The Art of War: A Novel (39 page)

Another little tragedy. In a world full of them.

Aaugh! God damn it all to hell.

I drove through Hot Springs, by the Homestead, and took the two-lane highway south. Up the highway a ways I turned left on a side road, following the airport signs. Met no traffic. Wound all the way to the top of the mountain to the airport and parked next to the only vehicle in the lot beside the little fixed-base operator’s terminal, a ten-year-old pickup. Went in and looked around.

“Can I help you?” the man at the counter asked. There were no airplanes on the ramp.

“Just looking.”

I went back to the car, started down the hill. At the first overlook I pulled off. Unstrapped the urn, got out and stood looking over the mountains stretching away into the haze to the west. Looked at a hawk up high, circling. Tested the wind. It was from the southeast. No cars here, nor did I hear anyone pulling the grade.

I opened the urn and trickled the ashes out. The breeze caught them and whisked them away toward the valley below. Some of the bigger pieces reached the ground, pieces of bone maybe; the little stuff was lost on the wind. The rain and melting snow this winter would make the ashes part of the earth.

Good-bye, Anna.

When the urn was empty, I put the cap back on, got in the car and headed back down the mountain, back to Washington.

*   *   *

Zhang and Choy Lee spent the day aboard his Boston Whaler fishing offshore of old Fort Monroe in Hampton, across the roadstead from the mouth of the Elizabeth River. At least, Choy fished. Zhang sat at the helm with binoculars and watched the helicopters flying here and there over the base and the open water, the jets running high, navy harbor boats with a machine gun on the bow and two Coast Guard patrol craft. This activity was more than he had seen since he arrived in America, but Choy had translated the newspaper story about a “routine security exercise.”

Zhang bought it. He knew the lengths his navy went to when their sole operational aircraft carrier,
Liaoning,
was in port, entering, exiting or under way. She was formerly a Soviet carrier,
Varyag,
bought from a Ukrainian shipyard 70 percent complete and towed on an epic voyage to the Dalian shipyard in China, where, after much study, her hull was completed and she was fitted with engines, radars, arresting gear and all the equipment necessary to turn the unfinished hull into a real warship, a carrier of armed warplanes that could project Chinese power for many hundreds of miles.

The Chinese also purchased three other retired carriers, hulks, incapable of operating aircraft, that they studied for years: the Australian carrier HMAS
Melbourne
and the former Soviet carriers
Minsk
and
Kiev.
Finally
Melbourne
was partially dismantled, and the two ex-Russian carriers were converted to resort/amusement parks to favorably impress the public with the future of their navy. For a reasonable amount, you and your wife, girlfriend or concubine could sleep, gamble and drink aboard a real warship. However, until these hulks were scrapped or converted, the PLAN had kept a watchful eye on them with harbor craft and helicopters.
Liaoning,
now operational and equipped with Shenyang J-5 fighters, was guarded day and night.

Unlike these complacent Americans, Zhang thought, the three Chinese fleet naval bases were closed to civilian maritime traffic. And spies.

Actually, the American navy’s security operations were what he expected. Five aircraft carriers in port at one time, plus several helicopter assault carriers, was a juicy target. Better than Pearl Harbor in December of 1941. Much better. The Americans weren’t such fools that they didn’t know that. Yet the Chinese preparations were adequate. The attack would be a success.

He glanced at Choy Lee from time to time. Choy’s usefulness was almost at an end. He thought Choy might suspect that, so he would have to be watched carefully. He seemed quite calm today. Had even caught a couple of fish, one big enough to keep.

Fortunately the day was fairly benign, with broken high clouds that the sun peeked through from time to time, not too much wind and only light chop. Six or seven miles visibility. Zhang lit another cigarette and went back to scanning with his binoculars and checking the radar presentation from time to time.

He was watching when he saw the blip of a large ship appear on the scope, trailed by two smaller ones, passing Point Comfort, heading into the bay. Using the binoculars, he saw a helicopter assault ship and two destroyers emerge from the haze, like ghost ships becoming real, on course westward, no doubt to moor at the carrier piers at the naval base. As she steamed along he watched her with his binoculars. She was a gorgeous gray ship, not as big as
Liaoning,
but impressive. Helicopters filled her flight deck.

He would, he decided, motor into the mouth of the Elizabeth River later this afternoon, at least an hour before darkness fell, for a look around. Then he would fill the tanks of the Whaler at the marina. Again. He filled them every evening, just in case.

Choy Lee would have been relieved if he had known Zhang thought him calm today. He had a big decision to make, and he was sorting his options. Since he hadn’t decided what to do, he was here today, to give himself more time to think, and to watch Zhang and see if he could get a hint of Zhang’s mission and plans. Choy sensed that Zhang’s expectations were rising. He was more tense, never smiled, never made a joke.
He is waiting.
For what?

For the American carriers. Obviously. But why?

Zhang was watching the helicopter carrier now.

Should he tell Sally Chan of his suspicions? Would she go with him if he disappeared? Or would she demand he call the navy or FBI and tell them what he knew, and suspected? What would become of him if he did?

Bored, he took his cell phone from his pocket and turned it on. No service. Maybe he was too far from a tower.

But there should be cell service out here. There always had been.

He pocketed the phone. Thought about telling Zhang.

Something made him refrain. Zhang was using the binoculars again.

Oh God. What to do?

He went back to fishing.

*   *   *

The e-mails from Kat Spiers and her daughter, Ellie, and son-in-law, Harold, started a firestorm in cyberspace. By the time they were on the Washington, DC, Beltway, over ten thousand people in the Norfolk/Portsmouth/Virginia Beach area had seen some version of one or more of the e-mails and were forwarding them on to friends, acquaintances and co-workers. People from all walks of life received the news with varying degrees of belief and disbelief. Some thought the whole thing was a joke and said so. Others weren’t so sure. Some people merely forwarded on the e-mail they received; others undertook to rewrite the message on other websites. The Chinese had a dozen bombs hidden on the naval base. Airplanes were going to drop bombs. Intercontinental ballistic missiles were going to wipe out the fleet. The missiles were already in the air. Or they were being prepared for launch. Some folks even added that the security exercise at the base was a war preparation.

A great many of the people who received these messages or read the Facebook posts didn’t stop to ask themselves or anyone else if any of this might be true. They hustled the kids into the car when they got home from school—some went to schools to get their kids and told the school authorities why—threw in whatever duffel their car would hold, and headed for the roads out. Within an hour the roads were clogged. Traffic accidents began to slow the exodus.

The news reached the local television and radio stations at about the same time, which was lightning fast. Some producers just put the rumors on the air. Others called the public affairs office at the naval base to get their reaction. They were going to do a story about the rumors anyway, but would be delighted to give someone in uniform fifteen seconds to deny everything.

The public affairs officer, or PAO, at Naval Base Norfolk was Lieutenant Commander Heidi Fritzsche, and she was winding up the day’s business when the first call came in. She listened, incredulous, and asked the television station dude to hold the line.

She rushed down the hallway to the CO’s office and asked the civilian receptionist if Captain Spiers was still there. Informed he was, she rapped on his doorframe once, opened the door and rushed into his office.

“Captain, you aren’t going to believe this, but WNOF just called. They say the news is all over the Internet that the Chinese are going to bomb the base. Their phones are ringing off the hooks. They want a comment from us.”

Captain Spiers’ face went dead white. He had to swallow twice to get enough composure to say, “If they are, they haven’t told us about it.”

“The Internet!” Heidi Fritzsche declared bitterly, and trotted back toward her office and the waiting telephone.

Butler Spiers buried his face in his hands.

Two minutes later, when he felt a bit more composed, he checked his Rolodex, picked up his telephone and called Washington.

Back in her office, Heidi Fritzsche’s phones were ringing constantly. As quickly as her yeomen could field a call on one line, explain about the security exercise and hang up, the phone rang again. Heidi took a call from a man who said he was the manager of a large hotel—he named it—in Virginia Beach. “We’re hosting a convention of Vietnam vets. They’re lined up at the desk ten deep trying to check out. What the hell is going on out there at the base?”

“A routine security exercise.”

“Not according to the Internet.”

“We don’t run the Internet. We’re just trying to run our little corner of the navy.” She hung up and fielded the next call, which was from the PAO at Naval Air Station Oceana.

“Heidi, the phones are ringing off the hook over here. Some of my staff have received e-mails saying that the naval base is preparing for a nuclear attack from the Chinese.”

“For God’s sake!”

“They say it’s Pearl Harbor all over again.”

Involuntarily Heidi looked out her window. Sunlight and shadow were marching across the lawn. The flag flapped vigorously on its pole. Beyond the roof of the next building, she could see superstructures and masts festooned with radars and antennae of ships at the carrier piers. A helicopter went by overhead. Cars and trucks on the streets.

“No one is bombing anything here,” she shouted into the phone. “We’re having a routine security exercise that’s been planned for two months and announced to the public. Read your damn messages! And get a goddamn grip!” She slammed the phone down.

*   *   *

Anastasia Roberts broke the news to Jake Grafton. “We’ve received a call from the Pentagon. They’re fielding inquiries from various networks and newspapers. It seems the Internet is full of messages saying that the Chinese are about to attack the Norfolk naval base. ICBMs are in the air, there are bombs hidden on the base, it’s Pearl Harbor all over again. The stuff has gone viral on Facebook and Twitter and presumably every other Internet site on the planet.”

Jake Grafton just stared at her. So she went on. “The public in the area around the base has panicked. Massive traffic jams of people trying to get the hell out. Cell phone towers are overloaded. People are driving the wrong way on the interstate lanes. Lots of accidents. Some of the hospitals and nursing homes are demanding help to evacuate their patients.”

He made a face.

“The Pentagon has told everyone that the base is having a routine security exercise that’s been planned for months. Maybe some people believe that, but a lot of people don’t.”

I wonder if the watcher will?
he thought.

“And Sal Molina is on line one.” Anastasia Roberts wheeled and left the office.

Jake picked up his phone and pushed the button for line one. “Yes, Sal.”

“Have you heard the latest from Norfolk?”

“Yes.”

“The president told the press officer to try to calm the media. He told me to call you and ask, ‘What the fuck, over?’”

Anastasia stuck her head back through the door. She mouthed, “CNO on line two.”

“I have another call, Sal. I’ll get right back to you.”

“Okay.”

Cart McKiernan said, “Norfolk is in meltdown. The news got out, somehow. Maybe not—but rumors are flying thick and fast. They’re on the Internet, and now television and radio. I’m going down there on a chopper from the Pentagon in about an hour. You want to go?”

“Yes. I’ll bring Sal Molina.”

So he called Molina back, cut him short and said, “Admiral McKiernan and I are going to Norfolk. You want to go?”

Molina didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“See you at the Pentagon helipad in an hour. Bring a toothbrush.”

Jake called Harley Merritt and gave him a quick brief, told his secretary to alert his driver and security team, then went into his office bathroom and threw some things into his overnight bag. When he was in the limo on the way to the Pentagon, he called his wife and told her he wouldn’t be home tonight.

“I’ve been watching television, Jake. Are you going to Norfolk?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God Almighty,” Callie said.

*   *   *

Although she was certainly no Internet junkie and didn’t own a cell phone, Sally Chan heard about the panic in midafternoon from the television set above the bar in her father’s restaurant. The place was unusually empty. She had the place settings on all the tables; her father was cooking in the kitchen; her mother was behind the bar inventorying the liquor, wine and beer. Mrs. Chan had turned on the television for the company.

Sally happened to glance at it, saw the news ribbon scrolling across the bottom and paused to read it. An afternoon soap opera was playing. “U.S. Navy spokesmen at Naval Base Norfolk and in the Pentagon have denied that the security exercise at the base is in any way related to the Internet rumor that a Chinese nuclear weapon is hidden on the naval base.” There was more …

Within sixty seconds the network interrupted the program to air a live interview with the White House press secretary. Sally stepped behind the bar and turned up the volume. He was loose, smiling, as if all this were a big joke. “Debunking Internet rumors will be a new career for me—”