Ghost Fleet : A Novel of the Next World War (9780544145979) (22 page)

In the bright, sunlit hallway packed with assistants and aides, Admiral Wang heard someone call him.

It was the Russian liaison officer to the Directorate's military planning group. Admiral Wang struggled to remember his name, wishing he were still wearing his glasses.

“Admiral, my congratulations,” said the officer in fluent Mandarin. His dress uniform was well worn, but immaculate. “I know you are a busy man. I only wanted to say, as one warrior to another, that how you conducted yourself in there was impressive. I'm not sure I could have been as restrained.”

Wang weighed the remark. He judged the faded blue eyes, set wide apart beneath a forehead bisected by a faint scar. The tone of his voice was conspiratorial, in the manner of one professional addressing another.

“I don't envy you, having to engage with civilians like that while you also have a war to win,” the Russian officer continued, clearly enjoying his own voice. “It is, though, of course, the price of the compromise your Directorate has made, to be led by both those in uniforms and those in business suits. In Russia, it is much simpler: Whatever our dear leader says goes.”

“Indeed. Your leader still has the killer instinct,” said Admiral Wang.

“So do you, Admiral, so do you.” Wang nodded his thanks, but the officer continued on. “More important, you told them an essential truth I must agree with you on. The Americans cannot be counted out. Ever.” Major General Sergei Sechin smiled.

Sandy Beach Park,
⁴⁷
Hawaii Special Administrative Zone

Lieutenant Feng “Frank” Wu stopped in the warm, waist-deep water and froze.

He'd lost her.

Then she reappeared. Ten meters ahead.

A minute ago, she was wearing a black bikini top. Now she was topless, beckoning him farther out.

It was all the motivation he needed, despite this being only his second time on a surfboard. He had enjoyed many privileges as a son of a member of the Directorate's Presidium, but surfing was not one of them. Though he had gotten his degree at UCLA before the war, he had not wanted to have reports reach his father that instead of studying mechanical engineering, he was spending his time as a beach bum. No, he had always done his duty, even now in this show of shared patriotism, where all the Presidium's second sons had joined the military. Not the heirs, of course; his older brother stayed safely back in Macau.

But no one said duty didn't have to come with deserved rewards. There were better things to do than pore over casino ledgers. And learning to surf with a beautiful, topless girl was one of them.

Frank paddled eagerly, arms crashing down into the water, which kept making the board shoot out in front of him. Strength did not matter in the water. He was sure he heard a giggle over the rush of the surf, and then he caught a glimpse of flesh as she dove again.

The surf breaking on the reef was getting louder. Yet the water was shallow here; he could stand up if he needed to. Besides, Directorate sailors weren't supposed to be afraid of the ocean, or beautiful girls.

I'm one of the good guys
, he'd wanted to explain to her.

She emerged just beyond his reach, her naked chest gleaming in the moonlight. Then she dove again, the flash of white revealing she was no longer wearing her bikini bottom either.

He nearly fell off the board when Carrie reappeared at his side, treading water and flashing an enormous smile. It must be deeper here, just outside where the waves were breaking. At least it was calm.

She climbed up on the board and sat behind him, her body so close he could feel her nipples press into his back.

“We're nearly at the break,” she said. “You have to feel it. It's magic.”

She explained how she wanted him to paddle into the wave. If a wave was about to break on him, she explained, he should just duck under the water and wait for it to pass. You just had to be patient.

“Be brave,” she said. “That shouldn't be so hard for a soldier like you.”

He was a sailor, but before he could correct her, she dove under again. He pressed his body into the board, arched his back, and paddled smoothly now. As he paddled, he realized the waves were much bigger than they had looked from shore.

In an instant, a wave lifted the board upward and toward the beach, then dumped him into the surf. He tried to get up by kicking off the bottom with his feet. But he couldn't reach the bottom here.

He surfaced, blinked salt water from his eyes, and reached out for the board, but another wave washed over him.

Where was she?

He closed his eyes as another wave started to break over him. With a big breath of air, he ducked under the water, just like she had said to do.

Then he felt a soft touch on his cheek: the board's leash flickering about underwater. He brushed it aside, but then it became taut, pulling around his neck. He grabbed the cord, but the hand trying to push it away was gradually drawn closer to his throat. His other hand reached out, but the current kept turning him around. He kicked, trying to reach the water's surface, trying to breathe, swim, and fight all at the same time.

The harder he fought, the tighter the leash squeezed as wave after wave broke over him.

JFK-Citigroup Airport, Queens, New York City

“You want a letter of what?”

Admiral Beyer didn't like having to leave the Pentagon in the middle of a war. And he definitely did not like having to sit inside a 787-9 executive jet
⁴⁸
that had been done up like the Studio 54 nightclub
⁴⁹
from the 1970s.

“A letter of marque,
⁵⁰
Admiral. My lawyers tell me I need one,” said Aeric Cavendish. He added, sotto voce, “I would have assumed a sailor would understand this from his naval history, but I guess not.”

Admiral Beyer dug his fingernails into the seat's brown velour. Sitting beside him, the president's deputy chief of staff, Susan Ford, watched the admiral, ready to intervene if he took the bait. Fortunately, Beyer didn't react. He'd read the intelligence profile and was prepared for a great deal of nonsense.

Sir Aeric K. Cavendish had been born Archis Kumar to a middle-class family in the suburbs of Melbourne. Trained as a geneticist, he had made his first billion from several key patents in cell regeneration and cholesterol blockers. But Kumar soon figured out his talents lay in organizing other scientists to make money, and he'd ridden the biotech boom to the ranking of seventh-richest man in the world, notably the only billionaire among the world's top twenty-five who did not live in China, Russia, or the Middle East. And when the world economy tanked, he scooped up everything from the business holdings to the private islands of the overextended billionaires farther down the list.

Whether it was changing his name to something more royal or buying Manchester United and forcing the team's manager to put its new owner in as goalkeeper in a match against Leeds, the billionaire seemed to follow whatever whim he woke up with in the morning. And apparently, Beyer thought, his latest whim was to waste an admiral's time.

“Let me put it in your American terms, then, since trying to meet on common naval ground was apparently unwise on my part. I want a hunting license,” said Cavendish. He made a pistol with his right hand and pointed it upward, miming shooting at the lime-green shag-carpeted ceiling. “For up there.”

Beyer sat back heavily in his seat and began softly tapping his fingers. If Cavendish had known Morse code, he would have recoiled at the insults the admiral was hurling at him.

“Sir Aeric, please tell us exactly what you have in mind,” Ford said.

Cavendish closed his eyes, as if collecting his thoughts. In fact, he had collected them carefully over the past several days. The idea might have started as a whim, but Sir Aeric had thoroughly investigated and vetted it. He knew that it was feasible, though it would seem outlandish.

“The United States military's predicament is evident,” Cavendish said. “Your airpower projection is limited, especially given that you no longer trust your own warplanes. The land forces are now mostly in the retail and border-security business. Guarding stores from looting and the border from people who no longer want to cross it is, I suppose, the best way to keep the country on its feet,” said Cavendish. “Your navy's primary mission, given that it cannot sail past what the Chinese have aptly labeled a demilitarized zone—demilitarized for you, not them, of course—is corrosion avoidance. That is also a battle you will lose, I am sorry to say.”

Beyer looked at Ford and began to stand. “I don't have time for this bullshit. I need to get back to the building,” said Beyer. Ford responded by putting her hand on Beyer's.

“Sir Aeric, you are testing the admiral's patience, and now mine. And when you waste my time, you waste the time of the president of the United States,” she said.

“Please, I apologize,” said Sir Aeric. “I grew too . . . excited. Allow me to pause the conversation a moment and reset.”

A traditionally dressed English butler came in and wordlessly offered each a flute of champagne. There was no way Beyer was going to drink with this man, but he couldn't find anywhere to set the glass down other than the shag carpet, where it would tip over.

Cavendish's flute was half empty when Beyer looked back up. Good. Maybe the arrogant bastard was nervous after all.

“Admiral, please, you must try it, I bought it just for you,” said Cavendish. “It is one of the last
⁵¹
1907 ‘Shipwrecked' Heidsiecks. This bottle was on a freighter that was sunk by a U-boat in the First World War and sat on the bottom of the Baltic for the next century, perfectly preserved in the icy waters.”

“You were saying . . .” Ford prompted as Beyer looked at the world's most expensive champagne with new respect. He had to admit, he was charmed by the twit's nautical touch.

“This predicament is intolerable to you, but also to me. To fully enjoy my assets, I need the world back the way it was,” said Sir Aeric. “I have identified some impediments to this goal. Chief among them is the Tiangong station orbiting above the Pacific and what it does to limit your ability to act in the manner that I need you to act. It allows the Directorate to effectively command the heights of any battle. And, as best as I have been able to determine from my extensive contacts, you have failed in all your attempts to attack it. This, you worry, ultimately leaves you only the option of a nuclear response, which you are not certain would succeed and which, more pertinently, would escalate this conflict in a manner that would truly make all our lives intolerable.”

“I cannot confirm or deny any of that, but for the purposes of our conversation, let's assume you are correct,” said Beyer. He felt the champagne flute warming. From 1907? It would be a shame to waste it.

“From the heavens come . . . oh, forget all that,” said Cavendish, his cultivated accent slipping back into his native Australian one. “Look, mate, if you want to win back your waters, and I do believe they are providentially yours, you are going to have to do something about that damned space station. But without provoking a nuclear fuss. Righto?”

Beyer nodded. It was now or never with the champagne. He drank it down in one gulp.

“Well done!” Cavendish, his British accent returning. “In exchange for a letter of marque,
sicut aliter scitur
my hunting license, I will eliminate this impediment to your operations at a time of your government's choosing.”

“How might this work?” said Ford.

“First the contract part. My lawyers advise me that, as allowed under article one, section eight
⁵²
of that fantastic old document, the United States Constitution, I will require a letter of marque in order to be registered as an official privateer,” said Cavendish. “You know, perhaps I might be able to acquire one of the original copies of the Constitution. What would that run, Ms. Ford? Safekeeping and all that.”

Beyer interrupted. The champagne had been pretty decent, but the little twit was back to wasting his time.

“Look, I don't care what the lawyers think. Not my job. What I care about is winning this war,” said Beyer. “Because I'm not here just to help you cross an item off your bucket list.”

“No, Admiral, I am here to help you,” said Cavendish.

“How?” said Beyer. “All I see is a guy with a funny name who's sitting in a plane rigged out like a porno set and drinking a glass of old champagne in a country that's trying to explain to kindergartners how rationing works. So what are you going to give us in exchange for this letter you want?”

“A secret weapon, the likes of which the Directorate has never faced before,” whispered Cavendish, softly touching his empty flute against his temple. “My imagination.”

USS
Zumwalt
, Mare Island Naval Shipyard

Vern Li wiped the sweat from her brow and looked again. There. She took off her viz glasses and the graffiti was gone. She dabbed the sweat from her nose and put the glasses back on. There it was again.

She wobbled as if the ship were pitching at sea. The fresh red paint looked like blood.

We are watching you, Chink
.

“Vern, you okay?” asked Teri, a thirty-five-year-old software engineer from Caltech who was working with her in the confines of the engine room.

“Uh, no. I mean, I think so,” said Vern.

“Sit down here,” Teri gently commanded. “Do you want a stim? We've been at this for, like, twenty hours.”

“Do you see anything odd here? At all?” said Vern.

“Yeah, everything I see on this ship is odd,” said Teri.

“No, I mean, do you see anything around us, like writing on the wall over there?” said Vern.