Red Tide, стр. 21
“I don’t need to pee,” Ryson replied. “But thanks for checking.”
Bradley grinned. “Please follow me.”
It took the better part of fifteen minutes to pass through a pre-screening, and a final screening, before being admitted to the building. Ryson had done a tour there, and knew the ropes. But there was a new sense of urgency in the air.
As Bradley led him through the maze Ryson saw American uniforms, British Uniforms and more. Some of which were completely foreign to him.
“This is the room where the SecDef meets with the Joint Chiefs,” Bradley said brightly. A marine corporal snapped to attention. “Commander Ryson and Ensign Bradley to see Admiral Simmons and Captain Dorsey,” Bradley said. “They’re expecting us.”
The marine opened the door, said something to a person inside, and turned back. “The admiral and the captain will see you now.”
Bradley stood to one side so Ryson could enter first. He’d never been in the room before. An oil painting of Lincoln meeting with his generals was hanging on a light gray wall. A well-lit table flanked by nine high-backed leather chairs claimed the center of the room. Two senior officers were waiting to receive Ryson, along with a navy steward and a civilian.
Bradley withdrew as the officers came forward to meet Ryson. Admiral Simmons was mostly bald, wore wire rimmed glasses, and had a firm handshake. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Commander. But you have an excellent rep.”
“That’s right,” Dorsey put in. “It’s good to see you Max. What’s it been? A couple of years? All spent on those little piss pots.”
“Those piss pots did the job,” Simmons said stolidly. “Would you like some coffee? Some java for the commander please. The SecNav is running late. But that means we can pre-brief you. Please grab a chair.”
A mug of coffee appeared at Ryson’s elbow along with cream and sugar. “Let’s start with the basics,” Dorsey said. “We have a problem, a BIG problem, and we think you could be an important part of the solution.”
“That’s right,” Simmons said, as he aimed a remote at a screen. “I know you’ve been busy, but I suspect you’re aware of what happened to the Concord, and her battle group.”
“I am,” Ryson agreed. “Chinese propaganda footage was all over Turkish television. According to what I heard a Chinese battle group, centered around the carrier Henan, sank the Concord.”
“That’s true up to a point,” Dorsey put in. “But there’s a pretty good chance that the Concord would have survived had it not been for one of the Henan’s escorts. It delivered the final blows and, interestingly enough, hasn’t received any mention by the ChiCom bullshit machine. And here it is.”
A series of grainy black and white satellite images appeared, and none of them were worth much. All Ryson could make out was a long gray oval with vertical structures at both ends. He turned his gaze to Dorsey. “It looks like a whale with two heads.”
Dorsey laughed. “In some ways it is. First because it’s big, well over six hundred and fifty-feet long, second because it’s semisubmersible, and third because it does have two heads. Or, in this case, conning towers. One forward and one aft. The Chinese call it the Sea Dragon. And it was the Sea Dragon that killed thousands of our sailors.”
Ryson frowned. “How?”
“That’s the right question,” Simmons said, as a diagram appeared. “Here’s the way the battle unfolded. The Concord, and her battle group, were here, east of Luzon. The Henan, and her battle group, were here, west of Luzon.
“The Chinese started the fight, and the Concord responded. But in the meantime, the Sea Dragon, along with what we think were two attack subs, circled north. Due to the ship’s low radar profile, and the fog of war, no one noticed the half-submerged cruiser as it rounded the north end of Luzon. That’s where the Sea Dragon fired five shots from a railgun, along with what we estimate to have been a dozen surface-to-surface missiles. Game over.”
“Seriously?” Ryson demanded. “A railgun?”
“Yes,” Dorsey replied. “We have one under development, but it isn’t ready for prime time. The bastards beat us to it.”
A knock was heard, the door opened, and Ensign Bradley appeared. “Secretary Moran is here.”
Moran entered, paused to look at the people who were present, and smiled. It was a famous smile, thanks to three years as a successful talk show host. The only talk show host who had graduated from Annapolis, served twenty years in the navy, and been elected to congress prior to becoming secretary. She had a shock of gray hair and even features. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’m sorry to be late. I see our victim is present.”
Ryson stood as Moran made her way over, hand extended. “Congratulations, Commander. What you accomplished in the Black Sea was nothing less than amazing. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Moran’s eyes were sky blue and her grip was professionally firm. The part about coming on short notice was bullshit of course, since Ryson had no choice, but it was a nice thing to say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Madam Secretary. As for the Black Sea, I had a lot of help.”
A cloud seemed to fall over the secretary’s face. “You took 50 percent causalities.”
The fact that Moran knew that, and cared, meant a lot. Ryson nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I miss my shipmates.”
Moran forced a smile. “It sounds trite, I know that, but we have to keep on. And that’s why you’re here.” She turned to Simmons. “How much does the Commander know?”
“We brought him up to speed on the Sea Dragon and her role in the