Onslaught

by David Poyer

  Aisha stood. Gathered up the hasp, the ziplock, and the plastic bottle. Ryan held out a larger bag, and she dropped them in.

  She murmured, “I’m going to cast a wider net.”

  15

  Tysons Corner, Virginia

  “YES, I’ll hold for the General.” Blair shifted in her chair, and gasped as pain stabbed her pelvis. It had been years since the injury, but it still hurt. There didn’t seem to be much the doctors could suggest. She swiveled angrily, and cursed under her breath at another, even more intense pang.

  A Chinese-accented voice came on the line. “Blair?”

  “Good morning.” She was in her office on the third floor, on the noon break between committee sessions. So far, in two days, they’d nailed down little in the way of consensus. CNN stayed on in the conference room 24/7, and the news from the Pacific grew worse each hour. “General Shucheng?”

  “How are you, Blair? Still well?”

  She got the small talk over as soon as decently possible. Shucheng was one of the highest-ranking officers in the Army of the Republic of China. She and the deputy chief of staff had met on a fact-finding mission to the Ministry of National Defense two years before. They’d shared a mat at an official dinner, during which Shucheng had gotten drunk enough on Taiwanese single malt to try for a feel. It had made things awkward for a moment, before they’d both decided to roar with laughter.

  He was still in office. And apparently under the impression she was still in DoD—a misconception she had no plans to disabuse him of. “Luong, I’m calling on a sensitive matter. We’re trying to sketch out our options in the Pacific. Could I ask a couple of questions, off the record?”

  The distant voice fell. “Your options. I believe those are already spelled out in our treaty.”

  “I understand. And you can depend on us. But I need to know your intentions.”

  Shucheng seemed to turn away from the receiver, to answer someone else in rapid Chinese. When he came back on he sounded angry. “You know about the missile strikes on our airfields. And on our antiaircraft sites, radars, command nodes.”

  “How heavy is the damage? I know you carried out that hardening program—”

  “Unfortunately, only half completed. And, you know, this is just the beginning.”

  “Go on.”

  “The mainlanders are opening a drive to expand their foothold on the Diaoyus. If they succeed, they will outflank us. But our Japanese allies are fighting there.”

  She chewed her lip, swiveled the chair again, and almost cried out at the wrench in her hip. Concentrate! Setting aside that he’d used not the Japanese name for the Senkakus, but the same one Beijing used in putting forth their claim, what she was getting from Defense Intelligence was less rosy. According to them, the battle in the Five Islands was degenerating into a hand-to-hand struggle between Japanese and Chinese marines. The advantage depended less on maneuver or superior weapons, or even numbers, than on the struggle for air supremacy and the capacities of the resupply pipelines, one from the mainland across the East China Sea, the other south from Japan.

  Both sides were feeding in men, and taking heavy casualties. So far the Japanese were holding, but neither their manpower reserves nor their air force could stand high rates of attrition for long. “And your own intentions, General? If the conflict broadens geographically? I think—”

  Shucheng interrupted: “You mean, if they invade? That I can tell you. We will resist. Even if they land armor, we have good weapons. The terrain favors us. We’ve had sixty years to get ready. They have no idea what our artillery can do. We’ll cut them down like ripe wheat. Then, declare full independence.”

  It sounded good. But what else could you expect a general to say? The double beep on her line said another call was waiting. “Luong, can you hold briefly?”

  “Only for a moment, Blair.”

  “This is Blair Titus.”

  “Blair? It’s Jessica.”

  Her campaign manager. “I’m on another call, Jessica. Asia. So make it fast.”

  “We’ve got a problem. Mr. Blaisdell called—he can’t follow through on his commitment.”

  “How much was that?”

  “Significant. A quarter million.”

  Blaisdell, a friend of her stepfather’s, had been an early supporter. Her finger hovered over the button for the other call. “What can I do?”

  “It doesn’t sound like anything we did, just that the market’s wiped out his ‘me’ money for this election cycle. People are worried, Blair. The purse strings are tightening.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “If you want to try to get him back on board, I wouldn’t wait.”

  “I said I’ll get back to you, Jessica.” She hung up before the other could answer.

  To her relief, the general was still on the line, but he didn’t sound happy at being put on hold. After apologizing, she said, “Our intel warns that a major cross-channel assault is building.”

  “We are watching the far side very closely, believe me. Yes, they are concentrating their amphibious fleet in the ports of eastern China.” His tone went bitter. “We should be attacking them in the staging areas. But your secretary of state is advising us to take no action. He does not want us to ‘antagonize’ Premier Zhang.

  “Believe me, what we do, or don’t do, won’t affect his decision. The man is an insane tyrant. To throw away all those years of industrial development? Attack India, Vietnam, even antagonize the Russians in the north? Unfortunately, it is our troops who will die. But we will fight. We will meet them on the beaches, and throw them back into the sea.”

  Blair nodded into the phone. “How about your own force dispositions? Specifically, if an invasion attempt really is the follow-on to these attacks?”

  “I cannot discuss our plans. As I said, we will fight on. Even if we have to retreat to the Chingyan Shan, and guerrilla from there.”

  The Chingyan Shan were the mountains of Taiwan. She’d flown over them on her visit. Unpopulated, rugged, densely forested, no doubt they could be defended. If you were willing to dig in, endure privation, hold or die. She glanced across the desk as a staffer dropped a folder on it. The notes from this morning. “Um, this is a secure line, General.”

  “There is no such thing anymore. There may even be officers in our own army…” His voice trailed off. “Are you at the Pentagon, Blair?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “Where precisely are you?”

  Time to come clean. “I’m at SAIC. I thought you knew. I work here now.”

  “You are no longer—oh—I did not … Dear Madam Titus, I must go. I am called away. It was very good to speak with you.”

  The line beeped and went dead.

  * * *

  CONVENED once more, the China Emergency Group nearly ended with a shouting session between a retired three-star general, who accused them of planning for surrender, and the young man from Google, who refused to believe changing this or that border in the Pacific would make any difference. “As long as trade and data flow freely, national borders no longer matter.”

  Blair and the general exchanged furious, weary glances. “Let me explain this again,” she said, putting her hand on the lad’s arm. It felt warm, and for a moment, her fingers resting lightly on his skin, sensing his pulse beneath it, she flashed a sudden picture of how his chest would look under that loose shirt. She shoved the image aside; she was almost old enough to be his mother, for heaven’s sake. “Trade and data flow freely only between free countries. Zhang’s building a zone of hegemony. Once it’s fenced off, outsiders won’t be welcome.

  “We also have responsibilities to our allies. Some are formal, like those to Japan. Others are understood, or implied, as with Taiwan.” She tightened her grip, trying to come up with a simile he’d identify with. “If we break our promises, it’s like breaking a contract. Who would deal with your company after that?”

  “Contracts get renegotiated all the time.” The exe
cutive took out his cell, looked at it, realized the screen was blank, and reddened. “What about this peace feeler I saw on the news? We should at least talk.”

  Ms. Clayton, the former national security adviser, observed in a precise voice that the ‘peace through unification” proposal the Chinese had put forward at the UN was simply a proposal for Taiwan to allow free entry of mainland troops. “Beijing would gain full control, with all that implies. Including basing rights. The guarantees of elections and a separate democratic process are paper promises. There’s no mechanism for inspection, and the lethal way Zhang put down the riots in Hong Kong gives us no assurance he’ll be less repressive in Taiwan.

  “In essence, he’s saying surrender, and he’ll run Asia from here on in.” She blinked across the table. “Blair, you were going to sound out your contact at the Ministry of National Defense?”

  “General Shucheng sounds determined to resist. But less positive about their ability to repel a full-scale invasion.”

  Clayton inclined that bobbed head. “I’ve sounded out my counterparts in Hanoi and the Philippines. They have long memories. Even if we’re pushed back, as long as we’re still fighting, they understand it’s not over. We’ve already started building the coalition to prosecute a protracted war. With blockade and exhaustion, that’s how China will be defeated.”

  Blair smiled. The little woman was so crisp. Determined. Clayton beckoned briskly to a staffer. “Let’s have that map again.”

  The map … they’d pored over it hour after hour. Since the first question was whether Taiwan could be held, they’d invited a historian in from the Joint Staff College to give an overview of Operation Causeway.

  The Army-Marine assault on Formosa planned for late 1945 would have been the largest landing of World War II. Half a million troops would have landed on four beaches. Heavily supported by naval gunfire and air, they would have established airfields on the southern third of the island before fighting north along the west coast, toward Taipei.

  “It would have been a bloody campaign,” the historian had said. “After the way the Japanese resisted on Tarawa, Saipan, and Tinian, we expected heavy casualties. But we would’ve taken the island. Eventually.”

  After him, a DIA staffer had briefed on where a present-day Red Chinese landing would probably take place, and how likely it was that ROC forces could throw it back. Blair had noted that the landing beaches in his analysis were the same the U.S. had planned to use in 1945, with the addition of airborne descents to seize the airfields.

  The outcome, DIA predicted, would hinge on two issues: first, how stoutly the islanders resisted; second, whether the mainlanders could maintain a supply and reinforcement link across the strait. He’d presented comparative buildup rates. “The initial landing is only the start of what could be a long, intense campaign. The PLA can probably get a foothold on a small scale. Overall success will depend on how quickly they can build up that initial force. So ports and airfields are the second key issue.

  “Next, if the island holds out, will we be landing U.S. troops? Or, possibly, Japanese? Tokyo has a valid security concern if Taiwan falls. If Japan feels threatened, and if they see the U.S. is determined to hold the inner island chain, they could step in, whatever a treaty says or doesn’t say.” He’d pressed his lips into a thin, bitter line. “Zhang’s not exactly observing the letter of the law either. After all.”

  * * *

  NOW, as they came to the end of the session, Tomlin said, “A war without a strategy is just random slaughter. A breakthrough has to be contained at the flanks.”

  Somehow the four of them, Clayton, Blair, Tomlin, and the Stanford professor, Glancey, had ended up at the head of the table. Clayton nodded. “As we’ve heard. Even if a beachhead were established, it would take time to gain full control. Especially if sizable remnants continued to fight in the mountainous spine of the island.”

  “The Chingyan Shan,” Blair said. The range Shucheng had mentioned.

  Tomlin nodded. “Correct. And if we could isolate the invasion force, cut it off on Taiwan, we could engineer an encirclement of enormous proportions.” They all looked at the committee’s staff director, a white-haired yet young Marine reservist who sat farther down the table, taking notes. “Let’s work that up overnight. Get whatever help you need.”

  Blair asked, “What about forces currently in theater?”

  Ms. Clayton shared a glance with the general. Who murmured, “Assume the worst. Plan for none of them to survive.”

  * * *

  AT the Metro she was surprised to see troops posted at each exit. The Monocle was on D Street, across from the Library of Congress, where she’d worked before crossing to the Senate offices. She spared the great green dome an affectionate glance. The cold air smelled like rain, but so far it was only sprinkling. This restaurant was one of Bankey’s favorites, handy for meeting attorneys, high-level officials, and lobbyists. Just the place for quiet conferences over excellent steaks or succulent crab cakes, without fear of reading about it in the Post the next morning.

  “Good evening, Ms. Titus. The senator’s at his usual table.” The chubby, mustached maitre d’ bowed her into a small room with dozens of autographed photographs on the walls.

  “Thanks, Carley.”

  An ascetic-looking face glanced up from one of the tables as she passed. “Senator Glenn,” she said, nodding.

  “Hey, Blair.”

  Bankey Talmadge lumbered to his feet as she approached. “Missy! You look younger every time I see ya.”

  She submitted smiling to a pat rather too low on her back, accompanied by the scent of good bourbon. “Great to see you too, Bankey. You saw Senator Glenn was here, right?”

  “Yeah, we said hey.” Talmadge waved at the other senator. “I ordered for you. And gin-tonic, right?”

  “Maybe just one.”

  “I know you like the filet mignon, medium rare.” He laid a worn, faded manila folder on the table. “How’s it going, that thing you said you were on now, over at those bandits—”

  “SAIC. We’re not supposed to talk about it.”

  “You know I’m silent as the grave,” he said. Not perfectly accurate, but as the committee chairman, he was cleared. She compromised with “We’re discussing alternate strategies. In response to possible Chinese moves.”

  “That ain’t JCS business? Ops and Plans?”

  “They’ve got their hands full just now. We’ve got a lot of their ex-membership, though.”

  “I get the picture.” Talmadge nodded. “SecDef wants to look at what happens if we get knocked on our keisters. Like Korea, in 1950.”

  She just smiled. On the nose, as usual. He went on, “And I gotta say, it could happen. The Chinese, I mean our Chinese, they’re tellin’ me they can’t hold.”

  “Really? Who told you that?”

  “Frank Fabricatore. You remember, he was helping them out on that F-16 sale a couple years ago. From the horse’s mouth.” Talmadge winced, and pulled out a cell phone. Frowned at the screen. “Service! I better take this while it’s workin’. Hold on a sec, okay?”

  She nodded. He murmured for a few minutes, then put the phone away. “Okay, sorry, where were we?”

  “Whether the Taiwanese will fight. Who exactly is the horse’s mouth, Bankey? I talked to one of their top generals. He said the exact opposite.”

  The big hoary head waggled. “They pulled out of Quemoy and Matsu without a shot. Military can’t fight if the civilian leadership goes weak at the knees, Blair. Hey, here’s your gin-tonic.”

  She kept poking around, trying to get some feel for who’d fed him that information, but he just grunted. She went to her second issue. “Bankey, forgive me for bringing this up again, but the last time we met, over at the Russell with Hu and Mindy, you mentioned funds you could bring to the table for my House run. You even mentioned a figure.”

  “Five,” the senator mumbled, examining the drinks menu.

  “Correct. Is there any way we ca
n move that forward? I’m running out of credit with my campaign manager. Not to mention the ad agency.”

  Talmadge glanced away and sighed. “Well, here’s how it is. I really would like to help you. We been together a good many years. But sometimes I want to help somebody, and sort of get ahead of myself. Fact is, I’m not the only one with his hand on that spigot, d’you see? And the others, they want to see which way the party’s gonna jump on this vote. Authorizing use of force to defend Taiwan.”

  “Well, pardon me, Bankey, but I don’t see what that has to do with your promise to me.”

  “It wasn’t a promise, Missy. Just said I’d try to get it for you. But there’s something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  Talmadge muttered, again not meeting her gaze, “Here’s the thing. We just gotta figure out, as a party, if we’re going to go in for another war. This president’s already got us up to our eyeballs in Iraq. Syria. Yemen. And maybe Iran, too, if he gets his way. Are we going along?”

  “Well, you’re the chairman, Bankey.”

  A rueful smile. “The Senate isn’t the British Parliament, Missy. You know that.”

  Their food arrived. She draped the napkin across her lap carefully. “So, what are you saying?”

  Talmadge coughed out half-sentences punctuated by forkfuls of steak. “Here’s … goddamn problem. First off, this whole thing reminds me of Guadalcanal. longer Guadalcanal?”

  “You go back longer than I do, Bankey.”

  “Well, I was a kid, but I remember it. We were fighting the Japs up and down that island chain for I think well over a year. Not just on land, either. In the air, and we lost a hell of a lot of ships in Iron Bottom Sound.

  “Now, certain members are afraid that’s what we’re looking at again. A weird combination—our left wing, plus Tea Party types, and the libertarians—they’re all sayin’ we’d be better off abandoning the Pacific. Leave the Japs and Chinese to sort it out.”

  Blair lifted her eyebrows. “Abandon our allies, and we’re finished as a superpower. Speaking of history, remember the Copperheads?”