2034

by Elliot Ackerman

  “When?”

  “The night I got here,” he answered. “I met your communications senior chief, Quint. Nice guy. I was still on West Coast time, so I stayed up to walk around the hangar. The planes look good, ma’am.”

  She leaned back in her chair, pleased that he thought so. For what she suspected would not be the last time, she allowed herself to feel a measure of affection for Wedge. She also felt sympathy. A great deal would be asked of him. She thought of her own sleeplessness. “If you’re having trouble getting rest, I can have the ship’s doctor prescribe you something.”

  Wedge shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am. It’s never really been a problem for me. Plus, out here, I sleep like a baby.” He popped back to attention, then disappeared from her office, into the bowels of the ship.

  * * *

  14:27 July 06, 2034 (GMT+8)

  Shenzhen

  The frail little man shuffled along the crest of the perfectly manicured grass hill, a golf club choked in his grip, the afternoon sun framing his silhouette. The same hospitality associate who’d taken Lin Bao to his junior suite now drove him toward the hill. Although Lin Bao had never met this man, he soon recognized him as Zhao Leji, member of the Politburo Standing Committee, secretary of the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection—the CCDI.

  Those four letters, and the little man who embodied them—Lin Bao had feared both his entire professional life.

  His golf cart arrived on the crest of the hill right as Zhao Leji was entering his backswing. Lin Bao sat completely still. If he had any lingering belief that the hospitality associate wasn’t involved with the communist party and its internal security apparatus, if he held on to a hope that she was simply a young woman from the provinces who’d come to Shenzhen and found a good job at Mission Hills, it was dispelled when Lin Bao noticed how she, too, sat completely still, equally fearful of distracting Zhao Leji.

  Now, at the apex of his swing, the head of Zhao Leji’s club floated in the air, his entire body conforming to this upward articulation. With a swoosh, the club made a clean decapitation of the ball from its tee, his shot sailing out toward the horizon, where it disappeared into the mix of sun and afternoon smog. As Zhao Leji slid his club back into his bag, he noticed Lin Bao.

  “Not bad for an old man,” said Zhao Leji, hoisting his clubs onto his shoulder. He would walk to the next hole, preferring the exercise, while his security detail trailed behind in a squadron of golf carts. He motioned for Lin Bao to join him, and to grab a set of clubs off the back of one of the carts. As Lin Bao followed after Zhao Leji, he noticed that the hospitality associate would not look at him, as if she suspected Lin Bao was about to meet a fate she had long feared for herself.

  It was soon only the two of them, Lin Bao and Zhao Leji, hoofing it across the golf course, each burdened by their bag of clubs. Eventually, Zhao Leji began to talk. “These days, hiking across a golf course is the closest I get to honest labor. . . .” He was breathing heavily. “I began my career during Mao’s Cultural Revolution, digging trenches on a commune. . . . You do the work yourself. . . . There is satisfaction in that. . . . You grew up in America, yes?” When he turned to face Lin Bao, Zhao Leji’s eyes became like tunnels. “That makes us very different, doesn’t it. Take our game of golf, for instance. Americans like to ride around in a cart and play with a caddy. When they take their caddy’s advice and win, they claim the win as their own. When they take that advice and lose, they blame their caddy. . . . It’s never good to be the caddy.”

  They arrived at the next hole, a par-4.

  Zhao Leji took his swing. It landed on the fairway.

  Lin Bao took his swing. It landed in the trees.

  Zhao Leji began to laugh. “Go on, my young friend. Try again.” Lin Bao said that it was all right, he didn’t need a second chance, he didn’t want to cheat. But Zhao Leji would hear nothing of it. “It’s not cheating,” he insisted, “if I make the rules.”

  Lin Bao switched clubs.

  He put his second shot on the fairway, a bit behind Zhao Leji’s, and as they walked to their balls, Zhao Leji resumed their conversation. “Some might say that after what happened at Zhanjiang, it’s frivolous for a man in my position to be out playing golf. But it’s important for our people to know that life goes on, that there is steady leadership at the helm, particularly in light of what might be coming next. If our intelligence is correct—and I suspect that it is—the Americans will have three carrier battle groups in position to blockade our coastline within the next two weeks. You’ve worked very closely with Minister Chiang, but I feel that I must let you know that he’s expressed some reservations as to your competence. He believes that you might have given him, and by that virtue the Politburo Standing Committee, bad advice with regard to American intentions. Your mother was American, correct? Minister Chiang believes that your affinity for her country might have clouded your judgment when advising him.”

  The two gazed out at the next hole. The oblong fairway extended in front of them for almost two hundred yards. Then it cut sharply to the left, running between a copse of trees and a water obstacle. After reading the ground, Lin Bao concluded that if he hit too short, he’d wind up in the trees—which was recoverable. However, if he hit too long, he’d wind up in the water—which was not.

  Zhao Leji stepped to the tee with a 3-wood.

  Lin Bao stood behind him with a 2-iron.

  As Zhao Leji sunk his tee into the green, he commented on Lin Bao’s club selection, noting that a 2-iron wouldn’t give him enough range. “It seems we’ve looked at the same problem and reached a different set of solutions,” he said.

  Lin Bao averted his eyes to avoid any outward disagreement with Zhao Leji. But if he thought to exchange his 2-iron for a 3-wood, something within Lin Bao wouldn’t allow it; perhaps it was his pride, or dignity, or willfulness. Whatever it was, the defiance he felt when confronted by someone more powerful was familiar. He’d felt it as a naval cadet when older boys had teased him about his American heritage, or when he’d first been passed over for command of the Zheng He in favor of Ma Qiang, and now, staring at his 2-iron, he even felt that defiance when questioned by a man who with a single word could have a dark-suited thug put a bullet in his head. And so, Lin Bao explained, “A 3-wood is going to give you too much range. If you overplay, you’re going to wind up in the water. There’s no recovery then. If you underplay and wind up in the trees, at least you’ll be in a better position for your next shot instead of all the way back here on the tee. When the range falls between two clubs, it’s a better strategy to select the less ambitious choice.”

  The old man nodded once, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and, with his 3-wood gripped tightly, reached into his backswing. His ball exploded off its tee, the sound alone signaling a perfect connection, which arced ever higher. When its trajectory reached its apex, it became apparent that Lin Bao was right. The 3-wood was too powerful of a club.

  Zhao Leji’s ball sailed into the water with a plunk.

  He bent over, picked up his tee, and then faced Lin Bao, who searched for any expression of disapproval or even disappointment in the old man. There was none; he simply made way for Lin Bao, who sunk his tee into the stubby grass. The thought did occur to him that he could angle his shot into the rough. He imagined that someone more obsequious—someone like Minister Chiang—might throw his game in favor of a senior official like Zhao Leji. But Lin Bao had only risen as far as he had because he’d never indulged the weaknesses of a superior, even when that superior could harm his career or—as was the case with Zhao Leji—end his life.

  His 2-iron connected with the ball.

  Its trajectory was low and fast, rocketing toward the bend in the fairway. His shot was gaining altitude, but it wasn’t certain that it would be enough to clear the trees. It was like watching an overburdened aircraft attempt to climb above a particularly treacherous mountain face. Lin Bao found himself gesturing with his hands, up, up, up. An
d then he noticed that Zhao Leji was doing the same; it was as if the old man wanted to be proven wrong. When the ball clipped the top of the trees, it kept going, landing on the fairway right as a few agitated birds took flight from the topmost branches.

  “Looks like I’m one stroke behind,” said Zhao Leji through a broad smile. Then the old man stepped over to his golf bag and replaced his 3-wood with a 2-iron.

  They spent the better part of the afternoon on the course. That would be the only hole Lin Bao won against Zhao Leji. Though Lin Bao played his best, the old man was a far superior golfer, and it soon became obvious how remarkable it was that Lin Bao had outfoxed him on even a single hole. While they made their circuit around the course, the conversation turned to Lin Bao’s duties and “their natural evolution,” as Zhao Leji put it. He would no longer report directly to Minister Chiang. The disaster at Zhanjiang had forced the Politburo Standing Committee to “reorganize the military command structure,” a statement that Lin Bao recognized for the disciplinary euphemism it was. Zhao Leji then reminded Lin Bao that the People’s Republic was “on death ground,” in an echo of the language used by Minister Chiang, while not attributing that language to him or his subsequent conclusion: “We must fight.” When it came to the details of that fight, Zhao Leji was prepared only to say, “We must take commensurate action to the Americans’ strike at Zhanjiang.”

  Lin Bao had felt tempted to remind Zhao Leji of the lesson from only moments ago: when selecting between two nearly equal courses of action it was always best to choose the least ambitious, lest you overplay. But correcting the secretary of the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection on his golf game was one matter; correcting him on affairs of state was quite another. Lin Bao possessed enough gumption for the former but not yet the latter.

  If he didn’t speak up against a potential nuclear strike on the United States, he nearly spoke up when Zhao Leji explained what he had planned next for him.

  “Some people within the party hold you responsible along with Minister Chiang for Zhanjiang. I wasn’t sure myself until today. My belief is that you advised him as best you could. Perhaps, if he’d kept you closer, we might have avoided that tragedy—provided he would’ve listened to you, which I also doubt. From this point forward, I have taken on his responsibilities in the Defense Ministry. And I will need sound advice . . . a caddy, as it were.” And he smiled at Lin Bao. “Someone to provide an alternate viewpoint. So, you won’t be returning to your carrier. You’ll return to Beijing instead, to serve as my deputy within the ministry.”

  Zhao Leji flagged down a member of his security detail, who appeared swiftly alongside them in a golf cart. The wily old man surely knew that the loss of Lin Bao’s command would be a demoralizing blow, which is why he didn’t wait for his reaction. As Lin Bao climbed next to the driver, Zhao Leji said his goodbyes, telling Lin Bao only, “I will see you in Beijing before long.” He turned to study the fairway and began to select the next club from his bag.

  When Lin Bao arrived at reception, the hospitality associate seemed almost surprised to see him again. The member of Zhao Leji’s security detail spoke a few words to her and she escorted Lin Bao back to his room. As she had checked him into Mission Hills, Lin Bao now asked what he would need to do in order to check out. She seemed confused, saying only, “I’ll look into that,” as if she were unfamiliar with the procedure herself and Lin Bao was the first person she had ever needed to check out. When she left him at his door, she asked if he required anything else. Lin Bao reminded her about his dry cleaning, the uniform he’d sent out that morning. He couldn’t make the return trip in his golf clothes. The young woman again seemed unsure and repeated, “I’ll look into that.”

  While Lin Bao packed up his few possessions in a shapeless bag, his mind began to wander. Despite Zhao Leji’s obvious frustration with Minister Chiang, he and the Politburo Standing Committee agreed with Chiang’s assessment of the situation. An American blockade off their coast was unacceptable. A counterstrike was the only option. But what form would that counterstrike take? Lin Bao understood that he would be required to have an opinion on the matter as he advised Zhao Leji. And like Minister Chiang, he would be held accountable for that opinion if it proved incorrect. The idea unsettled Lin Bao. He would be in Beijing soon and perhaps he would seek out Minister Chiang. Perhaps his old boss could quietly advise him, even if he had fallen out of favor with the Politburo Standing Committee and Zhao Leji. Perhaps Chiang could help him navigate his new role among these powerful and dangerous men.

  A knock at the door interrupted these thoughts.

  A young valet stood in the threshold. “This is the dry cleaning I have for your room.”

  Lin Bao thanked him and took the hangers covered in transparent plastic. He laid them on the bed next to his bag. As he tore off the plastic, he noticed that the first uniform seemed a larger size than what he wore. It was wider in the stomach. The sleeves extended almost to the jacket’s hemline. When he read the embroidered name tape sewn above the breast pocket, it wasn’t his own—but it was familiar, nevertheless.

  It read, Chiang.

  What a coincidence, thought Lin Bao—but he only thought this for a moment. He suddenly felt utterly alone. He wouldn’t have his old boss to rely on for advice when he returned to Beijing. It was no coincidence that he and Minister Chiang had stayed in the same room. Nor was it a mistake that Minister Chiang’s uniform had been left behind.

  * * *

  13:03 July 17, 2034 (GMT+5:30)

  New Delhi

  By any objective measure Farshad had witnessed a spectacular success. His Russian naval counterparts had in a two-week period supported a land campaign conquering several hundred square miles, thus fulfilling a multigenerational strategic imperative: Russia now had direct overland access to its Baltic ports. Atrophied bodies of international governance and alliance, the United Nations and NATO, decried this “aggression,” but Farshad suspected that woven between their declamations was grudging respect. Decades of miscalculation in Washington and Beijing had sown discord into the world order; all the Russians had done was reap the harvest. That other nations—namely Farshad’s own—would try to reap a similar harvest in other locales seemed unsurprising. Equally unsurprising was that his countrymen would bungle it.

  While Farshad was immersed in Russia’s advance into Polish territory, pleased to have found himself useful to naval commanders supporting a ground invasion, a hawkish faction of the Revolutionary Guards decided it was time for Iran to assert control of the long-contested Strait of Hormuz. The Revolutionary Guards, using their smaller fleet of speedboats, had brashly chosen to seize the first large international ship making the transit, a freighter owned by TATA NYK, the company’s name being an alphabet soup of meaningless letters that proved relevant to Farshad in only one way: the ship was Indian.

  It was a particularly foolish choice for the Revolutionary Guards, who’d acted without the express approval of the chief of staff of the Armed Forces, Major General Bagheri, although his detractors speculated he’d known all along. Now Farshad’s government was in the unenviable position of having to de-escalate tensions while also not losing face or delegitimizing its long-running claim over the strait. In short, what General Bagheri needed was someone who had ties to both the Revolutionary Guards and to the regular military. Someone who could speak credibly for both. And who was a naval officer. Farshad knew, before the message ever arrived for him from Tehran, that he was the single person who fit this description.

  He had flown commercial out of Moscow direct to New Delhi. This wasn’t because the Russian or Iranian military lacked the resources to fly him officially, but because neither his government nor the Indians had officially acknowledged they were willing to negotiate. He would, ostensibly, be traveling to New Delhi as a private citizen. Farshad’s mission was a delicate one. He understood that India’s old adversary, Pakistan, would be more than willing to aid his country if asked, and he also understood t
hat the Indians could potentially throw their weight behind the Americans if pushed too far. The slightest misstep by either party could lead to a further escalation of what was already a global conflict, or, put another way, a world war.

  Crammed into a center seat on his Aeroflot Airbus A330, he followed his flight’s progress. On the monitor affixed to the seatback in front of him, an icon of their plane left a tiny trail of bread crumbs across the globe. As he considered the map, Farshad reflected on how quickly tensions had escalated between the Americans and Chinese, two nations, unlike his own, that had a major stake in preserving the world order. From the Wén Rui incident, to the succession of naval battles fought between the US and Chinese fleets, to the invasion of Taiwan and the US nuclear strike on Zhanjiang, so much of what had occurred since March defied the logic of both nations’ interests.

  Unless that logic had changed.

  No one—neither politicians nor pundits—had yet to refer to this conflict as the Third World War. Farshad wondered if India’s involvement, or perhaps even Pakistan’s, would be enough to bestow on this crisis that grim name, with its apocalyptic connotations. Farshad doubted it.

  The involvement of other nations wasn’t what would make this a Third World War. It would take something else. . . .

  At Zhanjiang the Americans had used a nuclear weapon, but it was tactical, its payload and the fallout both manageable and imaginable—the equivalent of a single, devastating natural disaster. No nation—America, China, or otherwise—had yet to dip into its arsenal of strategic nuclear weapons. The doomsday weapons.

  Farshad’s ears popped.

  The engines on the Airbus A330 groaned as they hurried their descent.

  The plane landed and Farshad passed through immigration without incident. He had brought only one carry-on bag and within minutes was standing in the overcrowded arrivals hall, surrounded by the joyful embraces of travelers reunited with their loved ones. However, no one was there to meet him. His instructions from General Bagheri’s staff hadn’t extended beyond this point. He’d been assured that his Indian counterpart would find him here. He sat at a crowded Starbucks without ordering. His mind wandered. Watching the crowd, he began to think of the many names the people in it had for one another—whether it be mother, father, son, daughter, or simply friend—and how that might all vanish in an instant, in a flash, because of that single, other obliterating name we give to one another: enemy.