Military Fiction
Date Published: October 13, 2023
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
When the People’s Republic of China unleashes a devastating attack on the United States, newly appointed Naval Commander Bill Watkins and his crew are suddenly alone, deep in the enemy’s backyard, and unable to communicate with naval or national leadership.
At home in Washington, the president is detached from reality. Survivors of his cabinet contend with military leadership for control, some to save the nation they serve, others in pursuit of personal power. As America becomes alienated from her allies, Russia begins a campaign that creates heightened fears of nuclear annihilation.
Bill must navigate a political minefield to find friends among China’s neighbors, while undertaking a role that demands he take unimaginable risks and wrestles with the question: What losses are acceptable in order to win?
1300 Zulu, 27 October
0800 Eastern Time
The Situation Room, The White
House
"Be seated," National Security Advisor Hunter
said as he strode into the large Sit Room conference space, though only a few
present had actually stood.
Only the president himself warranted every person in the
room standing when he arrived. But Hunter considered himself as powerful as the
president: he had the president's ear, after all. Why shouldn’t he receive the
same honor? When others in the Cabinet objected, he’d taken a simpler path: he
ordered everyone to be seated as if they'd stood. Eventually, some took to
standing. He relished it.
"All right, tell me what happened, who did it, and
how. Starting with Defense," he said.
"Do you want to know what we have left, too, sir?
Or, I don’t know, maybe what we ought to do about it?”
The question came from the Vice Chairman of the Joint
Chiefs, General William Norton. A forty-one-year Marine, the man was as tough
as a K-bar knife and held little regard for politicians. A brilliant
strategist, operational commander, and tactician, Hunter hated him. Norton,
always careful not to directly confront political leadership, instead used his
cutting sarcasm to great effect.
"Yes, General, I want your assessment of what is
left, and if you can, tell me how the fuck we can use it to hit back.” he said,
biting each word off as if it were a nail.
Norton snorted.
The Deputy Secretary of Defense Wilson took a deep
breath, and asked, "Will the President be joining us at all?"
Hunter glared at him. In a grating voice, he said, “No,
Mr. Deputy Secretary, the President won't be joining us. He sent me to
get your collective shit into a single sock, if that’s possible, before he
wastes his time listening to your pathetic excuses. Now, speak.”
He spoke. "Everything we have says the Chinese did
this. They did a very thorough job, too. There's not a lot left, short of
nuclear forces, and no one wants to use them?”
When Hunter glared at him, he continued. “The Theodore
Roosevelt Strike Group is in the Arabian Gulf, fully operational. She’s
under the operational control — the military calls it OPCON—“
“I know what OPCON means, you useless piece of shit.”
The DepSecDef paled, but struggled on, "—of Fifth
Fleet in Bahrain. We've established communications with them using old style
High Frequency from our emergency communications center in Crystal City, though
it was a bear getting them to come up on the same freq—”
Hunter leaned towards him, eyes blazing.
“I don’t give a damn how you talk to them. If you
keep wasting my time, you can get the fuck out and never come back.”
Wilson shrank. When he continued, his voice was higher
and quavered. Haltingly, he got through the damage assessment for the Army’s
mobility. He finished with, “So the Army here in the States isn’t going
anywhere. Nothing in Europe was hit, thank God, though moving them any place
where they could threaten China will be a copper plated bitch—"
“Stop, stop, stop.” He slammed his hands on the table. “I
don’t give a shit what we lost, dammit. Just tell me what we have left.”
Hunter threw himself back in his chair and rested his cheek in his palm.
“We still have the strategic bombers, nuclear weapons,
and enough fuel for one or two long range missions. The Air Force has the one
Air Operations Center where they control those missions. But we’ve got no fuel
for fighter escorts.” Wilson paused.
“Wait, you mean there’s no CAP over Washington?” Hunter
leaned forward, eyes wide.
Wilson shrank again, but said, “No, sir, I mean, yes,
sir. There’s Combat Air Patrol over Washington now.”
Hunter relaxed. Then he cocked his head. “Why can we fly
CAP but only one or two bomber missions, and no fighter escorts?”
Before Wilson could speak, Norton replied, “Because
bombers need more fuel for a mission. Bombers are bigger, you know.”
Hunter glared at him.
Norton just smiled.
Wilson continued. “We’re conserving what fuel we have for
CAP. We took serious aircraft losses, too, and those can't be replaced in less
than years." He looked very unhappy.
“Why did they miss the bombers?” asked Hunter.
"We don’t know if those attacks failed or what,”
replied Wilson.
Norton snorted loudly.
“Would you like to add something, anything, useful,
General?” Hunter spat.
Norton leaned forward and looked at Hunter. His eyes
gleamed, but his mouth was set in a hard line of compressed lips. “Why, yes,
sir, I would. It was a message. They aren’t looking to end us.”
About the Author
A Naval Academy and Naval War College graduate, Thomas M. Wing retired after thirty-two years as a Navy Surface Warfare officer. He served in guided missile destroyers and frigates, as well as with destroyer squadron, cruiser destroyer group, numbered fleet, and Joint Task Force staffs, where he planned and executed real-world joint operations at the operational and strategic levels of war. He also participated in naval combat during Operation Praying Mantis in the Middle East in April, 1988. He has taught Coast Guard licensing courses and has held a variety of sailing licenses, including Master and Master of Sailing Vessels, Upon Oceans. As well, he founded and served as Executive Director for the Continental Navy Foundation, which conducted experiential education at sea for young people 13-17 years of age. He also commanded the Foundation's tall ship, the brigantine Megan D.
His novel, Against All Enemies, resulted from a random thought during a period of political tension between China and the U.S. What if that political tension included cruise missiles flying in from the sea to strike the San Diego waterfront? Thomas M. Wing resides in San Diego with his wife and daughter, two cats, and a dog. He still spends whatever free time he has on the water.
Contact Links
Twitter: @thomasmwing1
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