Power and Empire

The deputy national security adviser opened a laptop and looked at the screen, apparently wanting to be certain he had the latest information. “Mr. President,” he said, “forty-five minutes ago, the Naval communications center at Sasebo, Japan, received a distress call from Research Vessel Meriwether, a converted eighty-nine-foot fishing trawler with a crew of ten. She is based out of the University of Hawaii but is on loan to Kyushu University’s Coastal and Ocean Engineering Department, ostensibly conducting fishing studies in the East China Sea—”

“Ah,” Ryan said. “But she’s not doing fish studies?”

“No,” Burgess said. “She’s towing a sonar array to study submarine traffic and communications.”

“Just so, sir,” Commander Forrestal said. “RV Meriwether has been seconded to the Defense Intelligence Agency for two years.”

Ryan rubbed his eyes, thinking this through. Virtually every nation with the capacity to launch a boat had some sort of spy ship. Some were overt about it, dragging sonars or flying masts to intercept foreign signal intelligence, but some were disguised. Chinese and Russian fishing vessels were often cover identities — and the United States had more than one such vessel of her own.

“Do we have open communication with the vessel?” van Damm asked.

“We do, sir,” Commander Forrestal said. “So far, everyone aboard is fine, but Meriwether has lost propulsion and Typhoon Catelyn is driving her directly toward China.”

“Lost propulsion?” Ryan asked. “What’s their position?”

Forrestal turned his laptop around so Ryan could see the radar image on the screen. “Approximately thirty kilometers northeast of Kuba-shima, one of the Senkaku Islands. This one is known as Huangwei Yu to the Chinese. At this moment, they’re in waters claimed by both Japan and China, but at their present rate of speed they’ll drift into undisputed Chinese territory in less than six hours. Chinese Coast Guard and fishing vessels are in and around the disputed islands almost daily when the weather allows. On a positive note, we’re not tracking any right now.”

Ryan shook his head. “How is this boat handling the storm if she doesn’t have an engine?”

“Not well, I’m afraid,” the commander said. “She is still ahead of the typhoon, but only just. Meriwether’s skipper, Captain Dave Holloway, reports seas in excess of thirty feet.”

Ryan exhaled slowly and leaned forward in his chair. He studied the red arrows behind a white swirl of clouds on the radar image. “I see the storm’s turned back to the west.”

“It has,” Forrestal said.

“Does anyone else find this situation odd?” Ryan asked, “Considering Meriwether’s location and everything else that’s been going on with China?”

Burgess nodded. Van Damm raised his eyebrows.

Forrestal said, “The events and proximity to the PRC are extremely coincidental, but Captain Holloway doesn’t believe this was sabotage. He’s reporting it as a crankcase explosion caused by a fire in the scavenge space.”

“Bad maintenance, then,” Burgess said, shaking his head.

“Scavenge fire,” Ryan said. “So it was something with the engine itself.”

“Correct, Mr. President,” the commander said. “Could have been caused by any number of things, like a buildup of carbon in the scavenge air space — basically the trunk that feeds air to the engine. The crankcase relief valve blew, and the resulting oil mist ignited inside the engine room. We’re fortunate the whole ship didn’t go up in flames.”

“Or not,” Burgess said. “Still sounds like poor maintenance.”

“Captain Holloway is new to the vessel,” Forrestal said.

“Not an excuse,” Burgess said.

“But it is a reason,” Ryan said. “Any casualties?”

“The mechanic suffered some burns,” Commander Forrestal said. “But the skipper reports nothing life-threatening.”

“There’s always some son of a bitch who didn’t get the word,” the SecDef said, obviously referring to then President Kennedy’s response when he was informed of the American U-2 pilot who, navigating with all he was given — a compass and sextant — inadvertently flew from Alaska into Soviet air space. It was the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the incursion very nearly pushed the already tense standoff into nuclear war.

“We can talk the blame game when everyone’s safe on dry land,” Ryan said. “Captain Holloway and his crew are out doing what we asked them to do. Let’s get him on the horn. I want to talk to him.”

It took ten minutes for the communications specialist on watch in the Situation Room to reach the research vessel Meriwether and connect the captain with the Oval Office. Ryan put the call on speaker.

“Captain Holloway, Jack Ryan here.”

A screaming wind moaned in the background. “Mr. President.” Holloway’s quiet voice barely cut through the static. He said something else, which was unintelligible.

Ryan fought the urge to speak louder over the phone. “Do you have injuries, Captain?”