Executive Intent (26 page)

“Keeping your ear on the rail once again, I see,” Phoenix said. “You always did have your own little spy network running, and I see it hasn't retired.” He hesitated for a moment, considering whether or not to share the results of a confidential meeting in the White House with outsiders; then decided: “Yes, I was lobbying to head up an industry leaders' commission on space technology, but it was morphed into redrafting space policy with the direct intent to prove to the rest of the world that the United States doesn't see space as a sovereign national defense domain, and that we will cooperate with other nations for free access to space.”

“Seems to me we should keep the systems we have in place
until
we have a treaty ratified.”

“The president is afraid of losing all cooperation with China,” Phoenix explained. “He wants to use diplomacy to get back in their good graces and stop an arms race in space. The rest of the National Security Council is with him.”

Except Phoenix, Patrick noted silently.

The vice president looked out the window, obviously wrestling with a tough dilemma. “I think there's a connection between the president leaking the formation of the National Space Policy review panel and the invasion of Somalia,” he said finally. “China feels this is their opportunity, and they're taking advantage. But there aren't enough pieces here yet to show the picture.” He looked at each of the others in the limousine with him. “Space is suddenly becoming a very big deal, lady and gentlemen. I hope the president sees it before we lose our edge. I need to know what happened to that weapon garage, Patrick.”

“Unfortunately, the rumor is that Secretary Banderas is going to choose someone else to head the accident investigation board,” Ann Page said.

“Yeah, I heard, too,” Phoenix said. “General Walter Wollensky, former commander of U.S. Space Command.”

“It was not Secretary Banderas's choice,” Ann said. “Wollensky is a good guy, but he was retired after the American Holocaust because of depression—the guy lost eight thousand airmen from his command in the attacks. He got his security clearance back and was working as a consultant for some aerospace firms. He was never a fan of Armstrong Space Station or the whole U.S. Space Defense Force concept.”

“So you think he's going to help the president kill the Kingfishers?” Phoenix asked.

Ann shrugged. “I don't know, sir, but I wish we had a better advocate for the program on that board.”

“You're going to have to find the answer yourselves,” Phoenix said. “Cooperate with Wollensky, but challenge his conclusions with hard evidence.”

The limousine approached the hotel at which the vice president was staying; a small crowd of onlookers and party officials were waiting for him. “More campaign stops, sir?” Patrick asked.

“Yes.” Phoenix looked weary and a little downcast. “After attending a memorial service, it's hard sometimes to gear yourself up to do campaigning, be cheerful and upbeat, and say good things about the future.”

“Especially when it's not necessarily
your
future, sir?” Patrick asked in a low voice.

Phoenix half turned toward him, but his face was absolutely expressionless. He said tonelessly, “A car will take you back to San Jose. Thank you for meeting with me on the ride over, everyone,” and then shook hands with each of them.

“Good luck, Mr. Vice President,” Patrick said.

“I'll be in touch, Patrick. Good to see you again.” The motorcade stopped, and at that, as if someone had thrown an invisible power switch, the vice president's shoulders straightened, a beaming smile emerged, his chin lifted, his eyes twinkled, and suddenly he was in full-blown campaign mode. He was already greeting party officials, dignitaries, and reporters, most of them by name, before he had stepped outside the opened door.

Patrick, Ann, Boomer, and Kai had to listen to several minutes of cheering, questions shouted at the vice president by the reporters arrayed outside, and his campaign-ready answers delivered enthusiastically and sincerely, but soon the motorcade was on the move again. The vice president's car separated from the others in the detail and went to an area behind the hotel where several unmarked cars, police vehicles, and even an ambulance were prepositioned in case of any threats against the vice president. They transferred to a standard limousine, which drove off toward San Jose International Airport.

They dropped Ann Page off first at her airline ticket counter, then headed around the field to the general aviation area to drop
off Patrick. “Did you get the files I sent, General?” Kai asked after Ann had left the car.

“Yes, and Dave Luger and I have been going over them,” Patrick said. “But it's all on the Kingfisher satellite. I'd like to see a dump of all your sensor data for at least two hours preceding the explosion.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons: I know you guys will be closely examining the Kingfisher, and I don't really understand it that well anyway; and…well, other than that, I don't know, except I have a hunch,” Patrick explained. “I don't believe in coincidences. We've got antisatellite weapons flying everywhere; we've got China firing missiles, sending troops all over the place, and invading other countries; and in the middle of all that, a very reliable piece of hardware blows up for no apparent reason right after repairs are done.”

“You think China had something to do with Kingfisher-Eight?”

“We won't know until we see what your sensors saw. Remember anything that happened around that time?”

“We were pretty busy—everything seemed to happen all at once,” Kai admitted, his brow furrowing as he tried hard to remember clearly. “The convoy missing, then discovered heading toward Mogadishu; the Chinese bomber formations we spotted; launching the Stud on short notice to link up with Eight; the repairs; the accident. No, I can't think of anything else.”

The car pulled into the general aviation terminal and was allowed onto the parking ramp, where a dozen or so bizjets were lined up. Patrick retrieved his luggage from the trunk. “Well, if you think of anything,” he told Kai, “call me anytime.”

“Will do, sir.” He nodded toward the impressive line of jets. “Which one is yours?”

“Not there—over down that way,” Patrick said, motioning way across the ramp to an adjacent parking area. “They don't park me with the heavy iron, and that's the way I like it. The blue-and-white twin.”

Kai followed Patrick's motion and saw a rather small twin-engine propeller plane, sitting by itself along with other smaller planes. “That's it? The little bug-smasher?”

“It's small, but I mostly fly solo and I rarely fly with more than two other people, so it's a good size for me,” Patrick said. “It's the fastest propeller-driven general aviation plane in the world.”

“
Propeller
-driven?” Boomer commented. “Why don't you fly a jet, General?”

“Because they cost money, and I don't fly that often to justify the expense,” Patrick replied. “Got time to take a look?”

Neither Kai nor Boomer would ever turn down a chance to look at airplanes, so they walked down the ramp. “
You
…worried about expenses?” Kai asked. “I thought you were a rich retired three-star general.”

“Military retirees don't make that much these days; the private-military-contractor work keeps us busy but is expensive; and Jon Masters pays hardly anything except stock options,” Patrick said. “This is plenty for me when I travel and Jon's not picking up the tab. Besides, Jon and I have installed a few gizmos in the plane to pick up the performance.”

The airplane resembled a bullet-shaped jet fighter with a pointed nose, very short wings, large, weirdly curved propellers, and a tall vertical stabilizer. Patrick unlocked the door and opened the split clamshell door. The cockpit looked very snug, and at first Boomer couldn't figure out how to get in the back. Patrick then pushed the pilot's seat full forward, creating a narrow aisle. “We usually load the front-seat passenger first, then rear passengers, and pilot last. I took out one of the middle seats to allow a passenger to use the worktable and satellite Internet while in flight.”

“What is that smell?” Boomer asked, hunting around for the source. “Dirty socks?”

“Biodiesel,” Patrick said. “The turbine engines on this plane were modified by Jon's engineers to burn almost any fuel, from
unleaded gasoline to synthetics. They crank out five hundred horsepower a side but burn less than twenty gallons an hour. I can get three hundred knots easily and three-fifty at redline, and its range is about fifteen hundred miles, so I can go coast-to-coast most days with one stop. It has an automatic electric deicing system on the wings, tail surfaces, and windshield, but it can go as high as thirty thousand feet and climb at two thousand feet a minute, so I rarely need it.”

The cockpit was simplicity itself, with three ten-inch monitors, some small standby instruments underneath the pilot's monitor, and a small keyboard under the center monitor above the throttles. “Two primary flight displays and a middle multifunction display; side-stick controllers; computer-controlled propeller pitch; three-axis autopilot with autothrottles,” Patrick said. “Full automatic digital datalink with air-traffic control—everything from receiving clearances to traffic to weather avoidance is digital. I don't talk to anyone on the radios unless I use uncontrolled airspace.”

Boomer peered into the cabin. “No potty?”

“After flying bombers for so long, I've developed a pretty large-capacity bladder,” Patrick said. “Everyone else…well, it's a general aviation plane, not an airliner. Either hold it or I'll introduce you to the kitty-litter piddle pack.”

“Your little plane just lost all appeal for me, sir,” Boomer said, retreating from the entry door with a smile and a shake of his head. He shook hands with Patrick. “You and your SAC-trained bladder have a nice flight.”

“Thanks, Boomer.” He shook hands with Raydon. “If you think of anything, Kai, let me know as soon as you can. You know how to reach me.”

“Will do, sir,” Kai said. He and Boomer headed for the limousine, and Patrick headed into the airport office. He paid his fuel bill, made a stop in the restroom, then headed back to the airplane.

The temperature was comfortable enough, but a light fog was
beginning to roll in. Patrick powered up the plane's avionics and started downloading flight-planning information. Weather was good for the route of flight back to Henderson, Nevada, except for the weather at San Jose. Flying direct, the flight would only take an hour and fifteen minutes, but to avoid the Navy's China Lake restricted military airspace, the FAA's air-traffic control computers recommended flying southeast to Fresno, south to Bakersfield, and east to Palmdale before heading direct to Henderson, which added another forty-five minutes. He accepted the proffered flight plan, got an acknowledgment, then shut down the system to do a preflight inspection.

The plane had a computerized preflight system, but this was Patrick's only opportunity to do a personal, visual check of his machine before takeoff, so he grabbed his little preflight kit—flashlight, rag, windshield cleaning kit, and fuel strainer—and got to work. The biggest areas of concern were the tires, landing-gear struts, fluid levels, and freedom of the flight controls. He had to sample a few ounces of the smelly fuel from nine different sumps—not a very pleasant task, but essential to be sure there was no water or contamination in the fuel. Because he personally supervised the fueling of the plane's four fuel tanks, he knew how much biodiesel had been pumped—more than enough for the flight home, including reserves—but he visually checked the fuel level in each tank anyway. He had to wash his own windows because fixed-base operators, afraid of costly repairs if a linesman accidentally scratched a ten-thousand-dollar heated-glass windshield, didn't do it anymore.

After completing the walk-around and satisfied that the plane was ready to go, Patrick climbed inside, strapped in, closed and locked both of the clamshell doors, and powered up the plane again. He started engines, checked the engines, flight controls, electrical, autopilot, and hydraulic systems, then tuned in the Automatic Terminal Information System frequency, which instantly
datalinked local weather, active runway, and hazard notices to his multifunction display. He then tuned in the clearance delivery channel, which downloaded his air-traffic control clearance—it had changed slightly since filing it, but that was not unusual. He made sure the updated routing was in the flight-data computer, then tuned in the ground control frequency and uplinked a “Ready to Taxi” message.

At that moment he saw a commotion back at the fixed-base operator office…and he noticed none other than Kai Raydon, waving his arms like crazy, and Hunter Noble running out toward him, followed by a security guard and an FBO employee obviously trying to stop them from going out onto the ramp! Patrick immediately shut down the left engine—the one nearest the entry door—sent a “Cancel Taxi” message to ground control, then shut down the avionics power and right engine.

Kai reached the plane just as the left propeller stopped spinning, and Patrick popped the upper half of the clamshell door open. “What the hell are you doing, Kai?” he asked.

“I remembered something, Patrick,” Kai shouted over the spooling-down right engine. He put his hands behind his back and braced for the security guard to grab him from behind. “Something
did
happen. Dammit, General, you might be
right
.”

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE
O
VAL
O
FFICE

T
HAT EVENING

President Joseph Gardner had his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, and his tie loosened—to the photographers with their long lenses able to peer through the windows of the Oval Office from across the South Lawn, he looked like he was hard at work late in the evening, an image Gardner never tired of projecting. But he still had his Navy coffee mug, with Puerto Rican rum over ice instead of coffee, handy.

“Chinese forces in Somalia number about five thousand now, sir,” White House Chief of Staff Walter Kordus said, reading from the late edition of “The President's Daily Brief,” which Gardner liked to have read to him before he retired for the day. “They've solidified their position at Mogadishu Airport out beyond mortar
range of anything except very large emplacements, which are easier to spot from the air and take out with gunships. They've brought in more fighter jets and have begun attacking other towns farther north that are known pirate bases.”

“Premier Zhou's starting to look like a real badass now, isn't he?” Gardner asked, taking a sip of rum. “He's doing the dirty job no one else wanted to do, and he's kicking butt.”

“The images of the aftermath of his bombing raids are pretty horrific.” Kordus shrugged, then nodded and admitted, “But yes, he's getting full credit for completely stopping pirate activity in the Indian Ocean. Zhou has said that he intends on withdrawing all Chinese forces from Somalia as soon as his transport ships arrive with their escorts. His aircraft carrier the
Zhenyuan
is en route with its escorts, replenishment ships, cargo ships for their equipment, and a couple chartered cruise liners for the soldiers. They'll stop in Yemen for refueling and resupply before meeting up with their ships in Somalia.”

“Bust up the capital city for a couple weeks, then just sail away. How nice,” Gardner said. “But it was a gutsy move, I have to admit. I'd never tell Zhou that, of course. It's funny: Every other nation considered the pirates a nuisance—we set up the antipirate patrols, but piracy only increased. Folks started to think it was the insurance companies' problem, part of the cost of doing business. In comes the most unlikely player, China, and bombs the hell out of the Somalis. They attacked several other locations, too, didn't they?”

“Two more north of Mogadishu and two up in Puntland province,” Kordus said after checking the reports. “They're using a lot of unmanned aircraft for surveillance, picking off pirate mother ships and teams of fighters on the ground with helicopter gunships. They're doing it all from the air—ground forces are being used to secure Mogadishu Airport and the docks in New Town only. If there's a warlord or clan leader they want, they just bomb
the hell out of his last known location. If the attacks kill hundreds of civilians, that's too bad.”

“And no one is saying boo about it except a few human-rights organizations,” the president observed. “If the United States did it, we'd be catching hell from half the known universe, including our own press; China does it, and people are either applauding or too scared to squawk about it.” He took another sip of rum and looked at his watch. “What else do we have?”

“Russia is sending its
Vladimir Putin
carrier battle group into the Indian Ocean,” Kordus read. “Brand-new carrier, closer in size and number of embarked aircraft to Western carriers, similar to the Chinese carrier—probably built in the same shipyard—along with seven escorts. The Russian Ministry of Defense says they're going to drill with the Chinese in resupply, joint-communications, vessel-identification, search-and-rescue, and antipiracy operations.”

“It's going to get crowded,” Gardner said. “I want a briefing from Conrad on what, if anything, the Chiefs want to do—observe only, ask to play, stay out of the way, whatever. Find out if they want us to participate—that'll shock 'em.” Kordus nodded and made a note. “So how did the vice president sound out in California?”

“He attended the memorial service, made short and nonpolitical remarks, did all the interviews we set up, did the fund-raiser that evening, gave a rousing speech from what I've heard, raised a bunch of money, and stuck to the script,” Kordus said. “He was asked several times about his own presidential aspirations and ducked the questions pretty well. He's a very good campaigner, that's for sure.”

“Whom did he meet with?”

“Exactly who he said he was going to meet with as he posted on his agenda,” Kordus said, “with the notable exception of four other invited guests to the memorial service: Ann Page; General Raydon from the space station; Noble, who was the other astronaut in
volved in that satellite explosion; and none other than Patrick McLanahan.”

“
McLanahan?
Phoenix met with
him
? Where? When?”

“In the ride from the memorial to the hotel, maybe thirty minutes max,” Kordus said. “McLanahan had been nominated by Page to head up the accident investigation board on the satellite explosion; Conrad asked me about it, and I advised him to find someone else, knowing how much you and McLanahan like each other's company.”

“You're damned right. Christ, that guy can't stay retired. I thought he'd be done after almost getting himself blown up in Iraq. I almost had a cow when I saw him give that presser with Page the other day.” His brows furrowed in deep thought. “Phoenix and McLanahan, getting together again, all these years after Iraq? What in hell are they up to?”

“The vice president is interested in military space stuff; he was surrounded by four of the most knowledgeable persons on that very subject,” Kordus said. “You think it's more than that? Something political?”

“Phoenix and Page, obviously,” the president said. “Raydon and Noble, those two rocket jockeys…no way. McLanahan?” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “He's an aviator, a bomber puke who turned space nerd when Kevin Martindale gave him an almost unlimited budget after the American Holocaust and let him fly in those spaceplanes.” Gardner took a tiny sip of rum, staring at nothing, then said, “McLanahan…a
politician
?”

“Generals make lousy politicians unless they've just helped win a world war,” Kordus said.

“I think the American Holocaust qualifies,” Gardner said worriedly. He looked at Kordus. “Start checking on him, Walter. You can't run for county dogcatcher without campaign cash, and if McLanahan has got access to any, I want to know from whom and how much.”

P
ORT OF
M
A'ALLA
, A
DEN
, R
EPUBLIC OF
Y
EMEN

T
HE NEXT DAY

The
Jianghu
-2-class frigate
Wuxi
of the People's Liberation Army Navy, one of seven escort ships of the aircraft carrier
Zhenyuan,
was the first of the Chinese flotilla to enter the Port of Ma'alla, a modern and bustling port on the west side of the volcanic peninsula on which the city of Aden was located. The
Wuxi,
first built in the late 1970s and on its very first voyage away from Chinese home waters, was accompanied by two Yemeni tugboats, which would assist the aging single-screw frigate in berthing at its assigned refueling dolphin. It would refuel and take on water and a few supplies, then depart and go back to escort duty while another warship entered the bay and visited the port.

Because of security concerns, they would refuel only during the day, and the flotilla would remain a few miles offshore in the Gulf of Aden; the
Zhenyuan
itself would not come in for refueling, but would take on fuel and supplies from its two replenishment ships, practicing underway refueling. Resupply helicopters made a steady stream of trips out to the
Zhenyuan
and other ships that had helicopter decks with food, spare parts, munitions, and mail slung underneath, and returned to Aden International Airport and other supply bases in the port city with garbage, unrepairable equipment, and outgoing mail. Shuttle vessels sailed back and forth between the flotilla and the port, carrying more supplies and equipment as well as a few sailors allowed to visit the city and a few visitors allowed to go out to the ships for meetings.

The
Wuxi
was almost complete with refueling when a Yemeni patrol boat with the words
NAVY PORT PATROL
painted on the sides
in English and Arabic left a berth on the north side of the harbor and sailed toward the
Wuxi
at a moderate speed. “Watch, this is Watch Four,” the starboard stern lookout on the
Wuxi,
accompanying a gunner manning a 12.7-millimeter twin-barreled machine gun, radioed. “Visual contact, Yemeni patrol boat heading south toward us, speed approximately twenty kilometers per minute, range four hundred meters.”

The watch commander stepped out of the bridge to the starboard overhanging deck and got a visual contact on the approaching patrol boat himself through his binoculars. “Acknowledged,” he radioed back. “Report to briefed location.” He made sure the watch stander and machine gunner left their station, then went back into the bridge and said so all could hear, “Officer of the Deck, this is the watch, approaching Yemeni patrol vessel on the starboard stern, four hundred meters, closing at approximately twenty kilometers per hour.”

“I acknowledge, Watch,” the officer of the deck responded. He picked up the VHF radio assigned to the Yemeni navy's harbor patrol frequency. “Port Patrol, Port Patrol, Port Patrol, this is the
Wuxi
on channel one-nine,” he said in English, “requesting information on approaching patrol vessel, say your intentions, over.”

There was a rather uncomfortable delay in the response; then: “
Wuxi, Wuxi, Wuxi,
this is the Yemeni Navy Port Patrol on channel one-nine, say again, over.”

“I say again, Port Patrol, you have a patrol vessel approaching the
Wuxi
. Say intentions, over.” The officer of the deck then said, “Watch, where is that patrol boat now?”

The watch officer went back outside and spotted the Yemeni patrol boat again. “Still closing, perhaps two hundred meters away, one-five-zero-degree bearing.”

“Acknowledged,” the officer of the deck responded. He turned to the boatswain's mate a few paces from him on the bridge. “Boats, verify that the aft decks are ready.”

“Yes, sir.” The boatswain's mate made two telephone calls, then reported, “Stern decks are ready as briefed, sir.”

“Very well.”

At that moment he heard, “
Wuxi,
this is Port Patrol Boat Three, I am inbound with the pilot for your departure. Many apologies for not contacting you sooner, sir. May we approach? Over.”

“Patrol Boat Three, this is the
Wuxi,
” the officer of the deck radioed, finally reciting his well-rehearsed speech, “please do not approach, I will request verification. Stand by, please.” The captain was observing the refueling and resupply and was not on the bridge, so he picked up another radio: “Captain, this is the officer of the deck.”

“Go ahead,” came the captain's reply from his portable radio.

“The patrol boat is inbound to the ship.”

“Acknowledged,” the captain said. “Is everything else in place?”

“Affirmative.”

“Very well,” the captain said. “Continue. Let's hope the old sow stays afloat long enough to get the rest of the crew off.”

“Acknowledged,” the officer of the deck responded. He switched his radio to a second channel and keyed the microphone several times.

“Bridge, Watch!”
the watch officer suddenly shouted. “Inbound patrol vessel has increased speed, heading straight for us!”

“Captain, patrol boat has picked up speed and is heading for us!” the officer of the deck shouted into his radio.

“Repel, sound battle stations, sound collision!”
the captain ordered. He and the ship's chief boatswain's mate, who was with the captain supervising the refueling and resupply, began to wave crewmembers away from the stern and off the helicopter landing platform.

“Sound battle stations, sound collision!” the officer of the deck shouted to the boatswain's mate on the bridge. “Watch, repel all attackers, repeat, repel all attackers!”

The boatswain's mate reached up on the overhead communications panel and hit two large red buttons, and the earsplitting sound of horns and bells seemed to rattle every surface of the warship. He then pulled the shipwide intercom microphone up and shouted,
“All hands, battle stations, all hands, battle stations, all hands, collision, collision, collision, brace for impact, starboard side!”

The officer of the deck grabbed his life vest and helmet and rushed out to the starboard overhanging deck as damage control teams and backup duty personnel started rushing into the bridge. He followed the watch officer's binoculars and spotted the incoming patrol boat just as the number four machine gunner opened fire. There was a helicopter with a load of supplies slung underneath still hovering over the landing pad.
“Boats
,
wave off that chopper!”
he shouted inside the bridge.

But it was too late. At that instant the Yemeni patrol boat slammed into the side of the
Wuxi
. At first it appeared to just bounce away, heeling sharply over to starboard and scraping along the side of the warship…

…but then the three thousand pounds of explosives packed inside the patrol boat detonated, and a massive fireball obscured the destroyer's entire stern. The
Wuxi
seemed to jump ten feet straight out of the water before being shoved violently to port. As the vessel came down, the entire stern dove beneath the churning waves, then bobbed back up…until the flaming wreckage of the stricken resupply helicopter, instantly engulfed in flames from the fireball, slammed down into the landing platform. The
Wuxi
was pushed into the refueling dolphin, severing fuel lines that ignited and fed even more flaming devastation on the Chinese warship.