2034: A Novel of the Next World War(62)

The message Chowdhury had in his in-box from Hendrickson read simply, Arrived on Enterprise. Hope you’re well. More soon.—Bunt. Chowdhury and Hendrickson had made an arrangement when they’d both left Washington at the behest of Wisecarver, to help each other navigate the increasingly internecine politics of the administration they served. Chowdhury doubted their alliance would amount to much. But he needed all the friends he could muster. Hendrickson did too.

As he finished scrolling through his work emails, Chowdhury’s cell phone pinged with a fresh text message. It was from his uncle:

Come tomorrow 08:00 for breakfast. Have a new friend you should meet.



* * *





20:03 July 19, 2034 (GMT+8)

South China Sea

Hunt couldn’t believe it until she held the flight manifest in her hand. How had life conspired to deliver him here, now? His name on the manifest: Hendrickson, J. T. It appeared in the same order as when it had headed their softball team roster decades before at Annapolis. She checked her watch. From her stateroom she could hear flight deck operations underway. The Death Rattlers had been constantly in the air. Hunt had given Major Mitchell top priority to qualify his pilots on their low-tech avionics. At all hours, she could hear the fiery rumble and metallic screech of their Hornets launching and recovering. Now came an interruption, the hollow, raspy vibrations of a turboprop engine, a V-22 Osprey—the resupply flight with Hendrickson aboard.

Ten minutes or so passed and then with a knock at Hunt’s door a junior sailor announced, “Admiral Hendrickson to see you, ma’am.” When Hendrickson came in, he glumly stood there, his khaki uniform carrying the creases of the many layovers he’d had to endure as he leapfrogged from one base to another on his way out to sea. Dispensing with the naval courtesies, Hendrickson slumped into the chair opposite her desk, cradled his chin in his palm, and said only, “I want you to know that coming out here wasn’t my idea.”

“Why are you out here, then?” she asked.

The office rattled slightly as another Hornet catapulted off the flight deck.

Hendrickson, ever the company man, regurgitated the language Wisecarver had offered him.

“Augmenting my command?” Hunt replied, throwing back his words. “What the hell does that mean? Have you cleared this with INDOPACOM? Though, I guess respecting protocol has never been your thing.” She was angry, and she felt she had every right to be angry. No one had listened to her, not from the start. Hendrickson and his cronies on the national security staff had been so certain of their superiority, of their ability to take on any threat, and that overconfidence had backed them into this corner, cutting squares in the South China Sea, waiting for the imminent strike against their homeland.

“Admiral Johnstone at INDOPACOM is well aware of my visit,” answered Hendrickson. “You can call him on the redline if you want. I stopped in Honolulu and briefed him on my way out here—”

Another Hornet roared as it was catapulted off the flight deck.

“People are worried about you, Sarah.” Hendrickson softened his tone. He couldn’t manage to look at her as he said this, so he stared at his hands, fingering the obnoxiously large Annapolis class ring he still insisted on wearing. “You’ve been through a lot . . . been asked to take on a lot . . . emotionally.” Emotionally? Fuck him. Was he referring to events since her command of the John Paul Jones and her central role in the strike against Zhanjiang? Or was he going beyond that, to her days at Annapolis? To what she’d given up—namely, a family, a life, him—so that they could sit here together these many years later, two admirals on the bridge of a US warship. She’d never know. And he’d never say. But she listened to him regardless. “We all realize what’s coming. And it seems the Enterprise will be in the middle of our response. You shouldn’t have to go through it alone. I am here . . .” And she hoped for a moment he’d leave it at that, a personal statement that affirmed the history between them, except he couldn’t and so added, “. . . to augment your command.”

Their conversation shifted to the overall readiness of the Enterprise and its ability to inflict a counterstrike. So long as the Chinese didn’t engage with strategic nuclear weapons, the appropriate response would be a multipronged attack on their mainland with tactical nukes. Hunt had concluded that her one squadron of Hornets, the Death Rattlers, would be the most effective. She explained to Hendrickson the reworked avionics system, and her belief that a strike package should consist of the squadron’s nine planes distributed over three target sets: three flights composed of three aircraft each. The squadron’s new commanding officer, Major Chris “Wedge” Mitchell, had been tirelessly preparing his pilots for such a mission.

Hendrickson said, “I thought it was ten aircraft to a Marine Hornet squadron?”

“Wedge lost one aircraft four days ago. We’ve had to modify their targeting computers so that the bomb release is now done manually. We were testing them at sea with live ordnance. One of the pilots had a bomb get stuck, so it was dangling from his wing off its ejector rack. He couldn’t land like that, so he bailed out and put his plane into the drink. These pilots are young; they’re not used to navigating with nothing but a compass and flight chart. He had called in his position and we diverted there. We circled for an entire day, never found him. Maybe someone else picked him up—we were close to the mainland. . . . You can always hope.”