Violent Peace: The War With China: Aftermath of Armageddon

by David Poyer

  Until the next pulse outward, the next beat in the systole and diastole of the millennium-long flux of empire and power. The Chinese understood that time frame, and worked with the long view in mind. The United States never had. A perennial victim of historical amnesia, it never looked to history to understand the way forward. So it charged ahead blindly, pursuing each whim or crusade of the moment. Only much later to realize, and regret …

  She clenched her teeth and shook her head angrily. Enough cynicism, Blair! She forced herself to read at least the executive summary. Sighed, and signed off. Handed it back. “What else?”

  “Decommissioning ceremonies, medals, the rest of the morning, ma’am. After lunch, your remarks in the auditorium. The IT awards. Then the appointment with SecDef you wanted me to set up.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” She rubbed her eyes again, feeling terrifically exhausted. But then remembered, and smiled beneath her masking hands.

  Dan had showed up at the house a few days before. Exhausted, gaunt, smelling of gasoline and the road. And miserable about Nan, naturally. He’d crossed a continent searching, only to discover her body in a small-town mortuary. His daughter was dead, plowed under in the brutal, confused aftermath of the greatest catastrophe to ever test the nation.

  And Blair could do so little for him … so little. She’d never had a child, but she could imagine the pain.

  The aftermath … the enemy nuclear strike had torn the heart out of four states, and smeared radiation, terror, famine, and revolt across half the rest. Over ten million Americans were missing and presumed dead, and no one could yet put any number on the wounded and the sick. The Central Flower flu was spreading, despite CDC doing all it could. The food situation looked especially grim. The harvest had been scanty, and millions of tons of corn, soybeans, and food grains were unfit for consumption, even though the administration had tripled the permissible level of contamination. Imports from Europe and South America would help, and foreign countries were contributing humanitarian aid; she’d seen offers from Belgium, Austria, Italy, the United Kingdom, Spain, Portugal, Turkey, Poland, and Slovakia. But the wartime rationing system would have to continue, maybe for years to come.

  Which could be disastrous. A weakened, hungry population would be ripe for both pandemic and revolt.

  “Uh … ma’am?” The aide cleared his throat.

  She glanced up and forced a smile. “Thanks, that’ll be all. And in case I’ve forgotten to say so, I appreciate your being with me through this war. Through everything.”

  The grin on the young man’s face was worth millions.

  * * *

  SHE worked through the morning, feeling a brief return of her old energy. Broke for a tray lunch, salad and baked haddock from the executive dining facility. Then went to the auditorium. The ceremony featured her as the keynote, and for a change, she’d written her own speech.

  A sea of faces, so very few of whom she actually knew. Oh well. She smiled, and began the opening remarks. She kept them simple, thanking both individuals and teams in the IT community for their contributions to the war effort and final victory. Most particularly, in cyberdefense and in the development of the vast artificial intelligence that had battled Jade Emperor.

  She glanced down at her tablet. “Your friends, your husbands and wives, may not know this. May not be able to appreciate it … But you have fought a long, hard shadow war beneath the war they read about. A battle that perhaps will be declassified fifty years from now, the way Ultra was revealed only decades later.

  “But you know the sacrifices you made, and your contribution to our victory. It was every bit as real and as meaningful as those of any soldier, sailor, airman, or marine in the front lines.”

  Maybe a little over the top. But hell, they deserved it. She glanced up to read the vibe from the audience. A mix of celebratory and … apprehensive? Of course. So she veered away from her prepared remarks to try to address that. Speaking slowly, and as reassuringly as she could. “There will be downturns in funding now that peace is here. Some of us will depart for civilian life once more. That’s inevitable. But those who remain will have a continuing role in federal innovation and transformation. Not just within DoD, but in the other branches of the federal and state infrastructures as well.

  “We have a major job ahead. We must rebuild the bomb-damaged and contaminated areas of the country, fight disease and hunger, and regain the trust and confidence of disaffected regions to the west and south as they reintegrate into the national fabric. You here will be called on again for the missions of peace, just as you were for those of war. And I have no doubt you will prevail in those as well.

  “So with that, I say thank you, and farewell.”

  She stepped down to tepid applause, and surreptitiously blotted her brow. The hip was really stabbing her today. Another collection of clichés and platitudes, leavened with enough praise to keep their noses to the grindstone. At least she’d been able to reward a few of her best people with medals and promotions. They thronged her now, gushing thanks, jostling one another to shake her hand. So many that, for a few minutes, she couldn’t break away. Maybe her little talk hadn’t been as disappointing as she’d feared.

  Until the aide pushed through, showing her the time on his phone. “Ma’am, we’re just about due for the SecDef. Uh—can y’all excuse us, please? The undersecretary has an important appointment. Excuse us, please.”

  * * *

  THIS was the biggest office in the Pentagon, and it was luxuriously quiet. Blue-carpeted, spacious, with a mahogany table large enough to serve a state dinner on, to the right of a massive walnut desk. A portrait of George Marshall hung over a bank of monitors. They were all turned off. The autumn-scarlet forest lining the Potomac was visible through the windows. Beyond it rose the impossibly slim, shining spire of the Washington Monument.

  Behind that polished desk sat a shrunken, trembling man in a wheelchair. Leif Strohm half rose as she was shown in, then slowly sank back, gripping the armrests with gnarled fingers.

  As she approached, she tried to hide her shock. His cheeks were sunken into shadowed hollows. His bare scalp was visible through straggling wisps of white hair, much sparser than the last time they’d met. Rumors had it the SecDef had only a few weeks left, but he looked ready to die at any moment.

  He weakly waved her to a chair. “Blair,” he muttered, frowning, as if he was trying to recall something difficult. Then he brightened. “Just a heads-up. We’re planning a little ceremony for you later this week. Well deserved, I might add. Can your husband be there? Your daughter?”

  Okay, so this might not be as easy as she’d expected. “Sir, I appreciate the thought. Very much. But that may not come off when you hear what I have to say.”

  “Oh? How so?” He sat back, tented tremoring hands, and waited as she gathered herself.

  She drew the envelope from her jacket and slid it across the expanse of polished wood. “Sir, I’ve come to submit my resignation.”

  “Resignation?” He frowned, looking uncertain, even frightened, as if he didn’t know the word. “I’m … not sure I understand. I was counting on you to stay on. To help us march forward as one. I thought you’d…”

  “Several people have mentioned that to me, sir. A single, united party, dedicated to the regeneration of the country. They made a convincing case. But I think it’s … well, time for me to move on. There’s such a thing as outliving one’s usefulness, and with the signing of the peace treaty—”

  Strohm waved blue-veined, age-spotted hands as if shooing off bothersome gnats. “We still need smart people here to solve problems, Blair. This country’s in bad shape. Yes, the war’s over, but now DoD has to help out with internal pacification. And the Russians—they’re up to something bad. Especially in the Arctic. I guess, since it’s melting, warming—”

  She frowned. “The Arctic? What’s going on up there?”

  “We’re not sure. No one is. Some kind of deepwater ocean base? A
nyway, we still need you. I need you. What do I have to offer to get you to reconsider? I had you in mind for the deputy spot someday soon. Until then, we may be able to—”

  She smiled patiently as he groped about for whatever prize or price he thought would keep her aboard. A pity, really. The old man was one of the few members of this administration she’d actually respected. To save him time and embarrassment, she inserted gently, “That’s very generous of you, sir. But I can’t think of anything that would change my mind. So, really, you don’t need to try.”

  He waved his hands again, irritably this time. “No? So regrettable. Sad, really. At least I hope we can count on your continued support for the administration. These will be difficult times … many challenges … have to stick together…”

  She debated for a moment how to respond. And finally decided to come as close to the truth as she dared. To be honest with a dying man who’d always treated her decently. “Leif, I haven’t really supported a lot of the president’s initiatives. Of course, I’ve tried to run my office to the best of my abilities. For victory. But to be frank, I’ve never felt like part of the team. Nor have I really tried that hard to be, I guess. To be perfectly fair. But, forward as one? That’s just not going to happen with me as part of it.”

  She left the old fellow slumped over his desk, staring after her with empty eyes. And as she closed the door behind her, feeling—though she really thought she had no reason to—intensely guilty.

  * * *

  HER conversation with the national security advisor, by phone, was considerably briefer and much sharper. Edward Szerenci asked about Dan first, and she reassured him; her husband was in reasonable shape, physically, at least. But then she told him about her decision to leave.

  His tone turned angry. “You already submitted your letter? No. No! I’m shocked, Blair. I insisted on bringing you in, against advice. Kept you on, when Swethi wanted you fired. Now you want to jump ship, just when we’ve come through the fire? I’m disappointed, Blair. Very. I hope it wasn’t something between us that made you decide this.”

  She held the phone away from her ear and took a calming breath. It was true, or at least partly so. Szerenci had put her on important committees. The Hostilities Termination Working Group. The DoD/State Joint Working Group, which she’d chaired. He’d visited her at the hospital after her plane had crashed. Once, very early in the war, she’d accused him of being partially responsible for its outbreak. But knowing him better, she’d realized she was wrong, that he was less the warmonger—though certainly he sounded like one now and then—than someone trying to be as objective as a human being could be, when millions of lives hung in the balance.

  She’d thought about it a lot over the years. And come to a conclusion. No one person had brought that war on. Not even Zhang Zurong, though he bore the largest tranche of responsibility. It had been inevitable, a clash of a rising power with a status quo one, of West with East, of authoritarianism with democracy. Unavoidable, probably, as an earthquake, when tectonic plates ground together.

  And as messy and violent as things were now, she didn’t even want to imagine what a world with Zhang and his fellow authoritarians triumphant would have been like.

  She murmured, “That’s all true, Ed. No, it was nothing you said or did. And for what it’s worth, I’m grateful.”

  A cynical chuckle. “Gratitude? Doesn’t exist inside the Beltway. You have no idea how many times I’ve stood up for you.”

  That was a bit much. “Maybe not. But I never had the feeling we were exactly on the same side. Rather, that you kept me around as some combination of devil’s advocate and punching bag.”

  His voice turned earnest, or at least as earnest as the “Prince of Darkness” ever got. “Not true, Blair. Not true at all. Rid yourself of that illusion! Your ideas were on point. Your objections were always based on the facts. But some were, frankly, nonstarters with NCA.” She heard a distracted breath; a muttered aside to someone else, off-phone. “Anyway, I hope you’ll keep our little disagreements private. Or at least hold them for your memoirs.”

  She didn’t answer, and after a pause he went on. “So where’re you headed? Industry? Consulting? You were with CSIS before, right?”

  Time for a half-truth, a false trail. “Leidos. They held a vice presidency open for me.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, stay in touch. Maybe we can work together in the future.”

  And that too was vintage Szerenci. In the sealed world of DC, what went around always came around, and today’s enemy could be tomorrow’s ally.

  Still, the sharp click and dull hum as he hung up signaled the end of a chapter in her life.

  * * *

  SHE stopped by the human resources directorate that afternoon to file her official notice—the letter handed to Strohm had been largely ceremonial. Then called the library and history division about her papers. Since they covered a wartime period, they’d be of historical interest. She disposed of several other items of business, made good-bye calls to colleagues she respected and those she owed favors to, and emailed the heads of committees she sat on, notifying them of her resignation. Then she called in her deputy. Sat him down, gave him the news, and reassured him that he could manage as the acting undersecretary until the West Wing could appoint someone new.

  By four she was exhausted again. The brief spurt of energy that had flared around noon was gone, and the fatigue of anxious years gnawed at her very bones. Time to go home to the boys, Dan and Jimbo Cat. Kick her shoes off, mix a shandy, put her feet up, and relax. Maybe a shower, then see how Dan felt. But she felt so wrung out; maybe it wouldn’t be the best idea to encourage him.

  The blast of humidity as she descended the steps of the entrance staggered her. Wasn’t this supposed to be fall? Yet waves of heat rose from the granite, from the asphalt, eddied over the starkly angled 9/11 commemorative benches and drought-stricken plantings near where Flight 77 had hit. As she did each time she passed, she tapped out a mental salute in that direction. She herself had nearly died that same day, though in New York. And had nearly been killed again, in this war, Los Alamos.

  Maybe she’d been spared for a reason. Or maybe that was just how everyone felt after a near miss. Still, she thought she had more to give the country.

  But not as part of this administration. Not anymore.

  Her driver was waiting, with the black SUV. She settled into the back, then leaned forward and tapped his shoulder. “John, just to let you know, I submitted my resignation today. It’s supposed to be two weeks’ notice, but I probably won’t be coming back in tomorrow. You’ll get reassigned shortly. It’s been great having you drive me. I’ll leave a glowing evaluation, believe me.”

  She was rewarded with a back-turned face, a wide grin. “Been great driving you, too, Miz Titus. We’ll all be real sorry not to see you around the Palace.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled and pulled up the number on her phone. Feeling a sense of completion, and of new beginnings. A sense of a new leaf being turned over.

  “This is Blair Titus,” she said. And after a moment, “Yes … yes. I just called to say, please thank him for the offer. I’ve just resigned. I’m free now. And I will be very happy to accept.”

  20

  Xinjiang, Western China

  THE pony was so shaggy the Lingxiu figured he didn’t need to grab the saddle horn to hoist himself. Instead he grabbed the mane, and nodded to Jusuf.

  When the big muj boosted him powerfully with linked hands, he closed his eyes, nearly crying out as an agonizing spear ripped up his crippled leg. The foot was warping to the side, pulled by some contracting ligament, and the muscles cramped in agony as they twisted tighter and tighter. The empty socket of his vanished eye throbbed too. He lived with pain every hour of the day. The poppy-seed tea Dandan brewed for him helped, though it tasted like bitter mud, but it made you sleepy, languid, and he had to stay focused. Stay on task. Get things organized.

  Especially today.

  He
kicked the pony in the flank and it flinched and started down the ravine. The cave was safer than outdoors under the open sky, but you couldn’t run a rebellion from a cave. Much less a full-on jihad.

  Which this was now, since he’d given the Agency its walking papers.

  The pony jogged out from the shadow and the cool of the mountain into a ponderous dry heat. Tokarev walked behind him, carrying an AK at port arms. The Uighur co-leader had taken Teddy’s decision with his usual stony expression. Saying only, “I pray that we have taken the right path, Lingxiu. We could lose many men attempting this.”

  “If Allah is with us, who can stand against us?” Teddy had asked. Rhetorically, sure, but he believed it too. Anyway, they’d come too far to stop now. To stand down, and let the Han keep ruling the proud, self-reliant people he’d come to think of as his own.

  They deserved better. They deserved no less than independence.

  Today, maybe, he might be able to win it for them.

  * * *

  NINE hundred miles to the west, Andres Korzenowski’s boots sank deep into soft gray sand as he stepped out of the helicopter. The blades rotating above him blew grit and dust away in dun cyclones, obscuring the view. Which in any case was only of drab yellow sand and even drabber clay hardpan, dotted here and there with dead-looking scrub brush and the occasional rambling tumbleweed.

  Turkmenistan. The installation was windswept and sere, surrounded by miles of dry, generally flat desert. Razor wire and a bulldozed berm enclosed everything, with towers at the corners mounting perimeter search radars. A long-range hypersonic battery was dug in on one side. A squat farm of yellow-green conex containers, glinting black solar panels, and barracks tents walled the other.

  He could have observed today’s action from a computer screen in Germany. But he’d wanted to be as close as possible. Not actually on the scene, though. The deputy director had turned down his request for a last talk with the asset. A last approach, a final attempt to reason with him.