Red Tide

and made his way to the far end of the compartment where, rather than the couch naval architects had planned for, an altar to the goddess Tianfei, the “Princess of Heaven,” was waiting for him.
Tianfei had many other names as well, including Ma-tsu, Ah-Ma’ Linghui Furen, and Linghui Fei. But regardless of which name worshipers chose to call her, they knew the goddess to be the deity of all seafarers.
A two-foot-tall statue of Tianfei occupied the center of the altar. The likeness was carved from white alabaster. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, her head turned slightly to the right, her eyes downcast. One hand was extended as if to convey a blessing.
And there, rising to break around her gown, were waves of beautifully sculpted stone. The flowers Ko had brought aboard were displayed in permanent containers to either side of the goddess; all of them were blue like the endless sky and ocean.
To approach Tianfei naked was to proclaim Ko’s humility. And that was important because Tianfei cared nothing for rank or wealth. Her favors were, and had always been, for common sailors.
Ko knelt in front of Tianfei and bowed. His eyes were focused on the deck. “I am a sailor. I ask your blessing upon my ship and crew.
“We are setting forth on a journey which, if we’re fortunate, will further the war effort. And that is a matter of great importance because, just as China shaped the past, so must China shape the future—and eventually the planet. May your eyes see us, may your ears hear our prayers, and may your divine powers protect us from harm.”
After completing his devotional Ko donned fresh underwear, brushed his teeth, and prepared a uniform for the next watch. It was the same routine Ko had followed for twenty-eight years. First as a common sailor. Then rising step-by-step to the lofty position of senior captain. A process which, combined with Ko’s decision to be celibate, left no room for a wife or children.
Finally, it was time to slip between cool sheets and grant himself permission to sleep. A state which, after decades in the navy, Ko could enter within seconds, making the most of the opportunity to rest. Ko drifted away.
When the phone rang Ko awoke quickly with all of his senses alert. A glance at his bedside clock informed him that he’d been asleep for three hours and forty-two minutes. He lifted the handset. “Yes.”
“Shi, sir. You are to participate in a command call eighteen minutes from now. According to the Strategic Support Force (SSF), an American carrier strike group is approximately 200 miles east of Luzon, and headed our way. Admiral Wen has orders to attack and destroy that force.”
Thanks to his many years in the navy, Ko could listen to Shi’s summary, and guess what was taking place in Beijing. The Allies had sent groups into the Philippine Sea before. And so long as they stayed east of Luzon the Central Military Commission (CMC) had been satisfied to fire threats rather than missiles at the enemy.
So, what had changed? The answer was obvious. On orders from President Enlai, the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) had dispatched thousands of troops into India as part of the much ballyhooed “Big Push.” An initiative intended to conqueror all of India and establish a link with ally Pakistan.
But now, rather than occupying India, the army was fighting to hold onto the long, north-south slice of the country they’d been able to seize earlier. A failure which reflected poorly on both Enlai and the CMC. Viewed through that prism the Allied strike group was a gift from Tian (heaven). A quick and decisive victory over the Allies would go a long way toward repairing Enlai’s image as China’s infallible leader. “Thank you,” Ko said. “I will join you in Operations One for the call.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Shi …”
“Sir?”
“Sound battle stations.”
***
Aboard the aircraft carrier USS Concord, east of Luzon
Carrier Strike Group 6 (CCSG 6) consisted of the aircraft carrier USS Concord, the frigate Trevor Jones, the destroyers Lyndon B. Johnson and Herman Cady, the fast combat support ship Bridge, and the submarines Washington and Utah. All of which were taking part in a search and rescue operation in the area east of Luzon. The trick was to carry out that mission without engaging the Chinese fleet lurking to the west.
But the American ships were 200 miles off Luzon. That gave Hoyer some pad, and he was determined to take advantage of it. A US navy transport plane carrying eleven people had crashed in the Philippine Sea the previous day. Eight people had been rescued and transferred to the Concord for medical evaluation. But three were missing.
By searching all night, the strike force’s ships and aircraft had covered more than 370 square miles of ocean by sunrise. Hoyer knew the chances of finding the remaining passengers was slim, but he wasn’t about to give up. Not until forced to do so.
Hoyer was on the Concord’s bridge, ploughing through the administrative crap the Pentagon had dropped on him during the night, when Captain George Danby dropped into the chair beside him. The two men went way back, all the way to Annapolis, where Danby had been a year behind Hoyer. “We’ve got a problem, Will,” Danby said. “According to the latest from the National Recognizance Office (NRO), a Chinese strike force put to sea from Yulin.”
Hoyer looked up and frowned. “Because of us? Or just for the hell of it?”
Danby shrugged. “The spooks don’t know.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” Hoyer said, as he put his laptop aside. “Break the search off. Order the Bridge to execute a one-eighty and run like hell. Send the remaining C-2 transport to the emergency strip on Palau. Bring the planes back and refuel them. Fighters first, Hawkeyes second. I want one in the air at all times. Pull the COs together for a conference call, ten from now. Got it?”
Danby stood. “Got it. Shall I send the crew