The Art of War: A Novel by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online Page A

the flight deck, topped by a collage of antennae, appeared small from any distance, like a lonely house surrounded by endless rice paddies. The deck of one of the carriers was full of airplanes parked cheek to jowl. The tails of the planes stuck over the sides of the flight deck.
    Zhang Ping was impressed by the sight. He knew, of course, the mission of these ships: power projection. They controlled the surface of the ocean within a thousand miles of wherever they happened to be and projected power onto the land. Their planes could hit targets anywhere within a thousand miles of saltwater, which was a great huge chunk of the earth’s surface. America had ten of these ships, all nuclear powered, all at sea about half the time, in all the major oceans of the earth. Three more were currently under construction right across the James River at the Newport News Shipbuilding Company, which was, incidentally, the only shipyard in the world capable of constructing these monster warships.
    Zhang thought it delightful, relaxing, to boat up and down the Elizabeth River or along the Chesapeake coastline, or to sit on the end of Willoughby Spit on summer evenings drinking beer and looking at a carrier or two berthed at the navy base while watching and listening to helicopters buzzing about and tactical jets roaring into or out of the base’s airfield, Chambers Field.
    Zhang Ping and Choy Lee tended their hooks, kept fresh bait on, watched their bobbers and listened to the jets and choppers. Life that summer was very pleasant, for them both, but Choy was worried. He knew nothing of the bomb, of course. He suspected he had been ordered to nursemaid Zhang because his English skills were nearly nonexistent. Certainly Choy’s control wouldn’t order him home suddenly and leave Zhang stranded in a country where he didn’t speak the language. Yet why was Zhang here? The question gnawed at him.
    Of course he told Sally that Zhang was here, a cousin, he said, from the mainland. Here on a tourist visa.
    In September the days began to cool. More fronts moved through, morning fog became more frequent, and often the days became windy. On windy days the Elizabeth River and James Estuary became too choppy for Choy’s boat. In October frontal systems with low clouds, copious rain and high winds moved through the area, followed by balmy, beautiful days with lots of sunshine.
    Ships came and went. A carrier battle group came in, stayed a week, then went back out.
    Zhang Ping became more withdrawn. He was smoking more now, watching the naval base for an hour or so morning and night. He watched the tugs, other harbor craft, fuel barges, became familiar with the rhythm of activities in the naval base, looked for anything out of the ordinary. And didn’t see it.
    There was nothing to do but wait. Still, with every passing day the waiting became more difficult.
    Choy Lee picked up on Zhang’s mood. He ascribed it to the fact that Zhang was alone in a strange land and could only speak to Choy, and other people with Choy’s help. Cultural shock, Choy thought.

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
    The object of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his.
    —George S. Patton
    CIA Director Mario Tomazic liked to spend his free weekends at a cottage on the eastern shore of Chesapeake Bay, on a waterfront lot beside the wide mouth of a river estuary. He didn’t have many free weekends; he was lucky to get one or two a month, but when he could arrange to get away this was where he came. He found fishing relaxing, and with his little runabout he could motor out and fish and drink beer and sit in the sun and look at the sky and clouds and recharge his batteries for the week ahead. He needed those weekends. Badly. They were especially sweet when his daughter and her kids came; he got a chance to play grandfather and teach the kids how to fish.
    On the downside, there was the Friday afternoon traffic eastbound across the Bay Bridge, and Sunday