The Ox Factor: China Invades the US-Can America Survive?

published.

Prologue:

The Stage is Set

Geostationary orbit, 22,000 miles above the equatorial Pacific, August 1, 2026

Amidst the clutter of defunct satellites and other space junk, Sentinel 13’s misshapen carbon-blackened steel made it seem a derelict. It floated like a shadow, its advanced optics and listening devices vigilantly scouring the Pacific—its area of responsibility—for danger. Its onboard systems could analyze everything from the foam of whale sign to the heat signature of a fleet of ships preparing to launch.

Sentinel 13, America’s latest addition to its most important military asset: its worldwide computer and communications defense networks, and an important node in an orbiting line of sister satellites that downlinked to supercomputers running the most advanced artificial intelligence-assisted software. This system, capable of reading and analyzing emissions across all electromagnetic and light spectra, was designed to monitor the military operations of other nations. Today, after a shakedown period of calibration and systems diagnostics, Sentinel 13 was coming online.

In a bunker at Fort Meade, Maryland, a National Security Agency controller stood before a holographic wall of projected images—maps, graphs, wave forms, video and audio files running in real time within various windows.

The controller wished for a baton as she moved her arms, seeing herself at the Kennedy Center, leading the National Symphony in Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyrie as she moved the display windows around the projected surface, shifting one image from background to foreground, expanding another while reducing a third to an icon on the periphery, calling up a detailed analysis of electronic surveillance and intercepted message traffic in the Hunan Province while cross-applying it to the movement on video of a military column along a wooded road.

She tapped the video image, zooming in on a truck carrying a battery of AA missiles. The translation software kicked in, showing that the convoy’s commander had just authorized a cigarette break at the next turning.

All of Sentinel 13’s systems are operational, sir, said the controller, turning to the supervisor who stood behind her, watching as the test progressed. Uplink, downlink and network interfaces are 100 percent online and stable.

Good, the supervisor said, tapping some keys on his PDA. I’ll give Langley and the Pentagon the news.

In deeper space, beyond Sentinel 13’s earth-turned cameras, another spacecraft opened its cargo door. It had been monitoring the American satellite’s transmission, and its controllers had waited until the burst of activity was over. Through the opened hatch a half-dozen black discs emerged, rotating slowly toward the earth. Suddenly they spread apart, puffs of propellant becoming ice trails behind them as they moved toward various targets. Two accelerated toward Sentinel 13. They made one final puff, like a last gasp on a winter night, and then attached themselves magnetically to the satellite’s sides like limpets. They began cutting into the satellite with the precision of a surgeons’ scalpel, forming new connections in the heart of the satellite’s telemetry subsystem, neatly avoiding the redundancies and firewalls intended to prevent just such an attack. With a barely perceptible electronic flutter, Sentinel 13—like all the other Sentinel intelligence-gathering satellites before it—had become a traitor.

CHAPTER 1

Beijing, July 31, 2027, 08:45 China Standard Time

"In a conference room buried deep in the Ministry of Public Security building, surrounded at a table by other Party functionaries, generals, and intelligence chiefs in pine green, grey, and black uniforms, Xu Jun-Ru sketched a cobra in the margin of his notepad. Another speaker stood up to deliver yet another monotonous speech from the far end of the table, gesturing to the gigantic black and white portraits of Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Deng Xiaoping and other past leaders of the party that lined the walls. The portrait of Liu Xian Zeng, the current Chairman, dominated them all.

Jun-Ru’s stomach twisted in knots and worry gnawed at his soul, though his face remained inscrutable. As he doodled, the same questions echoed in his mind, as they had for days: How is this possible? Despite everything, where are the British, the Russians, the emirates? Can they really be letting us get away with this? Billions could die. Is no one concerned about that? Have I survived this long only to see the end of the world?

Jun-Ru was thankful he would not be asked to deliver a report at this meeting. In truth, as head of the First Bureau of the Ministry of State Security, there had been little for him to do for some weeks now. He had no new domestic security issues to announce and, the other speakers in the meeting delivered mostly old news.

In his own area, the rural poverty, urban overcrowding, troubled labor relations, corruption, and pollution that had brought on so many of the troubles he’d been asked to handle in the past had gradually been pushed into the background, judged irrelevant as the Second Great Leap continued to ring its changes and the Grand Plan’s inception loomed. This provided Jun-Ru with the blessing of obscurity, but at the price of better information.

Only recently had Jun-Ru discovered how his government had accomplished what should have been impossible: the neutralization of most security electronics in the U.S. military and intelligence establishments. Simple: most of their equipment had at least a handful of Chinese components. And in those components were extra chips, no larger than the period at the end of a sentence. They fed raw information to an anonymous building in Beijing, where an enormous mainframe kept track of it all, a mainframe that only a handful of Chinese officials knew about. Jun-Run was not supposed to be among them.

Jun-Ru’s frustration showed in his angry doodle: the cobra’s fangs bared, poison dripping, ready to strike.

Maybe that’s why American intelligence doesn’t listen to me anymore, he thought. They don’t look at me as a highly placed government official over there in Arlington. They think I’m just China’s top rat catcher.

Jun-Ru turned his mind to the preparations currently underway at the ports at Qingdao and Ningpo, things about which he knew more than he was supposed to.

This is where it all pays off, he thought. An entire invasion force ready to go, we call it an exercise, and we really expect to walk into Los Angeles. And all I can do is sit here like the helpless old fool I am.

Jun-Ru recalled the words of the philosopher Lao-tzu: How could man rejoice in victory and delight in the slaughter of men?

China had slowly been introducing instability into the American economy through extremely convincing, but not quite perfect, counterfeit bills. History had shown that, in times of economic trouble, America most often pulled in on itself, like a threatened snail pulling into its shell. And Jun-Ru knew from bitter experience that even when an alarm had been sounded, it could easily be lost amid the infighting of the American intelligence services.

Not that we’re any better, he thought, remembering the last internal reorganization. The administrator needed to be seen as doing something, and reorganizing a department is a good way of doing that. But the established division heads took the opportunity to dump their deadwood on someone else’s staff and grab the corner offices. Nothing improved except the senior officials’ view of the Beijing skyline.

Though nominally under central control now (the result of a reorganization), each American intelligence agency still jealously defended what it saw as its personal hunting preserves, and shared information only grudgingly.

Xu Jei, Jun-Ru’s younger brother and the assistant to the head of China’s counterintelligence in the Sixth Bureau, stood now to relate how he had captured the last batch of American spies. He was tall and slender, his black hair, white at the temples, raked back. His dark eyes were direct and proud, and as he talked, his hands cut the air with neat, economical gestures.

Those eyes raked over Jun-Ru.

Does he know about me?

Our infiltrations of their computer networks, and our agents’ acquisition of secure hard-copy files, have revealed much, Jei said. Interrogation of those whom we have captured has revealed a bit more. I believe they have one highly placed mole left. But there is no mention of him in any of the files, and none of those we interrogated could or would identify him, despite our best efforts, before they expired. Even our most highly placed agents within the American intelligence community cannot pinpoint his location. All we feel certain of is that he is known as the Iron Cobra, and that he is very highly placed.

Jei paused dramatically, looked around the table: He may even be seated in our midst now. I have reason to believe we have a traitor in this council.

A murmur ran around the table as the attendees flicked careful looks at each other across the polished surface. By observing who looked at whom, one could trace the lines of power, the rivalries, animosities and suspicions. Jun-Ru was pleased to note that no one’s eyes rested on him for long. He had been careful through the years to cultivate neither enemies nor friends. Jun-Ru knew that his brother, a smiling prevaricator as long as he could remember, might very well be lying, and have no notion at all that there was another spy—that he could, in fact, be sowing dissention to improve his own position here.

What would Mother think? How could such a sweet, caring woman have produced these sons?

If this Iron Cobra exists, he has become irrelevant, interrupted a fat, self-satisfied-looking man with iron gray hair: it was Zhang Ren-Liang, the head of the Fourth Bureau. His tone was complacent: We have control over the majority of the Americans’ communications networks, and so if he does try to contact them, we will know. His smirk grew deeper. Their satellite systems report all information to us, and then we convey to them what we wish them to see. Our most highly placed operative in the Americans’ Cybercom has assured us that this ‘Cobra’ has been placed in a basket, and it is only a matter of time before he is exterminated.

Jun-Ru allowed himself a small smile as he thought again of Lao-tzu: Those who know, do not speak. Those who speak, do not know.

And yet the American hacker ‘Ox,’ remains alive, Jei said, leaning forward, his hands resting on the tabletop, his voice tart but level. When Ox sent you that first message, offering you his services, you should have been slower to trust him, and slower to give him so much knowledge of our systems and plans. Now all our gains may be brought to nothing if he assists the Americans.

He took the money, said Zhang. American traitors used to be more honest.

Smiles all around. Zhang sat straighter, his chin retreating into a nest of flesh, and added, I can assure you. Ox has been rendered irrelevant. All threats have been neutralized.

Really, comrade, Jei replied smoothly. "I wonder at your certainty. My sources have given me reason to believe that Ox yet retains his ability to access our systems. And if this is true, then perhaps Iron Cobra, too, remains a threat."

Jun-Ru cleared his throat.

Perhaps this one you call Iron Cobra is an illusion, Jun-Ru said, keeping his tone measured and reasonable. The Americans have spread such disinformation before. I find it hard to believe, given how deeply we have infiltrated their intelligence networks, that any spies remain in China. It is far more likely that the Americans wish for us to doubt and mistrust each other, than that anyone in this room is disloyal.

Jei smiled. Of course what you say is plausible, but it is my duty to investigate until there is absolute certainty.

Jun-Ru inclined his head in acquiescence.

The Chairman stood suddenly.

I have heard enough to make my decision, Liu said. If we wait until we are absolutely certain of all things, then we will wait forever. Tomorrow is August 1—an auspicious date, for two reasons. First, it will be the anniversary of the Nanchang Uprising, the battle nearly 100 years ago during which the foundations of our Peoples Liberation Army was laid, as the founders of our glorious State began their long fight against the decadent imperialist puppets of the Kuomintang.

Jun-Ru caught the subtle looks of irony thrown back and forth across the table by the younger members of the military and intelligence communities. Though they had fought alongside Liu in the purges, they were nothing if not shrewd, and the language of the ideologues, so long de rigueur in meetings like this one, had long since begun to cloy with them.

Who can blame them? he thought. Nobody talks like that.

The Chairman continued: "Second, it will have been a year since our forces were able to turn the American spy satellite, Sentinel 13. The Imperialists’ potent weapon remains our weapon. These satellites, augmented by agents with which we have infiltrated the Americans’ porous intelligence services, and the devices we have used to gain access to their systems of command and control, have been feeding us the information we have required to finalize our preparations for the Grand Plan, and feeding the Americans the misinformation we want them to have, to ensure that they are completely unprepared to stop us."

Jun-Ru looked around the table. He knew the cynics would be thinking: Yes, yes, old man, we have heard these grand words before from you. But tell me: what excuse can China offer for its thirst for oil, for the run-away pollution which has poisoned its cities, for its meddling in the affairs of other nations, for the corruption of the comrades who have continued to line their pockets with Shanghai and Hong Kong dollars—Second Great Leap or no—while signing death warrants for reformers and dissidents? But he also knew these would remain silent, for they were the ones who had grown rich in the place of the capitalists whom the Glorious Revolution had so recently sent to their doom. The Chairman continued:

A new day dawns, my friends. A new vision will come clear in its bright light, and now, in 2027, our Revolution will finally achieve its destiny. The Americans are unaware. Our Armies are eager and ready. Tomorrow morning, at first light, we will launch our fleet. We will strike the decadent foreigners now.

The assembled leaders rose and bowed to Liu.

Go forth, he said, Bring glory to the people.

SECTION I

August 8, 2027

First Day of the War

He who wishes to fight must first count the cost.

Sun-Tzu, The Art of War

CHAPTER 2

Santa Ana Freeway outside Los Angeles,

11:45 hours Pacific Daylight Time (PDT)

Trooper John Stanton drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his California Highway Patrol cruiser as he accelerated back onto the Santa Ana freeway. He’d just clocked another driver going twenty over the speed limit, and when he’d tried to run the plate, his laptop had yet again failed to connect with the department database. He’d had to use an old fashioned radar gun since the onboard speed detector built into his cruiser wasn’t working, and then he’d had to listen as each driver used the same excuse: the autopilot for their cars was glitching, and they weren’t used to driving the highway on manual control. Even his radio was acting up, fading in and out in mid-sentence. He’d written the ticket, though. At least pen and paper still worked.

Everyone in his CHP post was having problems with their computers, but nobody had any solid explanation. The Post’s IT people had been working double shifts for weeks trying to figure out what the problem was, but none of the fixes they came up with seemed to last long before they collapsed. With their radios malfunctioning as well, no one could count on back-up, which made for much more dangerous patrols. The drone units were down as well.

That meant border patrol was nonexistent, which just added more danger to the job. As well, now live cops had to be first responders to every incident, no matter how dangerous, and they were going in with little to no automated surveillance or backup. He had been promised that by the next shift, if they hadn’t dealt with the glitch, he’d be driving with a partner. Everyone would. Two were safer than one.

John drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and decided to call his sister.

Lauren, he said, speaking to the voice-activated console which would dial the number. Nothing happened, and he was greeted with complete silence—no ringing, no connection. The dashboard indicated that he had a cell signal, but, still, nothing. He refocused on the road.

Just as the lane dividers began to hypnotize him, he noticed a red Porsche racing up behind him. The car swerved two lanes, nearly went off onto the shoulder, and then raced on ahead of him. John’s radar gun flashed ninety miles an hour. John flipped on his siren and gunned the gas. The Porsche swerved once more to the left, then accelerated to the breakdown lane before finally braking to a halt.

As John walked up, he could see that the driver was a slender black man in a blue pin-striped suit, with a salt and pepper crew cut and glasses. He looked oddly familiar to John.

Sorry, officer, the driver said, once John approached his open window. I got distracted.

Do you have any idea how fast you were going?

The man shook his head. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose before running a hand over his hair.

I just finished my shift at the hospital and was trying to get home. My autopilot’s not working, but I like driving the highway with it off anyway, so I’ve got no excuse there. But then my GPS started squawking at me, and then the satellite radio put out this high pitched screech. I nearly had a heart attack. I was trying to figure out how to turn it all off, and I guess I let the speed get away from me. That can happen pretty easily, with a Porsche.

We’ve been having some computer problems, too, John said, and I can’t get my cell phone to work, either. Still, speeding is speeding, sir. The way you were driving, you could have caused an accident. I’m going to have to give you a ticket.

The man passed over his driver’s license and insurance card.

Charles Petersen, M.D. John paused, realizing now why the man looked familiar. You’re the doctor we just saw a couple weeks ago, when my wife went into false labor. My wife is Bai Ying Stanton. She’s six months pregnant. Her mother works in pediatrics at your hospital. You’re the one we saw in the E.R. Remember us?

Dr. Petersen nodded. A baby girl, he said, though sometimes it can be hard to be sure, especially with the equipment we have in the emergency room. Suddenly he looked at John. It’s the sun! he said, smacking his steering wheel.

Sir?

Solar flares, Dr. Petersen explained. We’re protected by the atmosphere, but solar flares always cause communication problems. They always mess with my Ham radio. That’s what’s happening. Has to be. I bet things will be back to normal soon.

John nodded. He clicked his pen to write out the ticket, but then paused.

I’m going to let you off this time, he said. Just promise me you’ll pay better attention.

Dr. Petersen smiled for the first time.

Thanks. You can trust me. I’m in no mood for more trouble today.

John got back into his cruiser and pulled onto the freeway. As he accelerated again, his dashboard cell started ringing. The number was unfamiliar, but when he answered, Lauren’s melodic voice greeted him.

Glad I got you. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to patch this call through.

I tried calling you a minute ago, but nothing is working. This is why I say all this computer stuff is for crap. It’s all well and good until a problem comes up, and then everyone’s paralyzed, and...

No time for that monologue, John. I need you to get Bai Ying and rush down to Montecito Heights and pick me up ASAP at my apartment. Quit your shift right now and do it.

"Lauren, if this is one of your episodes--

Don’t worry, I’m on my meds. But we’re all in trouble, brother. I can’t tell you how I know, but I know. You’re not safe where you are. Get off the phone, put on your siren, and...

The call cut off. John tried to call Lauren back, but the phone was as cooperative as a rock.

Is she telling the truth, or was she having another bipolar episode? he thought. I guess she’s in trouble either way.

John flipped on his siren and punched the gas.

Aboard the U.S.S. Lyndon Baines Johnson, Dillon Shoals, The Timor Sea, north of Australia 10°50'10.49S latitude, 125°50'26.62E longitude, August 9, 2027, across the International Date Line, 05:55 hours East Timor Time (TLT)

Lyndon Baines Johnson, the latest Gerald Ford class supercarrier had been involved for the past few days in RIMPAC, the Rim of the Pacific fleet-wide exercise. RIMPAC had sortied 34 ships and their attendant aircraft, plus a pair of submarines, and a total of 20,000 sailors. This year, for the first time, the exercise was taking place in waters other than those north of the Hawaiian Islands. LBJ was currently steaming through the Timor Sea north of Australia, about 100 miles southeast of the island of Timor.

Lt. Commander Edgar Ruiz was standing his watch on the bridge of the LBJ, proud to be able to witness the sunrise from such a vaunted vantage point.

These were unpredictable waters—in some places deep, but then shoaling rapidly into seamounts, reefs and islands, presenting navigating and maneuvering challenges that made blue water sailors uneasy.

Good, Ruiz thought, keeps us on our toes.

RIMPAC was LBJ’s first major exercise, and she was perfectly equipped to handle it. She had an advanced electromagnetic aircraft launch system, the latest in surveillance technology, and an integrated computer system. Almost every task on the ship—and, in fact, in the whole carrier battle group—had become automated. Human error was increasingly rare, and had a far smaller effect than in years past. LBJ was the envy of the world.

All this filled Ruiz with confidence, and he foresaw few problems. The sun slowly climbed into the sky, shining red through the thin clouds on the distant blue horizon.

The old adage suddenly came back to him: Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.

Not today, Ruiz thought.

As RIMPAC had unfolded over the past few days, LBJ’s crew had tested every aspect of the new ship, coordinating F/A 18 Super Hornets, F-35 Lightning IIs and—by far the most numerous aircraft on board-Pegasus UAVs—as well as Ospreys, Sea Stallions and smaller helicopters. In addition, they had directed the movement of her immediate entourage—three Aegis cruisers and destroyers, the missile and attack sub, a frigate, a supply ship—plus all the other ships that had sailed as a part of the exercise. LBJ’s crew hadn’t spotted a major problem yet, with a single exception, an incident with the missile sub South Dakota, which had already been sailing under something of a cloud.

They should have heeded the red sky at morning.

A few days into RIMPAC, South Dakota had to head to Guam for repairs after a drone with a faulty radio link to its controller had dropped off LBJ’s flight deck and caromed off one of the sub’s fairwater planes as it sank. Then, when the sub was returning to the fleet, she had experienced an electrical fire which further delayed her in rejoining the formation.

Still, these incidents had been the only black marks on an otherwise picture-perfect exercise. The observers on board from the navies of other nations were duly impressed: no other country could boast even one ship of the LBJ’s quality; the U.S. had three, and was building three more.

A junior officer brought Ruiz back to earth.

Sir, the officer called out, I’ve lost contact with our planes.

Which ones? Where? Ruiz barked.

The officer stood before a projected gestural interface, moving his hands rapidly to sort through various windows on his display. Ruiz could see that most of the windows were returning no signal, or showing video screens filled with static.

Is this part of the training exercise, sir? the officer asked.

What do you mean you’ve lost contact with our planes?

This can’t be real. Radar, sonar, feeds from cockpit cameras—everything’s blank. The officer pulled up a window on his display and pointed to it. The computer says all our planes and drones are on board, but you and I both know that’s not true. The screen isn’t responding to my orders to refresh, and voice commands aren’t registering.

Ruiz rushed closer to the officer’s display and stared blankly at the empty radar screen. He gestured with his hand to refresh the image, but nothing changed.

We have to alert the Admiral, Ruiz said.

Isn’t he having breakfast amidships with those senators right now?

You’re right. Run the diagnostic. If that doesn’t work, contact tech support. Tell them they need to reboot the radar and sonar display programs.

Suddenly another officer across the bridge stood up, a look of confusion on his face. He took off his headset.

Hey, Ruiz, he said, I’m getting nothing but static on the radio. We’ve got no contact. Not with those planes, not with the other ships, not with FORCEnet—nothing. I can’t even get a connection on our internal line with the computer room or our engine room.

Ruiz turned to an enlisted sailor nearby Get on the 1MC and tell the Admiral we need him on the bridge! Now! Then call the computer room and find out what’s going on. Everybody at a station, stay there and solve this problem.

His pulse beginning to pound in his ear, Ruiz looked up toward the sunrise and swore. Nothing was supposed to happen this morning. There were no major training exercises scheduled until the evening. All he had to do was return all aircraft to the carrier safe and sound, and that the computer systems kept humming along.

He rubbed his eyes. A swarm of black spots filled the horizon.

What the hell is that? he asked.

The officer looked up toward where Edgar had pointed, then down at his blank radar screen.

The black spots rocketed toward them.

Ruiz’s stomach clenched.

Battle stations! he yelled.

Once he found a public address system, he stated, with a light nervous tremor in his voice, This it Commander Ed Ruiz. This is not a drill. We are being attacked by what looks to be a Chinese air attack force. I repeat, this is not a drill. Get into the sky! Get those guns blazing!

Now Ruiz noticed the other ships engaged, spotted fighter jets in the air, and saw smoke rising from the rear, where several unsuspecting ships had already been damaged, if not sunk. He spotted some men diving for cover, which he wanted to do, but instead he grabbed one and yanked the sailor to his feet.

This isn’t a cruise ship! he barked. Get to your station!

Sir!

Ruiz made his way to the bridge and asked the navigator, What’s our situation?"

We have malfunctions in all the electronic gear, sir. It’s not reliable.

Then use your eyes, man! What about the missiles?

I don’t trust them at all, sir.

Can we program them manually?

Bombs exploding on deck prevented Ruiz from getting an answer. Looking out, he saw at least a dozen dead bodies, and a large number of wounded ones, writhing and screaming in agony. Blood flowed bright red on deck.

Are they insane? Ruiz wondered.

Some good news; Ruiz saw three Chinese attack planes spinning into the water as the fighter jets started to give back as good as they got. But, from what Ruiz could see around him, they’d need much, much more.

Alert Central Command!

Radio’s jammed, sir.

A Chinese battleship approached with great speed, and Ruiz ordered the LBJ to hightail it out of there, but the engines were nowhere close to being able to generate that kind of power on such short notice. More bombs exploded on the deck.

Hull breach! someone shouted. We’re taking on water!

Ruiz grabbed the PA system microphone and yelled, Abandon ship! I repeat! Abandon ship!

A number of sailors dove into the water without donning life jackets, to the delight of a pod of grey and hungry sharks close to the surface.

The last thing Lt. Commander Edgar Ruiz ever saw was the wide jagged crack across the vast deck as LBJ, the pride of the fleet, torn in two and disappeared into the uncaring cool blue sea.

CHAPTER 3

The West Wing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, 16:33 hours EDT

Finn could see the stream of traffic along H Street, N.W., far away across Lafayette Park, as rush hour traffic surged past. He wished he could thumb a ride somewhere, escape the monotony of the White House.

Ever since his mother’s campaign for the presidency had picked up momentum, the Secret Service squad detailed to him had made the remainder of his junior year in high school a torture. His grandfather, Alastair Kittredge, who had become his mother’s chief of staff after he retired from the Senate to head her election campaign, investigated Finn’s friends to protect him from bad influences.

Why couldn’t those bozos protect me from him? Finn wondered, not for the first time.

When Kittredge found out that Finn’s best friend, Sam, had been caught for shoplifting a kite from a Seven-Eleven in Rockville, he forbade Finn from seeing him. When Finn got caught smoking a cigarette with Andre in the Rose Garden, Andre was no longer welcome, and Finn got grounded for a month. The few good friends he’d had were now too afraid to hang out with him.

Finn walked across the room to his Yamaguchi gaming console and powered it up. In the air above it, the hologenerator conjured the frozen screen-set and control interface for an aerial drone. The display showed the last frame he’d seen before his system had seized, over a week ago now. The scene was an intersection in Los Angeles at which a troop transport had just arrived. Soldiers were stuck in mid-air, leaping from the back of the vehicle as they poured into the street. The drone display’s targeting crosshairs were stuck on the cab of the truck. Finn moved his hand out to the window in which readings for altitude, airspeed and other flight information floated. He could still expand, collapse or nest the telemetry, but that was it.

The game remained stuck at the moment the virus had penetrated the White House network and the alarms had started to go off.

Frustrated, Finn finally hit the kill switch on his Yamaguchi console and watched the drone’s holographic display disappear. He sat down at his laptop and jacked it into the gestural interface projector: he could still write e-mails, though he had to route them through his mother’s secretary using the White House intranet. The moment he turned his screen on, though, a chat window popped up on the display projected in the air before him with a message from Admin:

Wake up

Who is this? he typed back.

A few beats later, a response flashed into being before him: Ox. Glad to see you back on-line.

His hands flashed over the display in front of him as he typed: How are you doing this? I was completely blocked from the Internet.

The answer flashed back in the chat window: White House security is a joke. I’m logged in as the administrator. I’ve decided to give you full Internet access, along with a few special bells and whistles.

Finn’s hands froze on the keyboard: Ox was the friend who’d given him the virus-infected demo. Finn couldn’t remember what he’d told Ox about himself at the time, but one thing he was certain of: he’d never mentioned the White House, let alone his real name or age.

You’re trouble, Finn finally typed. Thanks for screwing with me. You’ve already landed me in hot water, and if you’re not careful, they’ll catch you too.

They can’t. Sorry for the games, Finn, but I’ve needed to keep a few secrets from you. This is important, though. I’m going to send you something, and I need you to show it to your mother.

Finn’s hands flew through the air before him, rapping out a reply on the display’s keyboard. Wait a minute. How do you know about my mom?

Ox typed back: I’ve known about your mom all along, buddy. Don’t worry. I’m not going to out you, and this isn’t some stunt that I’m going to post about later on my blog. This is about something that’s happening right now in Real Life—something bad. I promise I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important, but this is something you’ve got to show the President. You look at it first, and if you think it’s legit, pass it along.

As long as it’s not a porno, I’ll look at it. I can’t guarantee that my mother will. For sure I’ll get in trouble for trying to show it to her. I’ll have to explain where I got it from.

It’s a video. And some pictures. Definitely not a porno.

The last thing you sent me got me grounded, got my rig wiped and lost me access to the ‘net.

If it’s any consolation, I could have, and would have, put that demo on your computer whether you wanted it there or not.

Before Finn could think of typing a response, another window opened on the display before him. In it a video began, looking down on a broad expanse of sea and several grey warships.

Satellite footage. Close up.

The image zoomed in and he could faintly see a swarm of black specks race toward the ships from the left side of the screen. A bright white flash filled the screen, faded for a moment, and then flashed even brighter.

Fast forwarding.

The screen stayed white for a bit longer, then faded to reveal the sea again. Swiftly sinking fragments burned like torches amidst a scattering of orange specks.

In the chat window, Ox’s commentary crawled out: That was a key part of America’s Pacific fleet. The few men who survived the initial attack and jumped overboard with their life vests on are already dead. The video is recent, but your mother hasn’t seen it. The Chinese are controlling American satellite feeds.

Another window opened. A picture appeared. A large fleet of ships bearing yellow-starred red flags. Another picture. More ships.

The largest invasion ever is about to begin, and America knows nothing about it.

Who are they invading? he typed.

That game I sent you was a training simulation for Chinese drone jocks. The invasion has begun. They launched the first wave a week ago, and their ships will begin landing soon.

Val Verde neighborhood northwest of Los Angeles, John and Bai Ying Stanton’s apartment, 12:43 hours PDT

Her body heavy with pregnancy, Bai Ying sat resting her feet on the overstuffed leather sofa in the too-tiny apartment she shared with John. She had thought she might actually get the dishes done that day, but she had awakened late, and aside from making herself a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, she hadn’t achieved much. Her swollen feet ached, and when she stood in front of the sink, her belly pushed uncomfortably against the edge. She couldn’t imagine trying to stretch her short arms across the distance to lift the heavy pots and pans from the previous night’s dinner, let alone scrubbing them.

Why didn’t we get a dishwasher when we had the chance? she thought. Why must men always get these huge TV screens?

So of course the satellite went out and the screens changed, different patterns of static over and over, contorting her frustrated face with anger. Finally Bai Ying found a channel that wasn’t completely fuzzed out, the local Fox affiliate, broadcasting some sort of a news program.

A blonde woman in a teal dress sat at the news desk, accompanied by a portly man in a rumpled grey suit and red tie.

...unconfirmed reports, the woman said, her face grey and nervous with tension. We’re trying to get more information from the Coast Guard’s Public Information Office, but the problems which have been plaguing our communications systems for the last few days have persisted. We will...

The picture vanished again in a cloud of static. Bai Ying sighed in exasperation, hitting buttons on the remote to try to find another channel. Finally a picture resolved itself: the local PBS station. Instead of the usual afternoon children’s shows, an unfamiliar man—clearly not an on-air personality, from the way he was dressed and his shaggy haircut—filled the screen, reading from a paper in his hand:

...usual afternoon programming. Military experts are telling us that a Chinese invasion force, including aircraft carriers, troop ships and other vessels loaded with military equipment have been spotted headed toward the southern California coast. There seems little doubt that this is an invasion.

What? Bai-Ying yelled. Act a little scared! Who could be calm about an invasion?

Again, she activated her cell phone. Again, the No Service screen. Furious, she hurled it against the wall cursing John as if it were somehow his fault.

The grainy TV picture showed a distant flotilla trailed by long foaming wakes, footage shot by a local traffic helicopter dispatched to find out what was going on. That lasted maybe ten seconds before the screen went black.

As you can see, the helicopter which shot this video wasn’t able to send back much footage before the feed was disrupted. We don’t know why. This is all the information we have right now. We will continue to update you as more becomes available.

The room seemed to spin around Bai Ying. The man on the PBS station came back on camera and began to read again from his papers, accepting new sheets handed to him from off camera. Bai Ying leaned back dizzily. She thought of John, and of her parents. Of all times for the phone not to be working.... China invading! She knew what that would mean to her mother and father: since the Second Great Leap, emigrants had been labeled enemies of the People, and the People demanded blood from their enemies. Her parents had long ago reconciled themselves to never returning to China, where at best they’d have met with a prison sentence, and at worst a firing squad.

Now China was here. She couldn’t believe it; it was just too surreal. Just last week, when her parents came over for dinner, her father had said that he wouldn’t be surprised if China soon went on the attack. He had pointed to the increasingly aggressive nationalistic rhetoric they had all heard from Chinese officials since the Second Great Leap, the newspaper reports about the huge spending increases China had made in its space and military budget in the past ten years, the minor skirmishes with the Americans over issues in Korea and Taiwan.

America is weaker than it has ever been, her father said. The entire world knows that its military is a shadow of what it used to be, and that the economic troubles here have forced the President to ignore the rest of the world. But China is strong, and the new leadership is eager for glory. America is a fat prize, and easy picking. China is just waiting for the right moment to strike and finally take control of the world, to be the center of the world like the emperors of old thought they were. The only ones who can’t see this are the Americans, drugged on their own nostalgia.

You sound like my dad, John had laughed, but neither Bai Ying nor her mother had joined him. A chill had descended on the room, leaving only when John opened another bottle of wine.

Bai Ying looked at her watch: her mother would be nearing the end of her shift at the hospital, but her father would be at home, having recently retired from his job at Grumman. If Chinese soldiers really were coming, she couldn’t imagine how he would feel when he saw them hitting the beaches, or marching in the streets. He would likely be napping, waiting for her mother to get home. He might have no idea any of this was happening

Bai Ying, grunting with exertion, nearly fell over retrieving the phone from the floor, but still no service. She wished she had a car, so she could drive out to their place.

As if John had read her agitated thoughts, the door burst open and he charged in.

Honey, I’m sorry to surprise you like this, but I couldn’t get you on the phone, he said.

John! I’m so glad you’re home! But you’re not supposed to be here for another three hours...

He slung his jacket over a chair and dropped into its seat. Well, I ...

My cell’s not working, Bai Ying said, interrupting. Advance notice or no, I’m so glad ...

He held up a hand: You need to pack a bag and get ready for a trip.

What? This is because of the... the ships off the coast? Is it an invasion?

Ships? Invasion? he said. What are you talking about?

You haven’t heard? There’s a huge fleet of Chinese ships off the coast. It sounds like they’re getting ready to land an army, John. I don’t....

Holy God..., he stood up, rubbing a hand over his closely cropped hair. That must be what Lauren was talking about.

Lauren? You talked to her about this?

She just called me, John said. She’s why I’m here early. She said we’re all in big trouble. She wants us to go and get her.

We have to go to my parents’ house, too. I can’t get through to them and they’ll be totally freaking out when they hear what’s happening.

Right. We’ll stop at their place after we pick Lauren up. Maybe you’ll be able to make sense of what Lauren has to say. I never know how to talk to her when she gets like this.

"You’re going to have to drive really carefully, Bai Ying said. I’m having a tough day." As she tried to push herself up, she felt a sharp twinge in her belly that made her catch her breath.

John was immediately beside her, holding her hand. You okay? he asked.

Bai Ying took a few quick breaths and nodded.

If I’d known pregnancy would be this hard... she left the thought hanging. It would help if you could pack for me, she said.

No problem, honey.

When he finally emerged from the bedroom, he rolled out a suitcase nearly as big as Bai Ying. She laughed.

Maybe I should have packed, she said. It looks like you’ve packed enough to last until our daughter goes to college.

John didn’t smile. We don’t know what’s going on yet, he said. The way Lauren sounded, we might not be able to come back any time soon.

I can’t imagine a worse time for a cross-country trip in a crowded car.

I know, I know. We’ll talk about it on the way.

He helped her to her feet, acting as a crutch while he rolled her suitcase behind him. At the door, he paused.

Wait here.

He went back into their bedroom and Bai Ying could hear the sound of rummaging. He returned a moment later with his hunting rifle in its case. He also had a pistol case, a cleaning kit and a carry-on bag half-filled with boxes of ammo.

John! she said. Do you really think you’ll need that...stuff?

I don’t know, he said quietly. Given what I heard in Lauren’s voice, and what you saw on TV, I’d rather have my service weapon and rifle and not need them than...

You’re paranoid, she said, but she said it without much conviction. She shook her head, and kept the rest of her thoughts to herself as he helped her out the door.

CHAPTER 4

On board the missile submarine U.S.S. South Dakota, Dillon Shoals in the Timor Sea, 10°52'43.98S latitude, 125°49'5.88E longitude, August 9, 2027, across the International Date Line, 06:47 hours TLT

The sailor in South Dakota’s sonar room had his earphones off, his elbows on the console before him and his face in his hands, weeping. Commander Richard Brailles, South Dakota’s skipper, stepped into the narrow space behind him and put his hand on his shoulder.

What’s going on there, sailor? Commander Richard Brailles demanded.

The sonar operator turned around, his headphones around his slender neck and his face stained with tears.

Sorry, sir, the sailor said. I just couldn’t listen to them going down and breaking up like that. It’s the worst sound I ever heard.

Going down? Who’s going down?

I don’t know, sir. Something’s blocking the distress message, but—some of the screams are getting through.

Brailles donned the headphones: the sound of a thousand scrap yards at work in the depths surrounding the missile sub where it lurked at dead-stop nestled in the ooze at the bottom of an undersea canyon. A strong flow of cold Pacific water came down from the Banda Sea, giving them a thermocline layer that, for the moment, functioned like a ceiling impervious to sonar, masking them from detection and keeping them from sharing the fate of the rest of the RIMPAC fleet.

Brailles could imagine the rest: panicked men swimming for their lives, the ocean’s predators swarming for a feast, and the other ships, torn between their own defense and rescue.

Can we raise anyone? Anyone at all?

I’m trying, sir! But I think we’re being jammed.

How old are you? Nineteen, maybe?

Don’t feel too bad, son. The day you lose your humanity is the day you leave the service, Brailles said.

Brailles, a sailor through and through, came from a fishing family in Maine and spent his life on the water; consequently, sailing superstitions seldom left his mind.

We must have a Jonah, he thought. This whole exercise has been a disaster from the start.

Find Sakawa, Brailles told the officer of the deck. Emmett Sakawa was the Chief in charge of the sub’s electronics. Finding him didn’t take long.

Skipper. Sakawa’s grey pallor, Brailles thought, probably matched his own.

How much longer for repairs, Chief?

I’d estimate another half-hour. My best radioman has been pulling double and triple watches to get it done.

Good, Brailles said. As soon as he splices his last wire, deploy the FORCEnet buoy.

Aye, aye, sir.

Sakawa’s technician beat the estimate by fifteen minutes, but the FORCEnet buoy received nothing—no data, no voice, no communications of any kind. FORCEnet had fallen silent.

You’re sure everything’s fixed, Chief? Brailles asked.

Absolutely, Skipper. I triple-checked all the radio systems myself.

This is insane. The water’s filling with debris. There has to be an oil slick two miles long on the surface. Bring that buoy back. Then we go silent.

An hour went by, then two. Finally, Brailles’s intercom phone buzzed.

CONN, Sonar. Three new contacts.

Brailles went to the sonar room, relieved to see that the kid had composed himself and was acting like a professional again.

Three ships, Skipper, said the sonar man, sitting at his station with earphones pressed against his head with both hands. If I read their screw signatures right, I think it’s RIMPAC’s shadow.

As usual, two Chinese Jiangkai-class frigates and a Luyang II-class destroyer had been trailing the exercise since its beginning. The U.S. did it during large-scale Chinese exercises, and over the previous 20 years, the Chinese had been pushing their naval operations outward, beyond their traditional coast-bound circuit.

Range?

Lead ship is the destroyer, sir. Estimate its range at one-zero thousand yards, moving west-to-east through bearing three-five-zero. Estimate the frigates are 500 yards behind the destroyer, moving along the same heading.

At first, Brailles assumed the trio of Chinese ships must be looking now to pick up survivors. But then the sub’s sensitive listening equipment picked up small arms fire: it appeared the Chinese were dispatching anyone who had made it through the disaster.

Brailles’ stomach clenched and for a moment he found it hard to breathe.

Are they attacking? he said.

It sounds like it, sir, said the sonar man. They’re running a search pattern.

First one, then another, then all three of the ships entered into what some careful listening told the South Dakota was an interlocking search pattern—using, Brailles assumed, a combination of various sonar systems in a hunt for South Dakota, and probably for the Virginia-class attack sub, U.S.S. Vermont, that had also been a part of RIMPAC. If, that is, Vermont had survived.

They’ve got choppers dropping sonobuoys now, too, Skipper.

They’re attacking, said Brailles. This confirms it. Not that there was a lot of doubt before.

So what do we do?

Brailles offered what he hoped was a confident smile.

Working on it, sailor. Keep your ears open for now.

Yes, sir.

Sonobuoys—aircraft-dropped canisters of sensitive listening gear suspended at various depths from floats—employed both active and passive listening technologies, and their presence would make movement that much more difficult for him to contemplate.

We can’t move! It’s up to Soderburg. If he’s alive. That’d be easier for him than for us.

Commander Billy Soderburg commanded the Vermont. All the Virginia-class subs were stealth boats, with anechoic radar-dampening coverings applied over their entire exterior hull, a propulsion system that was significantly quieter than the boomer’s, and advanced passive sonar. If Vermont kept her movements slow—to around six knots or so—she might escape detection entirely. Better, in the shallow waters of the Dillon Shoal, to keep still. Brailles’ advantages, at this point, were that he was further out from the searching Chinese vessels than it was likely that Soderburg was, and a few hundred feet deeper.

Brailles walked softly to his Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Oliver Helmstrom, the Fire Control Coordinator during battle stations.

Load tubes one through four with Mark 50s. Prepare firing solutions on all enemy contacts, he said.

Aye, Skipper, Helmstrom said, but he looked dubious: I’ve had a look at the chart, and this canyon we’re hiding in is awfully narrow. It’s making us hard to see, and that’s good, but it’ll be damned hard to get off a spread unless we pop out. That would probably mean a snap shot, and even if I can get a good fix, I’m not very confident we’ll be able take out more than one of the Chinese ships before their helos are on top of us.

The Chinese helicopters were armed with Yu-10 anti-submarine torpedoes as well. These torpedoes were the third generation to be armed with an especially deadly warhead. Charged with sodium hydride compounds, the warhead, once detonated, would release sodium powder into the sea, producing hydrogen and flash-heating the