Tiger's Claw: A Novel (3 page)

PROLOGUE

K
AMCHATKA
P
ACIFIC
M
ISSILE
T
EST
R
ANGE
, E
ASTERN
S
IBERIA

S
UMMER
2014

“Bridge, Combat, ballistic missile inbound!” the urgent call came. “Altitude six-seven miles, range three-three-zero nautical, closing speed eight thousand!”

The skipper of the USS
Chosin,
captain of an American guided-missile cruiser, activated a stopwatch hanging on a lanyard around his neck. “Sound general quarters,” Captain Edward Taverna said calmly. He glanced at the visitor seated beside him on the bridge as the warning horns sounded throughout the ship. Everyone on the bridge already had helmets and life jackets on. “Combat, Bridge, weapons tight, engagement as briefed, acknowledge.”

“Bridge, Combat, weapons tight, engagement as briefed, aye,” came the response.

“Count it down, Combat,” Taverna ordered. He raised a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon to the north, and the visitor did likewise.

“Impact in fifteen seconds . . .” The skipper couldn’t believe how fast this was happening . . . “Ten . . . five . . . zero.”

A tremendous geyser of water reaching hundreds of feet in the sky erupted on the horizon, just a few miles away. Through his binoculars, Taverna could briefly see the shape of a large vessel cartwheeling in the air. “Looks like a direct hit,” he said. “What’s it look like, Combat?”

“Direct hit, sir,” came the reply. Taverna knew there were multiple cameras recording this test, both on the surface and in the sky—he’d look at the video later with the Intelligence section, with the Pentagon and probably the White House watching as well.

“What speed was the target going?”

“The target was being towed at twenty-seven knots, sir.”

Impressive—and ominous, Taverna thought. He turned to his visitor and said, “Congratulations, Admiral.” Then, in the best and oft-practiced Chinese he could muster, he said, “
Gong ji, Shao Jiang.
” Sign of the times, Taverna thought—more and more senior officers in the U.S. military were learning Mandarin Chinese, much like many learned Russian during the height of the Cold War.

This was shaping up to be the new Cold War: America versus China.

One faint glimmer of hope for a nonconfrontational tone to U.S.-China relations was this very occurrence: an invitation for the U.S. Navy to not only observe this test up close and personal, but to have a senior Chinese People’s Liberation Army (PLA) officer on board. It had several implications. Yes, China was being much more open about its military capabilities and intentions; it could also imply that, should there be a targeting error, a few Chinese officers would be casualties along with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of American sailors—faint consolation, but something. Also, this test was being run on a Russian ballistic missile test range, which implied a high degree of cooperation between China and Russia.

But this was obviously a warning to America as well as an olive branch. The message was clear: your warships are no longer safe in the western Pacific.

“Thank you very much, Captain,” People’s Liberation Army
Shao Jiang
(Major General) Hua Zhilun said in excellent English. The thin, handsome admiral with the seemingly perpetual smile, young for a Chinese general at age fifty-four, bowed, then shook hands with Taverna. General Hua was commander of the Eleventh Tactical Rocket Division, or
Ha Zhao
: “Tiger’s Claw,” the special division set up to deploy China’s antisatellite and antiship ballistic missiles. Hua’s division was part of China’s Strategic Rocket Forces, also known as the Second Artillery Corps, the branch of the army that controlled all of China’s land-based ballistic missiles, both nuclear and conventional. “I shall prepare a full debriefing and return in the morning to brief you and your department heads on the results of today’s test.”

“I’m looking forward to it, General,” Taverna said. Hua bowed deeply again, then followed his aide off the bridge, escorted by the
Chosin
’s executive officer.

“He’s got a reason to smile, the prick,” Taverna said under his breath after Hua had departed. It was not lost on Taverna, and certainly not on Hua or his contingent, that the cruiser
Chosin
was named for the Battle of Chosin Reservoir, in which a force of sixty thousand Chinese troops encircled a force of thirty thousand American-led United Nations troops at Changjin Lake in northeast North Korea. Although the Chinese lost nearly two-thirds of their attacking forces in two and a half weeks of fighting, it was the first major defeat of United Nations forces in the Korean War and was the beginning of a massive all-out Chinese offensive that nearly pushed American forces south right off the Korean Peninsula and into the East China Sea.

Taverna also knew that Hua was in command of the forces that attacked American Kingfisher antisatellite and antiballistic missile weapon garages in Earth orbit last year, causing the death of an American astronaut and the eventual suspension of the entire U.S. Space Defense Force program. There had never been any meaningful American response to those attacks or to other antisatellite attacks by Russia, something that really steamed Taverna. Chinese and Russian carrier battle groups were now everywhere, shadowing American warships and shipping—and still no response from anyone in Washington except more cutbacks. It was getting pretty pathetic.

Taverna shook himself out of his reverie and picked up the phone to the Combat Information Center. “Yes, sir,” Commander Ted Lang, the operations officer, responded.

“So how did it look, Ted?”

“Pretty awesome, sir,” Lang replied. “Direct hit from fifteen hundred miles away. I haven’t seen the slow-mo video yet, but judging by the effects it looked like a good penetration angle. Sawed that target ship right in half.”

“So you think it could penetrate an armored carrier deck?”

“If they use a nuclear warhead, it doesn’t need to, sir,” Lang said. “If it’s just a kinetic warhead, it has to hit almost perfectly vertical—if it hits at an angle it would probably glance off a carrier’s deck, even going eight thousand miles an hour.”

“And the missile was directed by satellite?”

“That’s what they claim, sir,” Lang replied. “The Chinese have several radar and infrared ocean-surveillance satellite systems in orbit. They certainly have the technology. They had lots of aircraft in the area observing the test, and one or more of them could have actually aimed the missile. The missile uses inertial guidance with GPS updates—
our
GPS satellites, by the way—to get within the target area. Then the warhead itself supposedly gets updates from outside sensors—satellites or aircraft, communicating directly with the warhead’s terminal guidance package—then uses its own on-board radar to steer itself in for the kill.”

“Big question, Ted: Could a Standard SM-3 have knocked it down if it was aimed at us?” Taverna asked. The Standard missile was the carrier battle group’s primary antiaircraft missile; the SM-3 was an upgraded version designed to knock down ballistic missiles and even satellites in low Earth orbit.

There was an uncomfortably long pause before the operations officer replied. “Today, we had the advantage of knowing exactly from where and when it was coming, sir,” Lang said. “The SM-3’s auto-engage system is normally not activated unless we’re heading into a fight, so if it’s a ‘bolt from the blue’ attack . . . no, sir, I don’t think we’d have the time. If it’s engaged, I think the SM-3 would get one warhead. If there are multiple maneuvering warheads . . .” And his voice trailed off.

“Got it, Ted,” Taverna said. “Let me know when Intel is ready to debrief.”

“Yes, sir.”

The skipper hung up the phone. The chill he felt just then was not because of the weather.

J
ACK’S
V
ALLEY
, C
OLORADO

T
HAT SAME TIME

“
What do you think you’re doing, Basic?
” the cadet technical sergeant instructor screamed. “Get moving,
now
!”

“Oh, Christ,” Bradley McLanahan muttered for the umpteenth time that morning. The muzzle of his M-16 rifle had—again—snagged itself in the barbed wire under which he was crawling. He reached out to clear it, but only ended up puncturing his finger with a mud-covered barb. “
Shit . . .
!” he shouted.

“
You will not use foul language on my confidence course, Basic!
” the cadet instructor shouted. He was a tall, wiry, weaselly looking guy from Alabama with thick horn-rimmed sports glasses, and he definitely knew how to shout. “If you are having difficulties negotiating the course, you will resolve the obstruction or request assistance from your cadet instructors. Which is it, Basic?”

“I don’t need any help,” Bradley said.

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“I said I don’t need any help!” Bradley shouted.

“Are you dense or just feebleminded, Basic?” the instructor shouted. “When you address me, you will preface and end your reply with ‘sir,’ do you comprehend? Now state your deficiency to me properly, Basic!”

Bradley took a deep breath and fought to control his anger. This was the fourth week of Air Force Academy Basic Cadet Training, or BCT—known to all as “The Beast,” and now Brad knew why they called it that. Six weeks of some of the most intense physical, psychological, and emotional cadet training in the U.S. military, the course was designed to teach military customs, courtesies, and culture to new candidates to the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and weed out those who didn’t possess the physical conditioning, attitude, or aptitude to make it through the next four years of intense academic training to become career Air Force officers. In just two weeks, he would begin his military and professional education in one of the top ten colleges on planet Earth, completing a million-dollar education paid for by U.S. taxpayers . . .

. . . as some would say: shoved up your ass a nickel at a time.

Brad extracted his thumb from the barb, then shook the muzzle of the M-16 rifle free of the wire as well. Bradley James McLanahan was on his back slithering through four inches of mud and dust, just below several strands of barbed wire arrayed above him. On either side of him were other Basics—candidates for admission to the Air Force Academy—navigating the obstacle course of “Second Beast,” the three-week field encampment that preceded the start of the freshman school year. Occasional explosions and firecrackers erupted all around him, especially around the cadets having any difficulties crawling under the wire. Bradley was tall and thin, so normally getting under the mesh of razor wires should be no problem, but for some reason those pesky barbs reached out and grabbed anything they could latch on to—his uniform, his rifle, his thumb, his very soul.

“Sir,” Brad shouted, “I have extricated myself from the obstacle, and I am proceeding . . .”

“Don’t tell me—
show
me, Basic!” the instructor shouted. Cadet Staff Sergeant William Weber was a second-class cadet at the Academy and a well-seasoned and experienced instructor at Cadet Basic Training, his favorite summer assignment. Rather than going home or doing any other activities during the summer break, Weber always signed up for Cadet Basic Training so he could lock his claws into the very new, raw persons making their way into the Air Force Academy. No one proceeded past this point without getting past Weber . . .
no way
. Weber stepped over to Bradley and bent down, face-to-face to him. “
What are you doing,
Basic?”

“Sir, I am proceeding on the obstacle course and . . .”

“You aren’t doing
crap,
Basic!” Weber shouted. “Get moving! What are you waiting for?”

“Sir, I am . . .”

“Didn’t we teach you about controlling your muzzle and your trigger, Basic?” Weber shouted, grabbing Bradley’s M-16 before it could swing all the way toward Weber’s face. “You are
not
controlling
anything
! You get snagged with your muzzle and then you get snagged when you move to release another snag. Are you
dense,
Basic? Do you want to take all morning to complete this evolution, Basic? I’ll tell you right, now, Basic: I’m not going to wait around for you to finish a simple task. Now get your rear in gear and finish this evolution!”

“Sir, yes sir!” Bradley shouted.

Weber went off to yell at some other Basic, and Bradley was grateful for the break, but as soon as Weber was out of the way, some other second-class blasted a fire hose into the pit to maintain a nice deep level of mud. It was late July in Colorado, and even in early morning the air was warm and dry—the afternoon runs with full packs, with temperatures approaching ninety degrees, would be murder.

Bradley knew all about Basic Cadet Training, the Confidence course, and Jack’s Valley—all this was no surprise. Once he had been selected for admission—his appointment came from no less than then vice president Kenneth Phoenix, who was now the president of the United States—he had to attend dozens of Academy prep courses taught by liaison officers, listen to guest speakers describing their adventures and problems, have his grades scrutinized constantly and schedule refresher and reinforcement classes with volunteer tutors, pass a grueling fitness test once a month even tougher than the one they would have to take every semester at the Academy, and watch hundreds of videos covering every possible aspect of life as a fourth-class cadet. The Academy and its graduates did everything they could possibly do to prepare a potential cadet for what he was about to face. None of the “Beast” was unexpected—in fact, they had built a “mini-Beast” Confidence Course near the youth correctional facility in Carson City, Nevada, so all the area Basics chosen to attend the Academy could practice.

The first three weeks of BCT were at the Academy, learning how to salute, how to march, how to wear a uniform, and basic military customs, along with intense physical conditioning. Since Brad had spent so many years in the Civil Air Patrol teaching all that to CAP cadets, he was way ahead of most other Basics, and he had a relatively easy time—he had even been asked by a few first- and second-class cadets to help a few of the other Basics. As a high school football player, Bradley knew how to stay in shape, so the long runs, rope climbing, and calisthenics were all second nature.

Maybe that made him feel a little overconfident, even a little cocky—because the second half of BCT, “Second Beast,” was in the field. No more dormitories, no more chow halls, no more comfortable PT outfits and clean uniforms—this was down and dirty in the woods and mountains for the final three weeks. Although Bradley was qualified in several CAP field emergency services, his real soul was in flying. Let the nonrated kids do ground searches, first aid, and direction finding—he belonged in the sky.

“State the Core Values of the United States Air Force, Basics!” the guy with the fire hose shouted.

“Sir, integrity first, service before self, excellence in all we do, sir!” Bradley shouted for the umpteenth time that morning. He finally wriggled clear of the barbed wire, but got his pants caught as he was trying to get on his feet.

“You will state the Core Values
together,
or don’t bother saying them at all, Basics!” the cadet trainer shouted. “You will learn to live, work, train, and fight
together,
or you do not belong at my beloved Academy! Now, again: What are the Air Force’s Core Values?” Bradley started to respond, but he was hit in the side of his Kevlar helmet with a jet of water from the fire hose and was knocked off his feet again by the blast. He couldn’t hear anything except the hammering of the water against his head.

“I think Basic McLanahan here forgot the words to our Core Basics,” Weber shouted, materializing as if from nowhere. “Get on your feet, Basic McLanahan!”

That was the first time, Bradley thought as he struggled to his feet, that he had heard his last name here at the Beast while in field training—up until now, they were all simply “Basics.” His eyes were stinging from mud, but he dared not try to wipe them clear. He faced in the approximate direction of where he thought Weber was standing and brought his M-16 rifle up to port arms. “Sir!”

“The breech of your weapon is closed, Basic McLanahan,” Weber snarled. “You had better clear and check that weapon before you stand in front of me, and do it
now.
”

Now Bradley rubbed the mud out of his face, then made sure the muzzle of the M-16 rifle was pointed straight up away from the cadet instructor, pulled back on the charging handle, and peered into the chamber. He couldn’t see that well, so he wasn’t sure if there was anything in there, but they had been issued no ammunition so everyone was safe. He let the handle go, then went back to port arms. “Sir, my weapon is clear, sir!” he reported.

“Your weapon is a filthy
mess,
McLanahan, that’s what it is!” Weber shouted. He motioned behind him, and a split second later the fire hose was unleashed on him again. “Keep that weapon out of the water, McLanahan!” Weber shouted. “That weapon is your lifeline in the field!” Bradley raised it above his head as the water surged over his body, threatening to topple him in its powerful stream. “What is the Cadet Oath, Basic?”

“Sir, the Cadet Oath is: I will not lie, cheat, or steal . . .”

“
Wrong,
McLanahan!” Weber interrupted. “Try again!”

Bradley swallowed hard. “The Cadet Oath is . . .”

“You had better address me as ‘sir,’ Basic!”

“Sir, the Cadet Oath is:
We
will not lie, steal, or cheat, nor tolerate anyone among us who . . .”

“McLanahan, you are just plain dense this morning,” Weber said. “One more try, McLanahan, and if you screw it up, you go back to the beginning of the Pit to think about it some more. This is the most important phrase in the Academy, Basic, the very basis of who we are, the one thing that every cadet is sworn to uphold and protect. You’ve had three weeks to learn it. Go!”

Bradley’s arms, still holding the M-16 over his head, were beginning to shake, but he took a deep breath and uttered, “Sir, the Cadet Oath is: We will not lie, steal, or cheat, nor tolerate among us anyone who does.” Bradley saw Weber’s eyes flaring in anger and quickly added, “Sir!”

“About time,” Weber growled. He stepped closer to Bradley and said in a low voice, “Maybe you McLanahans have difficulties learning about lying and cheating.”

Bradley suddenly forgot about his aching, rubbery arms. He looked up at Weber, who was about a half head taller than Brad. “Sir?”

“Are you eyeing me, Basic?” Weber shouted. “Cage your eyes!”

Brad stared at a spot straight ahead, away from Weber’s angry gaze. “Sir, begging the cadet instructor’s pardon, sir?”

“What?”

“Sir . . . sir, did you say something about McLanahans, sir?”

Weber smiled evilly, then waved at the guy with the fire hose to turn it on someone else. “Looks like I got a rise out of you, didn’t I, Basic McLanahan?” he observed. In a low voice, he said, “Everyone here knows who you are: son of the great General Patrick McLanahan, the hero of the American Holocaust, space hero, the greatest strategic bombing expert since General Curtis LeMay—or so he thinks. You’re the guy who got his Academy appointment from the president of the United States himself, served up on a silver platter, thanks to your daddy.”

He stepped even closer to Bradley, then added, “But my father told me who your daddy
really
is: a lying, cheating, thieving loose cannon, who flagrantly disobeys orders and does whatever the hell he feels like doing, and screw the chain of command and the Constitution. Now he thinks he can get his stuck-up son into the Air Force Academy with just a phone call to his pal in the White House, and you’ll just sail right through because of who your daddy is. Let me be the first to tell you, Basic: that’s not the way it’s going to work. My mission, and the mission of most of the second- and first-class, is to see you get booted out
soonest.
”

Weber stepped nose to nose with Bradley. “I worked my
butt
off for three years to get into the Academy,” he growled in a low, menacing voice. “I broke my ass in stupid sports I didn’t like, volunteered for the most ridiculous positions in the most ridiculous service clubs, took the SATs
eleven times,
and wrote dozens of letters to congressmen I didn’t even know to get an appointment. After all that, I didn’t get
one,
and I had to spend a year as a Preppie. And then, here you are. You get to just waltz in here and think you have it made.” He lowered his voice even more. “Well, let me tell you, McLanahan . . .” Weber took three fingers of his right hand and punched them into Bradley’s chest, “ . . . you’re
history
here. I’ll see to it,
personally.
”

Now Bradley’s entire body began to shake, not just his bone-weary arms. That made Weber smile and nod in satisfaction. “I knew it,” he said. “Your daddy never taught you how to deal with the
real
world, did he? That’s because he never dealt with it himself. He had his underlings do all the real fighting for him while he just sailed away safe and sound high above the fighting in his supersecret bombers.” He chuckled at his own insight, then said with a smirk, “Well, stop your crying and sniveling and go back to the beginning of the Pit. You still have . . .”