Excerpt from:

Published by: St Martin's Press, New York.  ISBN 0-312-20287-3.  Publication Date March, 2000.

 Prologue I:
 20° 05' N, 118° 36' E: West of the Luzon Strait
 
 

    The full moon soared over a hazy sea.  Beneath it, like a fallen galaxy, rode a scattering of lights so vast no eye could encompass them all.
     But a goldenglowing tactical display did.  The maritime patrol plane had been aloft for eight hours.  Now it churned through the summer night, back to its base in Japan.  The petty officer leaned back, only occasionally glancing at the picture that reached out three hundred miles.  Yellow lines on black sketched the downward-pointing dagger of Taiwan.  To the east, a speckle of islands, then the blunt rump of Luzon.  To the west, the coast of China.  And scattered across the center of the screen, the symbols that marked the ships and aircraft that had maneuvered here over the last week.
     That exercise had just ended, called off in order to respond to aggression and violence in the Persian Gulf.  He was starting to shut down his equipment when he noticed a spike on one of the screens.
     It showed the output of a sonobuoy he’d dropped an hour earlier.  A dangling microphone, deep in the sea.  He debated not reporting it, but finally depressed the switch on his headset mike as he pulled a keyboard toward him.  “Charlie Charlie, Delta Lima.  We have a surface contact out here.  Two four-bladed props, steam propulsion tonals.  I call it as a large combatant, nationality unknown.”
     Forty-five miles astern, on the carrier, a petty officer clicked a transmit button.   “Roger, Delta Lima.  Have you been advised, we’re hauling ass to rescue Kuwait.  You’re gonna have to keep tabs on the China Sea by your ownselves now.”
     The aircraft, droning through the dark: “Roger, understand that, but I don’t think this is an exercise contact.”
     On the carrier, the petty officer hesitated.  Then he heard the chief’s voice, behind him.  “You gonna pass that on up or am I?”

                                             #                    #                    #

     Two minutes later the phone buzzed in the battle group commander’s cabin.  The admiral blinked himself awake with difficulty.  Sleep had been all too short for the last few days.  You were supposed to need less as you got older, but he wasn’t sure he bought that theory.  Maybe you didn’t need as much, but when you missed it, you didn’t feel as sharp as you had at thirty, eager to jump into the cockpit after a long night partying.
      “Yeah,” he grunted.
       The flag watch officer gave him the essentials.  An unidentified surface combatant had been detected west of the force.  Did he want them to identify it, considering the exercise had ended?
     “Sure, why not,” the admiral said.  “Detach a screen unit, let him check it out.  No, make it two, include the Japanese if they haven’t detached yet.”
     “Do we need to adjust formation course and speed, sir?”
     “I don’t think so.  What’s the Luda group doing?”
     Three Chinese warships and a submarine out of the big South Sea Fleet base at Zhanjaing had shadowed the battle group since the exercise began.  The staff watch officer reported they were clear to the northwest.  The admiral told him to maintain formation course for the Strait of Malacca.
     He hung up, rolled over, and went back to sleep almost instantly.

                                                 #                    #                    #

      USS John Young and JMSDF Takatsuki reached the ship’s estimated location at 0050.   So far this was standard procedure.  Any surface, subsurface, or air contact in the battle group’s vicinity was tracked and identified.  If it belonged to another navy, it would often play the game and try to maneuver into an attack position.  Each side would hold contact as long as possible, gathering data and training sensor operators.  It was a pick-up game at sea, officially denied by all parties, but none the less engaged in.  A professional test, a sharpening of skills one step removed from hostilities.
     The battle group commander was jerked awake again at 0115.  “What is it?” he snapped.
     “It’s the unidentified contact they reported on the last watch, sir.  Message from the surface action unit commander.  It’s evading.”
     “Evading?”  The admiral came fully awake.  “Any identification yet?  Anything on ESM?”
     ESM was electronic surveillance, classifying ships and other threats from the signatures of their radio and radar.  “No sir.  He turned west and went to high speed as soon as he realized they were attempting to intercept.  John Young tried flashing light but he didn’t respond.”
     “Call John Young.  Talk to the commander personally.  Tell him to maintain the pursuit.  Try to identify.  But stay outside four thousand yards.  Don’t crowd him.”
     The watch officer rogered and hung up.  The admiral turned over, but couldn’t sleep.
     At 0120 he let himself into the Command Decision Center.  CDC was built of small interconnected rooms lit by dim blue overhead lights.  Narrow walkways labyrinthed gray consoles.  He pulled himself into a chair, staring at the large-screen display as the tactical action officer began briefing him on increased air activity in the Gouangzhou Military Region.
     At 0136 the Tactical Officer’s Plot, which tracked the surface picture out to 35 miles, called down to advise that the Luda group had altered course toward the task force.  The admiral rogered, watching plane after plane rise into the air over southeastern China.  A few minutes later he ordered all units to Condition Three.
     At 0155 the mass of aircraft stacked over the Chinese coast began moving out to sea.  As they moved out of the land clutter they organized into two groups.
     The admiral ordered Condition One, full manning and readiness for immediate action, throughout the force.  He passed Air Warning Yellow, sent a Red Rocket message to Commander in Chief Pacific, info Pacific Air Forces, 13th Air Force Clark Field, and the Joint Chiefs, and scrambled his fighter wings.  The carrier began launching the standby combat air patrol to deal with the second strike group, now turning southward after the first.  She launched a radar surveillance bird and electronic jamming aircraft.  The antisubmarine warfare commander pulled his screen in tight around the carrier.
     “Sir, the Luda group’s still closing the formation.”
     “I can’t act against them at the moment.”
     “Understand that, sir, but one of them’s tracking right down toward us.”
     “Can’t the screen keep him clear?”
     “Roger, sir, I’ll pass that suggestion along.”

                                                     #                    #                    #

     The running lights of the ship ahead were startlingly bright, as if magnified by the haze above the warm sea.  The destroyer skipper listened to his orders, face set.  Then turned to the officer of the deck.  “Okay, you heard the man.  Get your rudder over now.  Figure a course when you see the relative motion.  Get over between him and the carrier.”
     “Sir, if he doesn’t change course we’ll hit him -- “
     “You heard me.  Head him off!”
     The officer of the deck had never been ordered to put the ship into a position of danger before, and it took a moment to penetrate.  The commanding officer was on the verge of relieving him when he said, “Aye, sir.  Engines ahead full.  Right standard rudder.  Steady on one three zero . . . continue right to one five zero.  Steady as she goes.   Stand by for collision!  Clear the starboard wing!”
     The destroyer dug her stern in, heeling as the rudder levered at the sea.  Turbines whined, and a white wave grew at her bow as the collision alarm needled into the eardrums of every man aboard.
     A radioman coming out for a smoke break gaped up at a superstructure suddenly looming over him from the dark.  Cooks clapped lids on boiling grease.  Engineers went to their knees, grabbing for stanchions, the route topside through trunks and escape scuttles suddenly vivid in their minds.
     The two ships came together with a crunch and lurch, the shock and energy absorbed by bending steel and crumpling strakes.  A lifeline caught and peeled back, then snapped with a deadly zing across the deck.  From the helo deck a knot of aviation mechanics looked across into another bridge, staring at the faces of the men inside, eerily lighted from below.

                                             #                    #                    #

     In CDC, a television monitor showed a shrinking speck, steam whipping over the deck, the next fighter trundling toward the launch shuttle.  At the same moment, a buzzer sounded from the compartment that housed electronic warfare.
     “Pass missile warning, red.  Air warning, red.”
     The admiral stared at the gathering storm north of his force.  The inverted triangles a hundred and eighty miles out were hostile aircraft.  The inverted semicircles closer in were his air patrol.  As his sensors reported aircraft after aircraft switching on its missile-control radars, he realized this was the kick-off.  He just hoped they came through without losing too many guys.  He leaned back and tried to stay calm as the data updates made the hostile symbols jump inward every two seconds.
     Then he recalled something.  He leaned over and pressed a send key.  “This is the admiral.  Pass to John Young to break off prosecution on the surface unidentified, and  rejoin as soon as possible.”
     Three minutes passed, during which the incoming aircraft approached twenty miles closer.
     “Anti-air warfare coordinator reports verbal warning, no response received.  Requests missiles released, contingent on detecting weapons separation.”
     Not a moment’s hesitation.  “Granted at crossover zone.”
     “CAP 1 leader reports missile lock-on, request clearance to engage tracks A0028 through A0035 with Phoenix.”
     “Stand by.”
     An endless silence as the hostile tracks jumped inward again.  Checking the surface picture, he noted that the two destroyers he’d sent west had dropped their pursuit of the unidentified ship, and were headed back toward the battle group.
     The tracks leapfrogged again.  The tactical action officer was staring at him, waiting for the order to fire.  They’d ignored his warning.  It was time.
     Then the lead bogey sidestepped, clicking a small but noticeable increment to the southwest.
     “Sir?  Recommend weapons release -- ”
     “Just stand by one.  Just stand by,” he breathed.
     ”CDC, ESM: Fan Head illumination ceases.”
     “Western strike group breaking off.  New vector 290.  Looks like they’re going home.”
     Just short of the weapons release point, the strike broke off and turned back to the west.  The Chinese ships clung to the formation for few more minutes, then peeled off as the carrier and her escort moved on ahead into the open sea, headed west on the long transit to the Gulf.
     The admiral tilted his chair back, watching it recede.  At 0255 the chief of staff placed a draft message in front of him.  He made two changes and initialed it.  Then leaned back again.  “That was exciting.”
     “Too damn close for my taste.  But what did it mean?”
     “They consider this their back yard.  Something we did set the dogs off big time.”
     “But what?  We were peacefully transiting through international waters.  If we let them shut us out of the China Sea -- ”
     “Yeah, I agree.  But we’ve got other fish to fry and there’s only so many pans.  Saddam’s  invaded Kuwait.  They want us in the Arabian Sea as fast as we can get there.”
     “How do we react here?”
     “Not our problem.  We’ve passed it up the line.  Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to get my head down for a few hours.”

 Prologue II:
 The Forbidden City, Beijing
 
 

     For some obscure reason, the powers that be had decided to hold the reception for the new Danish ambassador in a locale usually reserved for the most portentous of state occasions: the Hall of Supreme Harmony, deep in the imperial compound once known as the Violet City.  It was walled by red-lacquered pillars and richly carved screens, decorated with bronze lions with strange uptilted snouts; from its ceiling shone dimly one solid blaze of reddish gold.
     Beneath it a captain in trop whites stood in the middle of the vast expanse of floor,  looking at the fierce entwining of sharpclawed dragons high above.  Swarthy and barrel-chested, the naval attaché wore dark glasses even though the hall was only poorly lighted.  He was admiring a single dragon, which was dipping to suspend an immense golden pearl over the throne, glorious but empty, over a stepped dais near where he stood.
     Jack Byrne sipped his drink, thinking about the days when "barbarian" emissaries to the Middle Kingdom had been forced to kowtow on these polished floors.  And in those days, everyone who was not the Emperor's subject was a barbarian.
     A middle-aged Chinese approached from the direction of the buffet, accompanied by an aide.  Byrne recognized the round-faced, aloof-looking officer as Admiral Mi Guozhong, and came to a higher level of alertness.  Not only was he Commander of the South Sea Fleet, and as such of interest to any naval intelligence officer operating in-country.  Not only had his father been on the Long March with Mao and Deng Xiaoping, but Mi himself was extremely well connected within the oligarchy that administered and profited from the swiftly accelerating industries of South China, the Yangzi valley, and the Guangzhou Delta.
     The admiral spoke briefly, and the aide translated in a high monotone: “Did you know that you are standing at the exact center of the earth?”
     “I hadn’t realized that,” said Byrne.
     “An ancient text states: “Here earth and sky meet, where the four seasons merge, where wind and rain are gathered in, and where yin and yang exist in harmony.”  The admiral turned slowly, eyeing the long north-south axis.  “Here the Emperor, as Mencius said: ‘Stood in the center of the earth, and stabilized the people within the four seas.’”
     Byrne knew Mi had more English than he cared to display, just as he himself had more Chinese; but he appreciated the use of the translator.  It gave one a few seconds to think, and a graceful excuse if something went awry.
     “An impressive venue.”
     “It is Emperor Yung Lo we have to thank for the complex of the Forbidden City,” said the aide, without Mi actually having said anything.
     “A notable name in China’s long history.”
     “Yung Lo was the first Ming despot, a ruthless usurper and murderer,” said Mi, speaking for himself now in a serviceable though accented English.  “Capable, ambitious, and cruel.  But effective.”
     “If one must be cruel, one should at least be effective.”
     “It was Yung Lo who sent out the fleets to the South.  Though I understand it is not a well known event in the West.”
     Byrne began to pay attention to what had seemed up to now a fairly innocuous conversation.  He took a sip of his drink, knowing his role at this moment was less to understand or respond than to recall and transmit, word for word, if possible, whatever message would shortly be conveyed.  “I’ve heard of it.  But perhaps the admiral would like to enlighten me further?”
     “Gladly,” said Mi, tapping a cigarette out and bending his head as the aide snapped open an engraved Zippo.  The smoke rose toward the hovering dragons like an offering.  “In 1405, the Emperor sent out a great expedition under the eunuch Cheng Ho.  The first fleet consisted of sixty-two vessels, with twenty-eight thousand men on board.  In his seven cruises, Cheng Ho brought under the tutelage of the Middle Kingdom countries from Java all the way to East Africa.  Including every state bordering what even you still call the China Sea.”
     “I seem to recall, however, that his visits, grand though they must have been, were never repeated.”
     “Unfortunately, that is true.  The Mongols were growing in power outside the Wall.  The Ming had to shift their attention back to the northern steppe.  Save for that Asia might have been spared the interlude of European exploitation and hegemony.”
     “And been subject instead to the benevolent attentions of the -- how did you put it? -- ‘ruthless’ and ‘despotic’ Mings.”
     The admiral smiled faintly.  “Let me ask you a question.  Please, answer not in your diplomatic capacity, but as an officer with some influence in the U. S. Navy.  As I ask, not in an official capacity, but as part of the brotherhood of the sea.”
     “I understand.  Though my influence, as you call it, is very small.”
     “The recent encounter between your aircraft carrier battle group and our forces, west of the Luzon Strait.  What is your navy's view of that incident?”
     "We regarded it as an unfortunate misunderstanding," Byrne said carefully.  "That's why we didn't make a public statement."
     "I don’t see it in that light,” said Mi.  “As a matter of fact, the next time a provocation like that occurs so close to our coast, within waters that are historically Chinese, I believe we should send up our latest aircraft, shoot down your carrier planes, and sweep your very small number of overrated ships from the sea.”
     Byrne felt disbelief, then rage at the nakedness of the threat; but disguised both reactions with a bland smile. “You mean we are a zhi laohu,” he said, using the old Maoist phrase.
     The admiral gave a short, harsh laugh, one which the intelligence officer, who had visited many countries, and heard many different kinds of laughs, had never encountered before.  “We no longer use that expression, Captain,” he said.  “But there seem to be elements in American military circles who still do not understand the changes that have taken place in China.  They seem to think this is still the era when your Asiatic Fleet was permitted even to violate the Long River.  It is time they understand, those days are past.”
    Byrne thanked the admiral for his interest.  After a few more remarks, mainly about the Danish ambassador’s stately wife, the Chinese excused themselves and strolled away.
    He stood alone again, swirling his drink as he contemplated what was obviously a back-channel message from some element or faction within the Chinese armed services.  What precisely did it mean?  And to whom should it go?  Mi had made it clear he wasn’t speaking as a government representative.  If he forwarded it through embassy channels, State would simply file it.  And the next time the Navy exercised in those waters, the Chinese might very well carry out their threat.
     It wasn’t the first incident like this.  It was part of a pattern; one that spelled danger, and that if continued could end in confrontation, and catastrophe for both sides.  Someone had to lay down a marker.  Draw a line.  Make it clear that there was a limit.
     Standing beneath the golden dragons, Byrne said to himself: We're going to have to come to some understanding with these bastards.

 Prologue III:
 Manhattan
 
 

     He had a name, but not the one he used in daylight.  He had a face, but he revealed it to no one.  Save to those who looked on it as their last sight on earth.
     Through this crowd of beings driven by unthinking desire he moved with the purpose and fixity of the eternal stars.
     Etched with light like the gate of heaven, the square at night was a foretaste of hell.  Cadaverous men offered drugs, their terrorfilled eyes the best argument against their wares.  A man in a crusted vest thrust a flyer into his hand, a come-on for an “adult club.”  Shabby video stores, topless bars, grimy peepshows where furtive women muttered promises with their lying, diseased lips.  As he paused beneath the marquee that advertised live boys the wind rose between the reefs of buildings, rattling grit and paper cups across the street.  Music came from somewhere, distant, distant.  Beneath it lay the unending rumble of the subway, a lead foundation under the deep blue wheels of arriving night.
     Tonight the sacrifice selected herself.
     "Get outta here," shouted the cop at the corner of 42nd.  "Move on, or I run you in!"
     Her face was wide, thin-lipped below wedged cheekbones.  Eyes dark as the coming night.  She held her raincoat closed with one hand, turning to the silent man who’d stopped to watch.  She shouted, "What I do?  Told you, I got a gig tonight.  You get off hasslin’ me -- "
     “What’s she done, officer?” he said.
     The cop whipped around.  "Back off, Mac!  This ain’t your problem.”
     Maybe it is, he wanted to say; but did not.  He watched cash change hands.  When the officer swaggered off, he followed her swinging stride down the pavement.
     Just after sunset, but the Square was swollen with light and noise.  Taxis idled by, horns blaring.  Lost youngsters drifted past, bleached hair long, rubber thongs binding wrists.  Transvestites paraded in halters and heels.  Canadians in shorts towed gaping pale children.
     At Seventh the sidewalks suddenly clotted.  Beneath the gaudy light shoes grated on crowdworn concrete, faces smiled and grimaced, lips mouthed shattered words of need and intoxication.  Her heels clicked over crucified light.  Above the buildings the sky glowed, a dome of phosphorescence damming back the dark.
     She disappeared through a ported door.  Faint, regular thuds seeped through the walls.  He shouldered through a few steps after her, folding money into a red-lit hand.
     Into a reek of smoke, alcohol, sweat, and electricity.  Backlit faces above shadowed bodies.  A storm-surge of shouting.  Shoving his way in, he craned around.  Without success, she’d vanished like a stone dropped into the sea.  He stood searching, then squeezed his way toward the runway.  A blank-eyed hostess asked for his order.  When he set the can down the chilled metal rang hollow.
     "Go through those fast," shouted an old man.  “You see how she went for me?  I's your age, 'd show her thing or two."
     The hostess was back, leaning over him, asking if he wanted more.  He shook his head.  He was getting up, resigning himself to another wasted night, when orange and red spots ignited and he froze, staring up.
     She seemed to materialize from the black curtain.   The bar went quiet, and in the silence she glided down the scuffed runway and kicked off gold platforms.
     Music began, a heavy, rhythmic beat, and her eyes passed over the crowd, darkness on either side of those doors of night.  Shinbones like reinforcing steel set in copper.  Long thighs, bow-curved to slowly switching hips still hidden by the tail of the blouse.
     The lights changed, from hectic red-orange to the hazy tubed purple of ultraviolet.  The music changed too.  It became bare feet stamping dirt; the throb of hot blood, the slash of a lion's claw.  It was the tides that scoured the sand from under sleeping towns.  Ultraviolet played like fire over triangled undershirts, false teeth, creased collars.  Cigarettes gleamed from the dark like feral eyes.  Smoke streamed like violet fog.
     The blouse fluttered to the curtain, hung for an instant, glowing pearl against black, and fell.
     The music accelerated.  Now it was the lion's leap, the jaws at the throat, the triumph of lust and death.  She danced it with teeth bared and cords standing out in her neck, faster, and faster, till the final chords crashed to a halt and her breasts heaved, her naked body a sweaty mirror as the lights rose again.
     Their hands touched as he handed the money up.  Her eyes locked with his, and he saw that she knew, that the bargain was accepted.  Then they turned murderous.  Straightening, she did a slow grind, lips curled, and trotted away as cheers and whistles erupted.
     "Damn," whispered the old man.  He raised his glass, grinning as if he'd discovered the back door to Heaven.  "Ain't a man till you split a black oak."
     Outside the clouds, lit from below as if by furnaces, streamed westward above the topless towers.  Above them were stars and for minutes at a time a swollen moon.
     He waited for hours in an alley behind the club, far from the light.  When she emerged alone, he followed her down the ways of the city.
     His left hand, thrust deep into his pocket, clutched the bundle of nylon cable ties.  The knife was cold against his right.  His heart was pounding so hard sparks drifted at the edges of his sight.  He had dreamed, yearned, imagined his way toward this night for so long.  But he saw as he passed a dusty window that his face showed no eagerness, no passion, no emotion at all.
     Till at Seventh and 41st cars lifted like offerings on metal jacks behind a torn chain link fence, and darkness submerged them like the rising sea.
     She struggled at first.  Tried to scream, until he chopped her in the throat.  Then she begged him to let her go.  At the last she pleaded with him for death.
     There is an Angel of Death.  There is a Sword of God.
     Toward the approaching darkness I move without a face.  His tool, His puppet, obedient to His will.
     Fingers still sticky with the fragrance of a crushed and scattered rose.
 
 

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