2034: A Novel of the Next World War(75)

After the fourth or fifth aborted launch attempt (Wedge had lost count), he found himself alone in his stateroom, sitting at his desk, trying to pass the time. Two levels above him, he could hear the ground crews working. Each iteration of stand-up-then-stand-down cost them several hours. They couldn’t allow nine fully armed Hornets (particularly given the nature of their armament) to idle on a flight deck that was pitching through rough weather. Wedge took out his flight plan, reviewing it yet again:


*Nine aircraft launch, divided between three flights (Blue, Gold, Red)

*Arrive at release point (28°22’41”N 124°58’13”E)

*Set course and speed to target: Xiamen (Blue), Fuzhou (Gold), Shanghai (Red)

*For redundancy each aircraft armed with nuclear payload

*Only one aircraft per flight drops payload

*Return



He knew that last bullet point—despite being the shortest—was the one with the least probability of success. He could feel it in his gut. But Wedge didn’t do suicide missions; that’s what he’d told Admiral Hunt and he’d meant it. Instead of fixating on the slim probabilities of his return, he diverted his attention elsewhere. . . .

He began a letter.

It wasn’t an if-you-are-reading-this-then-I-am-gone death letter. He’d always held those in low esteem, thinking of them as little better than suicide notes. Instead, he thought of it as a historical document. He wanted to capture his thoughts on the eve of victory. He addressed the letter to his father.

Wedge found himself writing in a sort of stream of consciousness, freed from the way he normally wrote, which was the composition of lists like the flight plan he’d just reviewed. It felt good to write in this way, a release. Although it was only him, alone in his stateroom, he wanted to bring all the world into this moment. The more he wrote, the more aware he became of his place in the universe. It was as though he could see his words being read by future generations of American schoolchildren before he’d even composed them. He could envision a child standing in front of the class, reciting portions of this note from memory in much the same way Wedge himself had recited the Gettysburg Address. This wasn’t his ego at work; he knew that he possessed no remarkable gifts of expression—a C-minus in freshman English could attest to that. Rather, Wedge knew it was the moment itself that was remarkable, a moment in which everything was on the line. Then he thought, Christ, Wedge, get a grip.

Except for a single page, he crumpled up the many sheets of paper and pitched them in his trash can. The remaining page sat on the desk in front of him. He didn’t read it over.

He didn’t want to.

What remained were his thoughts, as pure as he could harness them, to be handed to his father.

Wedge found himself unexpectedly exhausted from the writing. He was soon asleep in his chair, his head on the desk.

Time passed, perhaps an hour or more. There was a knock on his door. Wedge felt disoriented, as if maybe it had all been a dream. Perhaps he was back in his stateroom on the Bush. Before Bandar Abbas. Before his stint in captivity. Back to when he was still trying to get close to it.

There was another knock.

“What?” he growled.

“Sir, it’s time.”

“Tell them that I’m coming.”

He could hear the sound of departing steps as he sat up. Wedge gathered his things on the way to the ready room. His notebook. His sunglasses. A pack of Marlboro Reds. He planned to smoke one on his triumphant return. He also thought to bring the letter. After all, it wasn’t a death letter. There was no reason to leave it on his desk, was there?

He glanced at it skeptically.

Wedge eventually chose to leave the letter where it was. What did it matter? Whether for bad weather, or a maintenance issue, he’d likely be back in his stateroom in a few hours after yet another aborted launch. He could mail it then. Walking toward his briefing in the ready room, he took his time down the ship’s passageways, even as every other member of the crew rushed past as though in possession of some urgent piece of news. When Wedge came to an exterior hatch, he thought to take a minute to grab a breath of fresh air. What he saw caused him to hurry back inside the ship.

The day was sunny, clear, and crisp. The most beautiful flying weather he could remember.



* * *





06:42 July 30, 2034 (GMT-4)

Washington, D.C.

Hendrickson insisted Chowdhury catch the night flight. “Don’t wait until morning,” he said. “Get back here now.” On the phone Hendrickson confirmed everything Patel had said in the canteen. Wisecarver had rebuffed the Indian defense attaché when he’d come to the White House. The defense attaché had met with Hendrickson unofficially (at a Starbucks) to reiterate India’s intention to take military action against either party—Chinese or American—who further escalated the crisis. Hendrickson and Chowdhury had this conversation over an unsecured landline between Washington and New Delhi. What did it matter if the Indians intercepted their call? They’d already intercepted their emails. Perhaps it would assuage them if they knew two national security staffers were taking matters into their own hands.

Chowdhury’s flight had been bumpy, with heavy turbulence over the Atlantic. When he landed at Dulles, Hendrickson was there to meet him. On the drive in from Northern Virginia, Hendrickson told Chowdhury the one thing he hadn’t been able to mention over the phone. “All that’s stopping the launch at this point is the weather.”