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  As Michigan ascended through the black water, aside from the Dive’s reports, it was silent in Control. There would be no conversation until the periscope broke the surface and the Officer of the Deck called out No close contacts or Emergency Deep. Like the rest of the watchstanders in Control, Cordero knew their submarine was vulnerable during its ascent to periscope depth. A few years earlier, transiting these same waters, USS Hartford had collided with USS New Orleans during the submarine’s ascent to periscope depth, almost ripping the sail from the top of the submarine.

  With a submerged displacement of eighteen thousand tons, Michigan was less maneuverable than the nimble fast attacks. The former ballistic missile submarine was almost two football fields long, seven stories tall, and wide as a three-lane highway. Converted into a guided missile submarine, Michigan was now capable of carrying 154 Tomahawk cruise missiles, loaded in twenty-two of its twenty-four missile tubes, with the remaining two tubes converted into access hatches to two Dry Deck Shelters attached to the submarine’s Missile Deck. Within each DDS rested a SEAL Delivery Vehicle—a mini-sub capable of transporting Navy SEALs miles underwater for clandestine operations. Aboard Michigan, in berthing installed in the Missile Compartment during its conversion, slept four platoons of Navy SEALs, ready should their services be required.

  Their services wouldn’t be necessary tonight. This was just a routine journey to periscope depth. As Michigan rose toward the surface, Cordero couldn’t see the submarine’s Commanding Officer, Captain Murray Wilson, in the darkness, but he felt his presence. Sitting on the starboard side of the Conn in the Captain’s chair, Wilson monitored his submarine’s ascent. There was heavy traffic in the narrow Strait of Hormuz tonight as the ship began its long transit home to Bangor, Washington, in the Pacific Northwest.

  It was from Delta Pier in Hood Canal that Captain Wilson had cast off lines three months ago, leading Michigan west. This was Wilson’s first deployment aboard Michigan. Cordero and the rest of the officers in the Wardroom had been surprised when Wilson had been assigned as their new Commanding Officer. Captain Murray Wilson, the most senior captain in the Submarine Force, had already commanded the fast attack submarine USS Buffalo and had just completed an assignment as the senior Submarine Command Course instructor, preparing officers for command. Rumor held he played a pivotal role in the Kentucky incident, selected for Rear Admiral as a result. But he had supposedly turned down flag rank, choosing to end his career at sea.

  It didn’t take long for Cordero and the rest of the crew aboard Michigan to appreciate the breadth and depth of the Captain’s experience. However, they were perplexed when he ordered an indirect path for their journey to the Persian Gulf, forcing them to transit at a higher than desirable speed. The crew soon realized the deviation was made with the sole purpose of passing through a specific point on the chart. When they reached the prescribed spot, Wilson ordered the Quartermaster to activate their Fathomer, sending one ping down toward the ocean bottom. As Captain Wilson sat in the shadows on the submarine’s Conn, Cordero could see the moisture glistening in the older man’s eyes as they passed over the watery grave of HMAS Collins.

  That was three months ago and they were now headed home, ascending to periscope depth to download the radio broadcast. As Cordero peered up through the black water, a small wavering disc of light appeared in the distance, growing slowly larger; the moon’s blue-white reflection on the ocean’s surface. The Dive called out the submarine’s depth in ten-foot increments, and Cordero gradually rotated his left wrist back to its original position, tilting the scope optics down toward the horizon. As the Dive called out eight-zero feet, the scope broke the surface of the water and Cordero began his circular sweeps, searching for nearby contacts—quiet warships or deep-draft merchants bearing down on them as Michigan glided slowly at periscope depth.

  After assessing the half-dozen white lights on the horizon, Cordero called out the report everyone in Control was hoping for.

  “No close contacts!”

  Conversation in control resumed, with the Dive and Chief of the Watch adjusting the submarine’s buoyancy to keep it a tad heavy, so the passing ocean swells wouldn’t suck the submarine up to the surface.

  Radio’s report over the 27-MC communication system broke the subdued conversations in Control. “Conn, Radio. In sync with the broadcast. Receiving message traffic.”

  The Quartermaster followed with his expected report, “GPS fix received.”

  Cordero acknowledged Radio and the Quartermaster, then after the usual two-minute wait, Radio confirmed Michigan had received the latest round of naval messages. “Conn, Radio. Download complete.”

  They had accomplished the two objectives for their trip to periscope depth, so Cordero ordered Michigan back to the safety of the ocean depths. “All stations, Conn. Going deep. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth two hundred feet.”

  Each station acknowledged and Michigan tilted downward, leaving periscope depth behind. “Scope’s under,” Cordero announced, then turned the periscope until it looked forward and snapped the handles back to their folded positions. Reaching up, he rotated the periscope ring counterclockwise, lowering the scope into its well.

  The lights in Control flicked on, shifting from Rig-for-Black to Gray, allowing everyone’s eyes to adjust, then shifted to White a moment later. As Michigan leveled off at two hundred feet, a Radioman entered Control, message board in hand, delivering the clipboard to the submarine’s Commanding Officer. Captain Wilson reviewed the messages, then handed the board to Cordero.

  “Change in plans,” Wilson said. “We’re taking a detour on the way home.”

  Wilson surveyed the men in Control before adding, “Come down to five hundred feet. Increase speed to ahead flank.”

  6

  SHANGHAI, CHINA

  It was a twelve-story building off Datong Road in a mixed-use area of Pudong. To United States satellites in orbit, the building’s electromagnetic signature appeared no different than the surrounding commercial buildings. The complex, however, housed China’s Unit 61398, the premier unit of the PLA’s Fourth Department, responsible for cyber warfare. On the twelfth floor, Admiral Tsou Deshi and General Cao Feng, Commander of the Fourth Department, supervised the most critical element of Admiral Tsou’s plan: the dismantling of Unit 61398.

  “Everything must be moved to underground bunkers before hostilities commence, Admiral,” General Cao commented. Tsou looked around as the thirty men and women busily packed away computers, displays, computer servers and their racks, power supplies, and cables. It was like watching a vacuum operate in slow motion—an entire hi-tech complex disappearing into hundreds of cardboard boxes.

  “There will be a temporary disruption in ability,” Cao added, “but we are doing this in stages, and this is the last unit to be moved. All units will be fully operational by morning.”

  Tsou nodded as General Cao continued, “We are a decade ahead of our American counterparts in cyber warfare, but they are catching up fast. They have finally realized the predicament they are in, and have established their own cyber warfare command. Fortunately for us, they have no idea of the inroads we have made.

  “They will realize all too soon what we have done, and will attempt to respond in kind. But we have thoroughly prepared, Admiral. Their communication networks are vulnerable, while our nodes our impervious to cyber counterattacks.

  “However, while our command and control networks are protected from cyber attacks, we cannot underestimate America’s ability to harm us via conventional methods. Our critical communication nodes must be moved to hardened underground bunkers, along with our cyber warfare units. We cannot risk the possibility America will discover their existence and eliminate them with Tomahawk missiles or Air Force strikes. You know better than anyone that your plan hinges on their capabilities.”

  Admiral Tsou could not argue with the General’s words. Cyber warfare was the one area where China had superiority over the United States,
and Cao was taking every measure to ensure America could not destroy that advantage during the conflict.

  The last of the computers were placed into cardboard boxes and sealed, then loaded onto dollies and wheeled toward nearby elevators. A few minutes later, the Admiral and General stood alone on a desolate floor, with loose papers and dust balls littering an otherwise deserted office space. The two men headed toward the elevators in silence. The General would join Unit 61398 in one of the underground command bunkers, while Tsou would accompany his aide, waiting in the car below, for the long trip to Ningbo, headquarters of the East Sea Fleet.

  THE GAMBIT

  7

  NINGBO, CHINA

  On the first floor of a four-story concrete, windowless building, Fleet Admiral Tsou Deshi stood in the shadows with his aide, off to the side of a large auditorium. Gathered in the headquarters of the PLA Navy’s East Sea Fleet this morning, fifty-four admirals sat in their dark blue uniforms, arranged neatly in sections representing the three fleets—the North Sea Fleet based in Qingdao, the East Sea Fleet headquartered in Ningbo, and the South Sea Fleet sortieing from Zhanjiang. All together, the three fleets fielded an impressive arsenal of ships, consisting of twenty-five destroyers, forty-seven frigates, fifty-eight diesel and nuclear-powered submarines, plus eighty-three amphibious warfare ships and over five hundred landing craft.

  The PLA Navy was a formidable force indeed, except when compared to the American Pacific Fleet. But Tsou had toiled diligently to level the playing field and make America pay dearly for its righteous superiority and willingness to employ it. After years of honing carefully guarded plans, it was time to reveal them.

  Tsou took a deep breath, then nodded, and his aide strode onto the stage, announcing “Attention on Deck” as he emerged. Conversation in the auditorium ceased as the admirals surged to their feet, standing at attention as Tsou followed his aide to the front of the auditorium. The aide departed, leaving Tsou standing in front of a twenty-by-forty-foot view screen towering above him, which would display every facet of the plan as it unfolded.

  “At ease,” Tsou announced. “Be seated.”

  Fleet Admiral Tsou surveyed the men assembled before him as they took their seats. Their mood was somber; they knew the upcoming battle would be difficult. In a few minutes, they would understand just how difficult.

  “Good morning,” Tsou said. “Many of you have guessed why we are here today. The preparations made over the last week have no doubt indicated our intent, and I am sure you are confident in our ability. But there is more to our plan than meets the eye. The invasion of Taipei is merely bait, drawing our enemy close. For us to be victorious, not only must we defend our amphibious assault from the United States Navy, we must go one step further. Our real goal is to destroy the United States Pacific Fleet.”

  Tsou listened to murmurings throughout the auditorium. Until this moment, the obvious goal of their assault had been the unification of the two Chinas. Now, with the true intent of their plan revealed, astonished expressions spread across the room. Admiral Tsou continued as the murmuring died down, “It won’t be easy, but this is how we’re going to do it.” Tsou paused for a moment before beginning the two-hour operations brief.

  * * *

  After explaining the last element of his plan, Admiral Tsou turned from the view screen and faced his admirals, waiting for the expected reaction. He wasn’t the only one who understood the Herculean task they’d been assigned. As the murmuring began throughout the auditorium again, a Vice Admiral stood to address Admiral Tsou. His ships were assigned the most difficult—and seemingly impossible—task.

  He began by identifying himself and his command. “Vice Admiral Shao, Commander, 10th Submarine Flotilla, East Sea Fleet.”

  Admiral Tsou acknowledged the flotilla commander. “Proceed.”

  “Pardon me for being a skeptic, but after years of studying the American Navy’s capability, I have a different assessment of the outcome.”

  Tsou had seen this coming from the moment the plan was conceived. “And your opinion is…?”

  “My opinion,” Admiral Shao replied, “is that this plan is ludicrous! We cannot defeat the American Pacific Fleet!”

  Shouting broke out throughout the auditorium, as some admirals echoed Admiral Shao’s sentiment, while others admonished him for both the disrespectful manner with which he voiced his disagreement and his lack of faith. Yet everyone in the room knew there was a kernel of truth in the Vice Admiral’s assertion.

  Fleet Admiral Tsou stood with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently for the fervor to die out. Finally, he replied, “Well stated, Admiral.”

  Tsou’s response took everyone by surprise; they had expected him to defend the battle plan vehemently. Instead, he agreed his plan had no chance to succeed. Tsou continued, “Under normal circumstances, you would be correct in your assessment.”

  Admiral Tsou cast a glance across the auditorium. For the plan to succeed, his admirals must believe it can. The PLA’s new capabilities had been kept secret long enough. It was time to reveal them. It was time to reveal everything.

  * * *

  It was only a few minutes later when Admiral Tsou finished. Heads nodded throughout the auditorium, confidence radiating from the men within. They now believed they could defeat the American Pacific Fleet. And that, of course, was the most important ingredient.

  With the operations brief complete, it was time to send his men on their way so they could make final preparations for tonight’s attack. Admiral Tsou stood at attention, and for today’s farewell, he decided to follow an American Submarine Force tradition. The PLA Navy’s new submarines, after all, would play a crucial role. His eyes scanned his men as they drew themselves to attention in response, then he uttered the time-honored farewell.

  “Good hunting!”

  8

  BEIJING

  Night was settling over the city, neon café signs illuminating pedestrians strolling the sidewalks as two black 7 Series BMWs, their armored frames riding low to the ground, wound their way through the center of Beijing. Joining Christine O’Connor in the back of the lead sedan was the United States ambassador to China, Michael Richardson, flipping through an appointment calendar on his lap. Christine could see the reflection of the sedan behind them in the security glass, which was raised between the front and rear seats, offering privacy for her discussion with Richardson.

  Eighteen hours earlier, Christine had boarded an Air Force Boeing 747 waiting at Joint Base Andrews, the combined Navy and Air Force base southeast of D.C., landing at Beijing’s Nanyuan Airport. As she descended the staircase onto the tarmac, Ambassador Richardson, leaning against the black government sedan, had stepped forward to greet her.

  The news he delivered was unexpected. There had been a change to her itinerary. Instead of heading to her hotel near the American Embassy, they would proceed to the Great Hall of the People. Tomorrow’s meeting had been moved up to tonight. No reason had been given for the change other than “schedule considerations dictate an immediate meeting.” Even more perplexing, the planned meeting with her Chinese counterpart, Vice Premier Wang Qui, had been replaced with a meeting with China’s president, Xiang Chenglei.

  Richardson closed the appointment book as he looked up at Christine. “Nothing. I can’t figure out why they want to meet tonight, or why you’re meeting with the president instead of the vice premier.”

  Christine had an inkling. “If China has decided to attack Taiwan, tonight’s meeting might include a formal request the United States refrain from interfering. Of course, they’d be just going through the motions, knowing we’ll come to Taiwan’s aid regardless.”

  An astonished look spread across the ambassador’s face. “That would mean hostilities are imminent.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Christine replied. “I hope they’re still in the consideration phase and can be reasoned with.”

  The sedan ground to a halt beside the Great Ha
ll of the People, the entrance to the building framed by massive gray marble colonnades illuminated by bright white perimeter lighting. Standing at the base of stone steps leading to the entrance were five men—four in a single line, while a fifth man, taller than the rest, stood behind them. The two men in the center were dressed in charcoal gray suits, while the other three men wore black suits. Christine figured the men in black were from the Central Guard Bureau’s Cadre Department—the Chinese equivalent of the Secret Service—their wary eyes surveying the two cars that pulled to a stop.

  Christine and Ambassador Richardson stepped from their sedan as two U.S. Diplomatic Security Service agents exited the second car, flanking Christine and the ambassador.

  One of the men wearing a charcoal gray suit extended his hand. “Welcome to Beijing, Miss O’Connor. I am Huan Zhixin, chairman of the Central Military Commission.”

  Christine shook the hand of the man in charge of China’s military, responding in Mandarin. “Jiǔyǎng.” She had memorized a few Mandarin phrases for her meeting with Wang Qui, and decided to try the standard Chinese greeting between professionals, hoping her pronunciation was correct.

  Huan smiled warmly. “It is a pleasure to meet you as well.” He turned sideways toward the man behind them. “I’d like to introduce Yang Minsheng, head of President Xiang’s security detail.” Yang merely nodded as Huan continued, gesturing to the man beside him. “And this is Xie Hai, the president’s executive assistant, who will keep Ambassador Richardson occupied while you meet with the president.”

  Christine exchanged a concerned glance with Richardson. “The ambassador won’t be joining us?”

  “I’m afraid not, Miss O’Connor,” Huan replied. “We have several issues we would like to discuss with the ambassador tonight.”

  “And the DSS agents?” Christine asked.

  “They may accompany you to the conference room, but they’ll have to disarm at the security checkpoint.”