When Totems Fall (37 page)

The president had thought long and hard over such an engagement. In even the most hope-filled projections little of either country remained to be inhabited once the conflagration had cleared. Little left of a people for millennia at the forefront of human discovery. Little remaining of a nation that had re-invented government, leading to the flowering of modern liberty and prosperity. These were grim outcomes to be sure. The only viable step as far the president was now concerned. Rebuilding from the ashes, unbelievable as this possibility appeared, was the only realistic action placed before them. Beijing had started them all down this path. It was up to the American Commander-in-Chief to press on, forward, to the inevitable.

Once outside the office the man in the business suit pulled a pager from his left breast pocket, keying a string of characters and then hitting
send.
The return ping took only a second.

Received. Understood.

__________________________________

And then Sgt. Lochland
put his micro-pager away, keeping the orders from his teammates, and to himself.

__________________________________

Aboard the MV Klickitat, ferrying westward toward the Peninsula

Breathtaking.
If not for the circumstances they found themselves in this would have been a moment to savor, to remember. The open waters of Puget Sound broke against the bow of the boat, passing along her sides and creating a soft, foamy wake running behind. The gentle motion of the Klickitat's keel floated over and cut through the waves. A pleasing springtime sun beat down on their skin, warming the image of snow-capped peaks reaching above 7,000 ft. at both bow and stern. The cityscape fell behind, smaller every few minutes of the crossing. From here the view appeared rather like it did a month ago—seemingly untouched by the upheaval taking place in her streets, homes, and people.

It all made for a sense of calm. Surreal. Utterly surreal.

Construction repairs still lingered from the airliner impact at Pike Place, marked by scaffolding and crane works throughout the market space. With no prior knowledge of the devastation, one could assume it to be only one more evolving corridor of a constantly developing city. From here few visual clues surfaced as to the terrors hidden in the distance. The only telltale sign of trouble might possibly be the massive Chinese flag flowing off the heights of the Needle. Yet, even that—from here—could simply be dismissed as some kind of community ethnic pride thing.

Leaning out over the white, painted rail, looking down the clean, curved line of the boat, Zeb glanced at Sanchez. Face up to the sun, she was breathing slowly with eyes shut, taking in the muted warmth on her skin. The sunlight brought a reddish tint to her dark hair as the breeze tossed small strands about.

What in the world is going on in her head?
Zeb wondered.

No telling. Probably some combat prep exercises.

Does she have family? Are they in the region as well? Has she had any contact with them?

Zeb let his mind wander for just a moment, to thoughts of his own clan.

His mom. Such the warrior. As strong as they came. Even with dad going off the deep end she was always such a rock. When had he last talked to her? It'd been way too long, no question about that. She wasn't the one who deserved his distance and coldness. No, that would be reserved for his father alone.

And what the hell was that all about anyways?
Zeb tossed up and out to the universe.

Why our family? Why couldn't the aerospace engineer guy across the street have been my dad. The guy went off to work everyday and still didn't miss a sports event or band concert for his kids. Couldn't we have just been normal like everybody else. What—Dad's religion made him special, somehow?

Such a pile of crap.

Zeb shook off old, painful, tired images of his father, refusing them any space in his thinking, much less any part of his affections, his heart. He would afford them no place at all in these potentially last, precious, important moments.

No.

I will not waste any of the possibly last hours of this life on that man.

No good thoughts. No bad ones.

No thoughts at all.

FIFTY

The large, steel-plated platform lowered slowly, groaning as it settled onto the dock's warm asphalt surface. Below, a froth of green, stirred up during the ferry's final approach toward shore, crashed against the weathered, tar-laden supports, washing over the barnacled substructure with an almost human rhythm.

A few hundred foot passengers
disembarked first, before the ship's three larger decks released its parade of sedans, minivans, and trucks. Zeb, Loch, and Sanchez stood in line, waiting their turn like everybody else.

They'd made it.

Bremerton.
The smaller city of 40,000 residents lay westward of the Seattle metro area, across Puget Sound and tucked in and behind the very upscale Bainbridge Island. Though mainly blue-collar she wasn't a suburb per se. A commuter town, yes, but also a community fighting back against gentrification in fierce retention of its own purpose and identity. As a port city she sported deep waters, deep enough to host a great variety of vessels. Trawlers, day craft, dry container and petrol barges; her weathered docking posts had known them all. Aside from her plentiful berths she also was a protective shield, her landform providing relief from the harsh seasonal weather patterns brewing on the open waves of the Sound. Though her waters and lay of the land were significant factors in the development of the area, recognized and treasured by even the earliest indigenous peoples, these were not the reasons Zeb had brought the team west, away from Seattle proper. No, Dalton's interest here was focused on a singular strategic asset: former Naval Base Kitsap. Bremerton was the target because she was a Navy town.

As homeport of Carrier Group Three of the U.S. Navy and with the Trident Sub Missile Command housed at Bangor only seventeen miles to the north, the area provided exactly the assets Dalton needed to finish the job they'd all come to do. Commissioned originally in 1891 as Puget Sound Naval Station, the renamed Naval Base Kitsap had infused power and purpose into the families, community, and neighborhoods of Bremerton for over a century. Currently, she didn't look the part.

13,000 highly trained enlisted men and officers had been forcefully relieved of duty in the same manner as their compatriots at JBLM in Tacoma. Remaining now? Skeleton crews representing only the barest skill sets. Maintain equipment and ship's facilities. Keep the subs' nuclear cores healthy. That was all. Long hours, under ever-watchful eyes. These pressures would have been enough on their own but these left-behind warriors labored as well under the ever burdensome load of shame and guilt. Shame at watching brothers and sisters in arms forced at gunpoint onto transports and ushered down the west coast to San Diego—Kitsap's closest companion base. And guilt. They couldn't do a thing about it. They were military orphans. Isolated, controlled, powerless. Everything a fighter loathes. Their war vessels had fared no better.

Three Nimitz Class Carriers
sat dockside as two Destroyers lay quieted beside four Guided Missile Cruisers. These massive, imposing feats of seagoing architecture and engineering still held formidable capacities for warring yet existed in such a depleted state as to appear nothing more than silent sentinels, a mere shadow of their former selves. It all seemed very eerie; too still, too vacant. Not unlike the Japanese attack at Pearl some seventy years ago, everyone had been "home" at Bremerton when the Chinese made their move. The picture was becoming ever clearer: American naval vitality was diminishing and China was filling the void, powerfully so. The visual proof could not be any more poignant.

As the American ships lay dormant the
Liaoning,
a 60,000-ton aircraft carrier and first ship of this class for the Chinese ever, stood at station, asserting full authority over the naval base and its broader environs. In the calms of Sinclair Inlet, alongside these emasculated U.S. assets, this newest, most celebrated acquisition of the PLA-Navy now proudly took her place. The warship, along with two more scheduled for duty in 2015, were one part junkyard opportunism and two parts radical reverse-engineering. The late-eighties collapse of the Russian Military Complex had flooded the world stage with equipment and technology not usually available to second and third tier players. In short order three aging Soviet carriers had been picked up at bargain basement prices and the regime spent the next twenty-five years studying, planning, and building. Liaoning, the fruit of these labors, now called Bremerton home. It was a profound image for the whole world to consider.

The captured U.S. Carriers and auxiliary craft would be repurposed as well. They were the spoils of victory. Seeing the red field and gold stars breaking in the breeze from their forecastle decks would be quite satisfying in time. Make no mistake, with the American boats in near mothballs, the shiny new Chinese carrier proclaimed boldly that the long era of U.S. seagoing military dominance had come and gone. And in its place a new and greater player ushered forth. Not from Washington D.C. Instead, from some thousands of miles to the east. Like it or not the ancient dragon was now a modern sailor, and not one merely satisfied with close-border defense. No, China's maritime war machine intended to project fast and far from her mainland, clearing a path of international chaos in its wake.

Once again the team processed through
the formalities of credentialing and ID without incident. Following a brief inspection but no delays they stepped onto the shoreline of the Peninsula, that much closer now to their ultimate objective. Zeb stayed out front by a few yards as Sanchez kept eight feet to the left and behind. Loch pulled along at a short distance as well as they made their way down the street, just like everyone else. No briefing, not even a quick one, had been allowed after boarding the Klickitat. So for the time being, both sniper and sergeant operated in the dark, looking to Zeb for subtle and "indirect" directions.

After two more blocks of walking parallel to the base and its fortified gates, Dalton kept going, right on past. Oddly, Zeb's pace actually increased as he hiked up the hill, leaving the guard posts and wire-capped walls of the naval complex behind. Still going.

Sanchez sized up the anomaly. One more block and the thinning crowd would be peeling off toward the main street district. Another minute and they would all become dangerously exposed.

What is he doing?

In another unexpected move, Dalton ducked into an alley, between two nondescript, low-profile storefronts. Sanchez followed as casually as she could. Loch was not far behind. They had to take the chance. Losing Zeb now meant they might not find him again in a timely manner.

Where in the world is he going?

The base was back there... down the hill.

Once in the alleyway Sanchez and Loch both stopped and turned, looking around in vain. No one. Zeb was nowhere to be found. They surveyed the small space again; still nothing. Then, just as they were ready to move on, a hushed voice came from the front passenger seat of a mid-sized four-door parked on the other side of a commercial dumpster.

"So, I got us the upgrade this time around."

Dalton waved them forward, even as he pulled the restraining belt across his chest, clicking it into place. Apparently, the others didn't move as sprightly as he wanted them to.

"C'mon, you two. We're on a schedule, you know."

Loch slid into the driver's seat, working his magic and bringing the engine to life without the use of a key, once again. Sanchez laid low in the back as they pulled out into light midday traffic. The sudden exit of so many workers, consumers, and taxpayers made for easier driving. It had also wrought a devastating effect on the city. For a town relying on an active military presence to bolster its economy, these were not the best of times. The only upside to this downturn? The Chinese considered this a secondary, maybe even tertiary, threat. Places like Seattle, Tacoma, and the borders north and south ranked much higher on the priority listing and therefore received the bulk of attention and resources the regime could provide. This meant the team could move about more freely, playing their deadly game of hide and seek against slightly better odds.

"Where to, LT?" Loch asked.

"Out of town," he replied. "State Route 310, to the northwest."

"Anything more specific than that?" the sergeant chimed in again.

"Sure."

Zeb shifted his weight, addressing both Loch and Sanchez.

"About seven miles and we'll wind around Kitsap Lake. Take Northlake Highway to the junction with Seabeck. Follow it west for another three and a half... "

Zeb's recitation of map points, roads, and distances stopped rather rudely, abruptly.

"And...?" Sanchez lobbed one out there for Dalton to grab onto.

"And... then we leave the car at the end of the service road leading to Wildcat Creek."