Empire Rising Read online

  As Christine talked with Huan, Yang stared at her, completely ignoring Ambassador Richardson. Christine was an attractive woman and was accustomed to stares and glances from the opposite sex, but there was something odd about the way he studied her.

  Huan turned and led the four Americans up the steps into the Great Hall of the People, where Xie Hai peeled Ambassador Richardson from the group. Christine and the two DSS agents continued on to a security checkpoint, consisting of a metal detector and baggage X-ray machine, where the two DSS agents disarmed.

  After passing through the detector, Christine joined Huan at his side as they strode down a brightly lit corridor, their footsteps echoing off marble walls. Following closely behind were the two DSS agents, and behind them, Yang and the two Cadre Department bodyguards. Huan offered no further conversation. As they approached a pair of large mahogany doors, Huan pushed the heavy wooden doors inward.

  The doors swung open to reveal a large circular chamber, just over one hundred feet in diameter. The Politburo Diplomatic Reception Hall was similar in design to the other thirty-three halls named after China’s provinces and regions, each chamber decorated according to the local style of the province it represented. Although the Diplomatic Reception Hall was frequently furnished with up to fifty chairs arranged in a semicircle, tonight it contained only two, positioned at the far end of the chamber beneath an imposing twenty-by-thirty-foot oil painting of the Great Wall of China, winding its way atop the mountainous region north of Beijing.

  Sitting in one of the two chairs was Xiang Chenglei, with two additional Cadre Department bodyguards standing rigidly behind him, hands at their sides. Xiang rose to his feet as Christine entered with Huan, followed by the contingent of American and Chinese security agents.

  Christine moved across the plush red carpet toward the most powerful man in China, extending her hand with a smile on her face in feigned exuberance. The unexpected change in itinerary, combined with an odd tension exuded by the two Cadre Department bodyguards behind the president, told Christine something was brewing.

  “Good evening, Mr. President.” Christine greeted Xiang in Mandarin, as she had done with Huan.

  “Aaah, nicely done, Miss O’Connor,” Xiang said in English as he shook Christine’s hand firmly. “Welcome to China. I hope you had a pleasant trip?” Xiang’s accent was strong, but his grammar impeccable.

  “I did, Mr. President.”

  “Call me Chenglei. May I address you as Christine?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Xiang gestured to the second chair. “Please, have a seat.”

  Christine and Xiang settled into their chairs, and as Christine smoothed the skirt of her business suit, it was Xiang who spoke first.

  “I apologize for the last-minute change to your schedule, Christine, but considering the topic of your meeting with Wang Qui, I thought it best we had a conversation tonight, while there is still time.”

  “Time for what?” Christine asked.

  “Time to reconsider.” Xiang smiled, but Christine sensed the frustration—even anger—boiling behind his pleasant facade. “That you are here tonight tells me America is aware, at least to some extent, of our preparations. Let’s be direct, shall we?”

  Christine nodded and Xiang continued. “The United States has—how do you say it—painted us into a corner. Of course, we have plans we can implement to deal with the accord. But I am hopeful you bring news that will make those plans unnecessary.”

  “Actually, Chenglei, that’s why I’m here. Any issues you have with the MAER Accord can be addressed peacefully. There is no need for military action.”

  “There is no need for military action only if America agrees to modify the accord, granting China affordable access to the resources we require. Do you come here with that news?”

  “I’m afraid not, Chenglei. It took over a year to forge terms acceptable to all parties—”

  “The terms are not acceptable!” Anger flashed in Xiang’s eyes. “America deliberately negotiated terms that would harm my country. I will not stand by while forty years of progress are destroyed.” Xiang paused, gathering his thoughts. “I ask you again, Christine. Will the United States dissolve or modify the accord?”

  Christine shook her head. “No, Mr. President.”

  Xiang stared at Christine for a long moment, then looked up at Yang and nodded.

  Yang barked out a command and the Cadre Department bodyguards pulled their firearms. Two of the Cadre bodyguards stepped behind the DSS agents, pressing a pistol into each man’s back. The two Americans raised their hands, surprise and consternation on their faces.

  Christine stood, looking down at Xiang in his chair. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “It’s unfortunate,” Xiang replied as he pushed himself to his feet, “but you will be detained. Relations between our countries are about to take a turn for the worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Xiang’s face hardened as he answered, “We are taking matters into our own hands and will obtain the resources we need by force. That begins tonight with the unification of the two Chinas.”

  Christine’s thoughts began to swirl. China was launching an assault against Taiwan and America would respond. China and the United States would be at war. She wondered if she could talk Xiang out of his madness.

  “We’re well aware of your preparations, Chenglei, mobilizing your military. Our military readiness has been increased in response, and I assure you any attempt to invade Taiwan will be defeated. The only thing you will accomplish is the murder of thousands of men and women, not to mention initiating scores of international economic sanctions.”

  “I have no doubt your military is ready, Christine, but so is ours. As for economic sanctions, you have effectively invoked them by crafting the MAER Accord. You left us with no choice. So let us be clear on who is to blame for what is about to happen. The United States is the aggressor, and not China, who merely defends her right to prosperity.”

  Christine pursed her lips together as she considered his words. Xiang had a point, and it appeared he and China were committed. There was nothing she could say to dissuade them.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “You will be detained until we decide what to do with you. Hopefully when this … issue is resolved, you will be released. Until then, you will enjoy the hospitality of the People’s Republic of China. He turned to Yang. “Take her away.”

  Yang gave an order to one of the Cadre bodyguards, who motioned Christine toward the Reception Hall exit with a wave of his pistol.

  9

  USS JACKSONVILLE

  In the darkened Control Room, Lieutenant Beck Burrell placed his right eye against the periscope, giving the Junior Officer of the Deck a break from the monotonous, circular sweeps. Burrell slowed each rotation as he passed the Chinese coast, scouring the dark shoreline in search of warships heading to sea. Two days earlier, as Jacksonville cruised the Taiwan Strait, the fast attack had received new orders. They were now operating just north of Taiwan, within visual distance of Zhoushan, one of the East Sea Fleet’s three major ports. Zhoushan was eerily quiet.

  Two days and not a single warship heading to sea. Yet Burrell’s sixth sense told him something was brewing. The 7th Fleet Intel reports detailed an overall increase in China’s military readiness while the PLA Navy moved in the opposite direction, like a tidal wave gathering at sea, the water receding from the beach before the massive wave broke upon the shore. Burrell paused again on another circular sweep. He shifted to high power and kicked in the doubler, increasing the periscope magnification to twenty-four times normal, searching for the navigation lights of outbound warships.

  Nothing.

  Burrell continued his circular sweeps, planning to give the Junior Officer of the Deck a five-minute break. After almost six months at sea, they could all use a break. Fortunately, in another week Jacksonville would be surging east, toward family and friends waiting on the pier, waving e
xcitedly as the submarine returned from its six-month West Pac deployment. This was Burrell’s last West Pac, and a month after returning to port, it was off to well-deserved shore duty on COMSUBPAC staff and time with his family.

  Lieutenant Burrell shifted to high power as the scope swung around toward the coast. There were no stars or moon tonight, hidden behind an invisible cloak of clouds; the only illumination came from distant lights dotting the shoreline. He paused on the bearing to the main channel.

  Still nothing.

  He was about to continue to his right when something unusual caught his eye. Actually, it wasn’t what he saw—it was what he didn’t see. On a bearing of 260, the yellow lights along the shore that had been present every sweep were gone. Either the lights had been extinguished or something was blocking them. Burrell steadied on the bearing, and a moment later the lights reappeared.

  With his eye still pressed against the periscope, he called out, “Sonar, Conn. Report any contacts on a bearing of two-six-zero.”

  The Sonar Supervisor repeated back the order, “Conn, Sonar. Report contacts on a bearing of two-six-zero, aye, wait.”

  Burrell waited patiently as another set of lights disappeared and then reappeared. An object was moving swiftly down the coastline. It wasn’t surprising he had picked up the contact before Sonar had. The noise coming from the electrical generators in the nearby power station ashore would mask quiet ships. But now that he had focused Sonar’s efforts, they should be able to pull the contact from the noise.

  A moment later, Burrell’s assessment was confirmed. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, bearing two-five-eight, designated Sierra four-three. Analyzing.”

  Burrell shifted left two degrees as another set of lights disappeared, reappearing a few seconds later. A ship was underway without navigation lights, attempting to slip out to sea undetected, its silhouette blocking the lights along the shore in the process. But what type of ship? A few minutes later, Sonar answered that question.

  “Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-three is classified warship. Shang class nuclear fast attack submarine.”

  With his eyes still pressed to the periscope, Burrell reached out in the darkness, retrieving the Captain’s Phone from its holder, pressing one of the buttons next to it, buzzing the CO’s stateroom. “Captain, Officer of the Deck. Hold a new contact, Shang class submarine, designated Sierra four-three, outbound from Zhoushan on a southern course paralleling the shore.”

  The Captain acknowledged and entered Control a moment later, stepping onto the Conn. “Let me take a look.”

  Burrell stepped back, handing control of the periscope to Commander Randy Baughman, who placed his eye against the scope. After a moment, Baughman spoke as he tweaked the periscope left in two-degree increments. “What do we have for a solution?”

  Burrell glanced at the nearest combat control console. “Contact bears two-four-eight, range eight thousand yards, course one-eight-zero, speed fifteen.”

  The Lieutenant’s answer was followed up by another report over the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra four-four, bearing two-six-zero, classified warship.”

  Commander Baughman swung the scope around until the glowing red numbers on the periscope bearing display steadied up on 260. After a long pause, he announced, “Sierra four-four is also paralleling the coast, headed north instead of south.”

  A moment later, Sonar followed up. “Sierra four-four is also classified Shang class nuclear submarine.” There was a slight pause before Sonar reported again. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra four-five, bearing two-six-zero, also classified Shang class submarine.”

  Burrell was attempting to assimilate the data when Sonar called out again. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-three and four-four have zigged, both contacts turning toward us. Sierra four-five remains steady on outbound course.”

  The hair on the back of Burrell’s neck stood up. All three Chinese submarines were headed toward them now, one directly at them and one on each side, sweeping the entrance to the port. Jacksonville was at periscope depth, at five knots only a few thousand yards away, and there was no way they could evade all three submarines. No matter which way Jacksonville turned, she would be caught between two of the outbound submarines.

  Lieutenant Burrell’s thoughts were disrupted by another report from Sonar. “Conn, Sonar. Receiving Main Ballast Tank venting sounds from each contact. All three submarines are submerging.”

  Commander Baughman stepped back from the scope, reaching up and twisting the periscope locking ring. The scope slid silently down into its well as he spoke. “Come down to one-five-zero feet and head east at ahead standard. Let’s buy some time while we figure out how to slip between them on their way out.”

  Burrell relayed the Captain’s order to the Dive and Helm, and Jacksonville tilted downward, sinking to 150 feet, increasing speed as the submarine turned to an outboard course of 090. The lights in Control shifted to Gray, then White, now that they were no longer at periscope depth, and as Burrell stood next to the Captain, he assessed the solutions to the contacts with concern. The three submarines had increased speed and were slowly closing. They would detect Jacksonville unless she also increased speed. Unfortunately, any speed above standard would create cavitation on the propeller’s surface, giving away their presence.

  That was their choice—kick it in the ass and get the hell out of Dodge, or take their chances passing between two of the Shang class submarines, the most capable variant in the Chinese fleet, undetected.

  “Attention in Control,” Commander Baughman announced. “I intend to slow and let the Chinese submarines pass on either side of us, then return to monitoring Zhoushan. Carry on.” He ordered Burrell to slow to five knots, reducing the noise from their main engines and propeller, then spoke toward the microphone in the overhead. “Radio, Captain. Have the Communicator draft a message to CTF 74 concerning the three outbound contacts.”

  Radio acknowledged over the 27-MC as Burrell analyzed the track of the nearest two Chinese submarines, determining the optimal course so Jacksonville would pass exactly halfway between them. Burrell was about to issue new orders to the Helm when he heard a powerful sonar ping echo through the hull.

  The Sonar Supervisor’s voice came across the 27-MC a second later. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-five has gone active.”

  Burrell turned his attention to the combat control displays. The center of the three Chinese submarines had just sent a ping into the water, searching the ocean for other submarines. Had they picked up Jacksonville on her passive sonar and were pinging to determine range?

  A second sonar ping echoed through Control.

  “Conn, Sonar. Another ping from Sierra four-five.”

  “Dammit,” Commander Baughman muttered. “They’ll detect us for sure at this range. We can’t hang around here with three Shangs on our tail. We need to get out of here and come back once we’ve lost them.” Baughman shook his head. “This is going to be embarrassing when we get back—”

  Baughman was cut off by the Sonar Supervisor’s voice, blaring over the 27-MC. “Torpedo launch transients, bearing two-six-zero! Sierra four-five is shooting at us!”

  Lieutenant Burrell’s first reaction was disbelief.

  Sonar must’ve gotten it wrong. There was no way the Chinese submarine had launched a torpedo at them. They must be blowing auxiliary tanks or operating other machinery—something that sounded like a torpedo launch. If Jacksonville initiated torpedo evasion maneuvers on a false alarm, they’d be detected for sure. But if it really was a torpedo, they’d better act fast.

  Sonar followed up with another report. “Torpedo in the water! Bearing two-six-zero!”

  Burrell swung around, staring at the sonar monitor on the Conn. A bright white trace at a bearing of two-six-zero was burning into the display.

  Commander Baughman responded immediately. “Ahead flank! Left full rudder, steady course north! Launch countermeasure. Man Battle Stations!”

&
nbsp; The watchstanders in Control sprang into action: the Helm twisted the rudder yoke to left full as he rang up ahead flank on the Engine Order Telegraph, sending the signal to the Throttleman in the Engine Room. The Chief of the Watch, seated at the Ballast Control Panel, ordered the crew to Battle Stations over the 1-MC, then activated the General Alarm. The loud bong, bong, bong reverberated throughout the ship as the Junior Officer of the Deck leapt to the Countermeasure Control Panel, launching a torpedo decoy into the water.

  Commander Baughman followed up, “Quick Reaction Firing, Sierra four-five, Tube One! Flood down and open outer doors, all tubes!”

  Men began streaming into Control, manning dormant consoles as red bearing lines to the torpedo appeared on the nearest combat control console every ten seconds. The torpedo was closing rapidly. Burrell did the mental calculations—they had less than two minutes before impact. Under normal circumstances with the crew at Battle Stations, that would be more than enough time to shoot back. But with the crew starting in a normal watch section and the torpedo tube outer doors still shut and weapons powered down …

  It didn’t look good.

  Even worse, the odds of them evading the incoming torpedo were slim to none. They’d been fired at from almost point-blank range. Even if their torpedo decoy was effective, the incoming torpedo would pass by it before it turned around, and in the process would likely lock on to the much bigger submarine speeding away. Jacksonville was a fast attack, but not fast enough.

  “Torpedo bears two-five-zero, range one thousand yards!”

  One minute left.

  Sonar’s report echoed in the surprisingly quiet Control Room as the crew donned their sound-powered phone headsets and energized the dormant consoles. Maybe, if they were lucky and the incoming torpedo missed, they’d be able to take out one or more of the Chinese submarines. Jacksonville was an old 688 class submarine, but she was still superior to anything in the Chinese arsenal.

  “Five hundred yards!”

  Thirty seconds left.