“Yeah, those were happy times… Mick…” Her voice carried that tone, the one that cut through twenty-six years of marriage and five kids’ worth of deflection to get at the truth. “I’m not sure if you see any news over there, but the rhetoric from Beijing is getting worse. They’re calling Taiwan a ‘festering wound that must be cauterized.’”
He winced as he listened, then tried to say something. “I’ve heard some of it, Sarah—”
“Hey, don’t ‘Sarah’ me. I’ve spent twenty-plus years as a Navy wife. I know when you’re downplaying things.” He could hear her setting her coffee mug down, that distinctive sharp clinking sound it made, ceramic against the quartz countertop of their kitchen. “I know the money is good, and we could use it. But twelve hundred and fifty a day doesn’t do us any good if—”
“I know, you’re right.” He cut her off, the words coming out rougher than intended. She was concerned, that was all.
Below his feet, through twenty feet of rock, rebar, and concrete, forty-eight ROC naval personnel tracked every surface contact within two hundred miles. Kids, really. Same age as their oldest, the one serving on USS
“It’s not them I’m worried about.”
A maintenance crew drove past in an electric cart, tools rattling. Mick waited until they passed. “Seven more weeks. Contract ends May thirty-first. Jodi’s already got us booked on the first flight to Guam, then home.”
“You promise?”
“Would I lie to my favorite nurse?” He teased.
“You’d try to protect her from worrying.” But he heard the smile creep into her voice. “How’s Jodi? Still making those terrible movie references?”
“Yup, yesterday she told the ROC Marines that operating the Zealot USVs was like ‘giving Maverick a boat instead of an F-14.’ They just stared at her.”
Sarah’s laugh filled the distance between them. “Tell her she needs newer material.”
“I’ll add it to the list, right after ‘stop calling President Ouyang Skinny Poo in front of the Taiwanese admirals.’” He laughed.
“She doesn’t!”
“She does. They love it.” Mick checked his watch. Fourteen minutes into his fifteen-minute break. “Listen, I need to—”
“I know. Back to the cave.” She sighed. “Mason called yesterday. The
Their oldest, following his father’s path but in a Navy transformed by silicon and autonomy. “Tell him I’m proud of him next time he calls.”
“Tell him yourself when you get home.” A pause. “I love you, Michael Matsin. Come back to me.”
“I always do, Sarah.” The words were ritual, promise, prayer. “Love you too.”
“Mick?” she asked, not wanting the call to end.
“Yeah, I’m still here?”
“Whatever’s coming, whatever you’re really preparing them for, just… be careful. The kids need their father. I need my husband,” she said, her voice wavering.
He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of everything unsaid. The PLA naval buildup they’d tracked all week. The way the Taiwanese operators had stopped joking during drills. The grim efficiency that had replaced nervous energy.
“I’ll be careful,” he said. “I promise.”
“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced, but she let it go. Twenty-six years of marriage meant knowing which battles to fight. “Call me tomorrow?”
“Of course. Same time,” he responded automatically.
“Good. I’ll be here.”
The connection ended, leaving him alone with the night sounds of distant waves against the harbor walls. Mick looked at his watch.
He straightened his 511 shirt — old habits died hard — and headed back to the blast door. His key card chirped, the heavy mechanisms disengaging. The door swung inward, revealing the stark fluorescent world below.
He walked down the reinforced concrete stairs, past the emergency equipment lockers and radiation detection systems until he approached another checkpoint, presenting his credentials to an ROC Marine, who scanned them with the thousand-yard stare of someone who’d been awake too long. He waved him in, and Mick entered the sprawling ops center.
Two dozen workstations monitoring everything from underwater sensors to satellite feeds. The main display showed the Taiwan Strait in real time, every contact tagged and tracked. Merchant traffic flowed in predictable lanes, but everyone watched for anomalies. For the patterns that would signal Beijing’s patience had finally run out.
“Coffee, sir?” Master Chief Petty Officer Liang appeared at Mick’s elbow, offering a steaming mug. The stocky Taiwanese sailor had the weathered look of someone who’d spent decades on these islands, watching the mainland’s growing shadow.
“Thanks, Master Chief.” Mick accepted the ceramic cup, noting the faded 146th Fleet insignia. “Local blend?”
