looking creature with startled eyes over the acronym YGBSM. You Gotta Be Shitting Me.
Macklin frowned, remembering how that stupid patch had reflected the sentiment among the pilots at Korat. The G model, introduced toward the end of the war, as well as the Wild Weasel IV conversion of the F-4C Phantom, had represented the latest in a series of technology enhancements developed by the desperate Pentagon brass to try to win a war that could not be won because of Washington’s strategic half measures.
And the irony was that he too had repeated the mistakes of his predecessors. During his first term in office, Macklin had been shot down for the second time in his life, only he had been aboard Air Force One traveling over Georgia. And instead of a SAM, the enemy—Islamic extremists—had forced another jetliner to collide with his Boeing 747. And yet, years later, as he approached the end of his second term in the White House, the president was still fighting this damn fight against terrorism with no apparent end in sight.
But the half measures stop now, he thought as the words of one of his favorite figures in history, Sir Winston Churchill, echoed in his mind.
The era of procrastination, of half measures, of delays, is coming to an end. In its place, we are entering a period of consequences.
ZHONGNANHAI, BEIJING, THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA
“HE HAS SOME NERVE to speak like that,” General Deng Xiangsui said to President Xi Jiechi as the two were having tea and dim sum and watching the live feed from New York. “With Lincoln trapped in the Suez Canal, they’re down to three operational carriers—and really only two in the region, but they need to keep Roosevelt in the Sea of Japan, so it’s really just Vinson.”
“You don’t think they’ll send Roosevelt south to join forces with Vinson?”
“Not while Pyongyang continues its missile tests and troop movements by the DMZ . . . per our direction.”
Jiechi nodded, well aware of the subrogate nature of the North Korean leadership. “When is Vinson expected to reach the strait?”
“In one more day.”
“And ours?”
“Liaoning is headed south from Shanghai along with our new Type 096 ballistic submarine. The destroyer Qingdao is leaving Hong Kong tonight with orders to follow Vinson when it reaches the region. I have ordered three dozen Sukhoi Su-30MKKs fighters to Fuzhou to bolster the base’s Tiangong flight squadron of Su-35S jets with orders to fly nonstop combat air patrols within our airspace. I have also tripled the number of troops and amphibious assault ships along our coast and have deployed six hundred pieces of artillery and tactical missiles between Fuzhou and Shantou, covering the whole strait. In addition, we have our fleet of Type 094 ballistic missile submarines at Yulin on high alert.”
Jiechi stood and walked over to the windows overlooking one of the lakes. The Yulin Naval Base along the southern coast of Hainan Island, some five hundred miles south of the Taiwan Strait, was a large-scale underground base for its naval forces. Its massive caverns had enough room to hide up to twenty ballistic submarines and as many aircraft carriers as the Shanghai shipyards could produce. And the whole complex was guarded by dozens of fighter jets and the finest and largest missile defense system in all of China. His mentor had been the architect behind the place, designing it and building it—along with the submarine force—to be the nation’s most important naval base, projecting the PRC’s naval strength to the world, and in particular to the US and Russia.
A moment later, his Zhǎng zhě walked up beside him.
“Are you still worried about the math?”
Hands in his pockets, staring at the lake, Jiechi just tilted his head and shrugged slightly.
“We will have air superiority,” the general assured him. “And enough coastal and naval forces to even out the equation.”
“I’m not worried about superior numbers,” Jiechi replied. “After all, they have the disadvantage of being a half-world away from their home ports while we operate from our doorstep. Plus, we do have one of the world’s finest armed forces.”
“The finest.”
Jiechi ignored him and said, “History has shown that when you place so many war machines in such proximity . . . mistakes happen. Wars have started that way.”
“I will control it,” he assured him. “Everything I’m deploying is in defense of our homeland. And in the eyes of the PSC, it makes you look very strong and in control. And we will not make any moves unless discussed first with you.”
Jiechi didn’t reply. Shifting his hands behind his back, he struggled to find another option. His Zhǎng zhě was right, of course. He could not allow the Americans to simply roam the strait flexing their muscles. The PSC would demand that he too showed strength. But he worried about controlling the escalating nature of two warring parties operating in such tight quarters.
As he stared at the smooth water surface of Lake Southern Sea, his mind traveled south, to the white-capped swells of a different sea that in the next twenty-four hours would become far, far more turbulent.
— 16 —
SUEZ CANAL, EGYPT
AT THE REQUEST OF President Macklin, the Egyptian president had ordered the Suez Canal Authority to scramble and clear the waterway using Ardent Global, the leader in maritime salvage operations. Grown out the 2015 merger of two companies that had raised the Costa Concordia, the Italian cruise ship that had struck a reef and sunk in 2012, Ardent was the go-to firm for massive salvage projects—especially one that had to get done in a matter of days, not weeks.
Within hours of the attack, Ardent had rushed in three Russian-built Mi-26 helicopters, the largest ultra-heavy lift helicopter in the world. A small army of welders had installed hard points onto various sections of the wreckage blocking the southern passage into the Gulf of Suez, which the Mi-26s then pulled up and deposited on the sandy shore. Fortunately, the sunken merchant vessel wasn’t the monster tanker blocking the northern passage, so by the morning of the first day after the attack, the job of clearing the canal was moving at a staggering pace.
The operation ran from dawn until dusk, and expectations were high that in twelve more hours, enough of the debris would be cleared to make way for the convoy.
NINETY MILES TO THE northeast and less than forty miles from the border with Israel, by the shores of the Mediterranean near the city of el Arish, the luxury yacht Unbridled cruised a mile offshore from an abandoned Egyptian military base. Established in 1968, during the height of the War of Attrition between Israel and forces of the Egyptian Republic, the base had been finally discarded in the late 1990s. It was then slowly taken over by a flow of Sunni Muslim refugees from Iraq and Syria funded by Saudi Arabia. Since then, the refugee camp had developed into a thriving fishing village . . . as well as a breeding ground for extremist Muslim recruits.
Omar Al Saud stood on the forward observation deck on the top level of the thirty-million-dollar luxury yacht, watching through a pair of field binoculars. He ignored nearby yachts sailing past to gawk at the ultra-modern design of his 120-foot-long vessel, complete with helipad and Leonardo AW169 helicopter. Through the binoculars, the prince focused on the TEL trucks that had begun arriving from Cairo along El Qantra Shark-Al Arish Road overnight, under the cover of darkness—eighteen of them—taking over a hill just southwest of the encampment. Each truck carried two Qader medium-range anti-ship missiles developed by Iran. The Egyptian Army conducted exercises in the region from time to time as part of their strategy to keep Israeli forces on edge, so Al Saud hoped the TEL trucks, disguised as civilian vehicles parked almost a hundred miles from the canal, wouldn’t attract the attention of US aerial assets—at least not quickly enough to make a difference.
The Saudi prince frowned, wishing he had had more time to acquire twice as many of the missiles from the corrupt military minister in Cairo. Described by his Iranian contacts as the most powerful and precise cruise missile of the Islamic Republic of Iran, Al Saud wanted to overwhelm the carrier with them, but the latest update from his people watching the salvage operation indicated that the southern passage of the canal would be cleared within the next twelve hours. And besides, the longer he waited, the greater the chances of the Americans discovering his plot and leveling the site.
It is now or never, he thought, also wishing he could do this at night, but the Saudi prince did not want to risk Lincoln escaping the 160-mile range of the missile, nor did he want to expose the trucks, civilian-looking or not, to a full day of potential visual surveillance by the Americans.
