Tipping Point: The War With China - the First Salvo (Dan Lenson Novels) (35 page)

Toan looked at the guy in the chair, then narrowed his eyes significantly at Dan. He switched his gaze back and forth until Dan frowned, then looked where he was squinting. Jeez, maybe he
did
need glasses … Yeah. The Iranian was sweating. Moisture glistened at his hairline. Maybe not that damning, from a guy who’d probably been “interviewed” by the Iranian secret police. But not reassuring, either.

Toan said softly, “You don’t own a knife, Mr. Shah?”

“As say, no knife.”

“So you said. Stand up, please.”

The Iranian hesitated, then got up. Toan stepped forward, and with one motion gripped the man’s right arm and thrust his other hand deep into the right pocket of his coveralls.

He pulled out a brass-hilted clasp knife. When Toan flicked out the blade, it was a good three inches long. The stainless gleamed sharp. “Good eye, Chief,” Dan murmured, wondering why he hadn’t caught its outline under the cloth. Well, Toan had been behind the seated Iranian.

“This isn’t a knife?” Toan said.

Shah ducked his head. He looked both agitated and guilty. “Oh, that, yes. I found. I forget I have it. Only a small knife. For pencils.”

“Been sharpening a lot of them on the mess decks, have we?” Dan braked his sarcasm, and rose. “I think that’s enough. To restrict him, anyway. Chief, what’ve we got for a makeshift brig?”

“No designated space, Captain. I’ll have to figure something out. Meanwhile—” The chief produced a set of handcuffs from behind him, probably hooked into the back of his belt.

Instead of submitting, the Iranian threw his hands off, shoved him away. Shouted, at the top of his voice. Toan staggered back and collided with the bulkhead as the refugee ran for the door.

But his path led right through Dan. His eyes met the Iranian’s, and the man hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. When he regathered himself and came on again, Dan braced both hands on his chest, pushing Shah back into Toan’s arms. The chief master-at-arms, who’d bounced back off the bulkhead like a rubber ball, pinioned him from behind. The Iranian’s right fist, still free, cocked back. His eyes gleamed feral, terrified.

Then the spark died. His shoulders slumped. Without further resistance, he allowed Toan to pull both hands behind his back. The cuffs click-ratcheted home. “I am sorry,” he muttered. “I was afraid. There is nowhere left to run.”

Dan said, “We’re not going to hurt you, Mr. Shah. There’ll be an investigation. Then a trial. A fair one. With legal counsel.”

“I understand. That is the American way, yes? And if I guilty?”

“Sentencing is out of our hands. But until then, we’ll have to confine you. For your own safety as much as ours. Chief, where do you recommend? The break?”

Ticos didn’t have brigs. Few ships did anymore, except for carriers. Detainees, such as captured pirates, were normally restrained with flex cuffs, and either kept outside under an awning or within the forward breakers, with a 24-7 guard. Each breaker had a forward and an aft hatch and only one door to the interior. Lock those, and you had a closed space out of the weather. “Port break, I think,” Toan said. “I’ll set it up, sir.”

“Make sure he has ventilation, water, and somewhere to piss. And once he’s locked down, get those cuffs off. Remember, he hasn’t been convicted of anything.”

“Yet,”
Garfinkle-Henriques muttered grimly from her desk.

A rap at the door; two more masters-at-arms looked in. To a low instruction from Chief Toan, they escorted the prisoner out.

*   *   *

THAT
night before dinner Dan sat flipping through the traffic in the wardroom. He’d looked in on Shah; the suspect was bedded down in the breaker, with a folding cot. Unfortunately, keeping a guard on him around the clock would cost three more hands, out of a workforce that was getting increasingly stressed the longer they stayed at sea.

The news was sobering. Threats and counterthreats between India and China continued to build. The biggest news, though, was from New York. Wall Street’s computerized trading systems had crashed, reopened four hours later to major losses, then crashed again, at which point trading had been suspended. A massive cyberattack was suspected, and analysts feared the panic might spread to the banking system. His own modest savings were bland, low-risk, and most likely safe, but Blair’s trust fund, and her stepdad’s investments, would’ve taken a major hit.

But the Indo-Pakistani confrontation over Kashmir seemed to be cooling off. A peace conference had been organized. World leaders would meet in Mumbai, the city formerly known as Bombay, a few hundred miles southeast of where
Savo Island
pursued her lonely patrol.

Even more good news: a German oiler,
Stuttgart,
was on its way to Ballistic Missile OpArea Endive. Another two days, and they’d have full tanks again.

He sat at the coffee table, fighting a tickle in his throat and trying to feel optimistic. Maybe peace
could
be preserved. Pakistan and India had fought before, but there was a new term in the equation now. Nuclear terror had always cooled down any disagreement between the U.S. and the USSR, reminding both sides what existential horror awaited if they didn’t compromise.

The tinkle of a hand bell called them to dinner. He ate with his head down, not really following the conversation. Until, when the main course was cleared, everyone shoved his chair back. Longley, looking triumphant, pushed in a cake on a rolling cart, complete with lit candles. The passageway door opened and several chiefs and senior enlisted sidled in.

“What the heck?” Dan muttered. The junior officers snickered. All, apparently, in on the joke. But what
was
the joke? It wasn’t his birthday.

“Go ahead, cut it,” Staurulakis said.
“Captain.”

A two-tier white cake, with what looked like orange or banana frosting. But as soon as he sliced into it with the silver knife Longley handed him, the crackle of plastic told him what mattered wasn’t the cake, but what had been baked inside. Or maybe inserted afterward, in a cavity hollowed between the layers. He got a better grip, angled the knife, and cesareaned it out.

“Well, what do you know,” he muttered. It was his uniform hat, encased in a heavy wrapping. “Where’d I leave it this time?”

“Down on the mess decks, Captain,” said the cook, standing by the sliding door to the wardroom galley. “When you were inspectin’ cleanup. We knew we had to get it back to you. In some
special
way.”

They were all waiting, looking uncertain. Even the exec seemed anxious, her gaze begging him to play along. Christ, what did they think? That he was so uptight, so stuffy, he couldn’t take a harmless joke? He gave them all a shamefaced grin. “Guess I better tie a lanyard on it, keep from leaving it around. Thanks, Cookie, this looks real tasty. Now … who wants a piece of my hat?”

Their relieved laughter made his eyes sting. He turned away for a second, blotting them surreptitiously with the back of a hand. Then began cutting slices, one after another, onto the plates his officers and chiefs came up to hold out for a share.

16

OpArea Endive

TWO
days later he was in forward berthing, inaugurating the newly reopened facilities with his own first full shower since Schell had closed down the potable water. Enjoying near-scalding heat on his skin. And, not coincidentally, showing he trusted that the crud had finally been eliminated. But he flinched back when Chief Tausengelt unexpectedly stuck his nearly bald old osprey’s head in past the plastic curtains. “Captain? Gonna be out soon?”

Dan covered himself instinctively, then relaxed and flicked foam off the disposable razor. “Uh—almost. Just got to finish shaving and rinse down, Master Chief. What’s so blazin’ damn hot I can’t finish my shower?”

“Urgent, sir. Messenger’s standing here.”

“Okay, send him in.”

“Uh, you might wanna come out instead, sir. Seein’ as how he’s a she.”

Towel knotted around his middle, Dan pinned the makeshift loincloth with one elbow. He’d expected a radio messenger. Instead it was the Terror, chubby-cheeked, holding out a folded note. He frowned, reading. It was from Donnie Wenck, suggesting he come up to CSER 1.

“What’s this all about, Petty Officer Terranova?”

“It’s on television, Captain.”

“We don’t have television out here. What’re you talking about?”

“Chief Wenck said you’d want to see it. That’s all I really know, sir.” The towel started to slip, and she averted her eyes as he grabbed for it.

“Well, all right, goddamn it … I mean, all right. Just let me get dressed.”

*   *   *

THE
Combat Systems Equipment Room was in the forward deckhouse, portside aft. The work space was narrow and long, racked with spares, a coffee mess at the far end. It smelled of hot rosin and ozone. This high in the ship, in the closed space, the motion was dizzying. He wouldn’t care to be locked in here all day long. Three of the ETs and Donnie Wenck got to their feet as he came in. He said, letting a little irritation show, “Okay, Donnie, what’s so important you got to summon your CO to see? Instead of just telling me about it? You know, things out here can’t be like they were back at Tactical Analysis.”

Wenck pushed his hair back—it was really getting long—and jerked his head at the screen. Dan glanced at it, then did a double take. Not crystal clear, but the picture was there. Talking heads, then jerky footage, maybe from a cell phone, of smoke rising from a tall building. Of black-uniformed assault troops with pointed rifles. Dimly, over the hiss of static, the crackle of small arms, came the occasional boom of heavier ordnance.

“Sorry to
bother
you, Captain. Thought you’d wanna see this.”

“Okay, okay, forget it. What is it? Where’s this broadcast from?”

“We were farting around, see what we could pick up. Couple days ago we latched onto this English-language channel out of Mumbai. Mainly these really lame Bollywood flicks, and dumbass game shows. But then this, about half an hour ago.”

Dan stared at the grainy footage as a commentator came on. The dialect was unique, but it was English. As his ear tuned he braced his fists on a work desk.
Savo
rolled hard, the spare boards and tools shifting and rattling. Probably in a turn at the west end of her long racetrack. Ought to alter that now and then; being predictable wasn’t a good idea, not with a sub hanging around.

“The invaders succeeded in barricading themselves in the eastern wing, but security forces say their numbers are significantly reduced. However, the litters coming out point to heavy casualties. We have no firm numbers yet, but are told by a member of the police that well over a dozen have been killed. And as you can hear, the fighting is still going on.”

Medical personnel were carrying a body out of the hotel, surrounded by Asians in dark suits. Each held a pistol down alongside his leg. As the camera started forward, one of the men caught the movement, and pointed a gun. The screen abruptly went dark.

Dan frowned. “This is Mumbai, you said?”

Wenck said, about as somberly as Dan had heard him ever say anything, that it was the peace conference. “Somebody drove a truck in. Blew through the gate, then satcheled the walls from the inside. There were more guys outside waiting to blast their way in.”

“The peace conference.” Dan stared at the screen, which had cut to what looked like a service entrance, to judge by the trash containers. Men in hotel livery were carrying out litters, laying them in a row. Those with faces covered were being carried off to the side, out of view of the camera, which jerked and went black before the program cut back to the commentator. “Okay, you were right to call me. Keep notes on what’s going on, okay? As things develop. Run updates to me on the bridge.”

*   *   *

HE
stopped in CIC on the way and checked the air, surface, and ASW pictures. Then took the command seat, next to Dave Branscombe. The CIC copies of the Navy Enemy Threat Guide and
Savo
’s fighting instructions lay open in their red plastic binders. The comm officer was the most junior of his qualified TAOs. A little slow, but he generally reached sound decisions. A lot of the job was memorization, and being able to follow the logic chains in the pubs under tense conditions. On the large-screen display, the Aegis beam metronomed, outlining the flat land to the east, the north, highlighting the mountains rising behind it in neon orange. The air picture, digitally relayed from
Mitscher,
looked normal at first. But over the next hour, flights between cities in India began to divert, turning back the way they’d come or sharply veering south.

Something else scratched at his memory. Then crept out into the light. “Dave, whatever happened to that Snoop Tray emitter? I never heard a redetection on that.”

“We never redetected, sir. Got every sensor we own up and looking, and
Mitscher
’s got her tail out too.”

This wasn’t reassuring. The sub might be gone, of course. Detected for just a moment while headed east, west, or outbound. But he couldn’t assume it had gone away just because it was no longer emitting. Its exposure, on that first detection, had been only fifteen seconds. The hallmark of a savvy submariner, revealing himself only for an instant before going deep again. And it hadn’t shown up since, not even on the GCCS, which usually carried at least a general localization and identification of every foreign submarine worldwide, derived from NATO and allied sensor chains and traffic analysis.

He rubbed his face. It wasn’t good having a sub lurking around, without knowing at least whose it was.

Someone cleared his throat, and he looked up at one of the cryptographers. “Special intel, sir,” he said. Dan accepted the clipboard. That hadn’t taken long.

It was flash, SPINTEL to the cryppie spaces, too hot for the general messaging system. From the Joint Chiefs. Its spare sentences detailed a terrorist suicide attack in Mumbai. The attackers had breached a security wall around the Renaissance Convention Centre, where the peace conference was being held. Wielding automatic weapons, RPGs, and satchel charges, they’d penetrated the Powai Ballroom and killed nearly twenty diplomats, security personnel, and hotel staff.