The Shadow Game

by Steve Lewis

  ‘Hah! Yes, Jack, the Iron Lady is a role model. But we, the Liberal Party, need someone closer to home, someone who understands the psyche of the Australian people, someone who can rescue this country from its meandering path to mediocrity.’

  ‘Sounds like you should put your hand up again, Emily. I’m told the Right are feeling quite emboldened.’

  ‘No, not me,’ Brooks said, with an air of resignation. ‘That sex tape cruelled my chances. We need a cleanskin, someone who can take us in a new direction, the right direction. Importantly, we need someone who can beat Catriona Bailey.’

  Brooks arched her eyebrows knowingly as she arrived at the point of the meeting. ‘You dabbled in party politics once, Jack; our side, right?’

  ‘You know about that. It was a long, long time ago, during my young idealistic phase. The air force drove that out of me quick smart,’ Webster said with a chuckle.

  The Liberal warrior fixed the knighted hero with her piercing eyes. He blinked first.

  ‘Jack, I am not joking. The nation is crying out for leadership; our party is aching for someone who can take the people with him, someone who is trusted.’ She pointed at him. ‘You could be that person.’

  Brooks knew she was playing with one of the most vulnerable and dangerous animals on the planet: the male ego.

  ‘I’m not even a member of parliament.’

  ‘This state proved you don’t need to be. Campbell Newman became premier from the outside . . . though we’d be hoping for a better outcome.’

  ‘Emily, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re on the verge of war in the South China Sea.’

  ‘Yes, and I also note that your plans for action, and the only possibility of success, are being frustrated.’

  Webster waited a moment. ‘Those are matters for the National Security Committee.’

  ‘No, Jack, we are talking about the security of this nation. We need a leader whose plans cannot be thwarted by some weak-kneed limp-wristed small-l liberal.’

  The CDF checked his watch. ‘I have to go, Emily; I’m due in Townsville at 1500 hours.’

  ‘Townsville, hey? That’s in the seat of Herbert. Solid north Queensland seat, full of Mr and Mrs Stringbag types. Rolled-gold middle Australia. You might like to think of it as a dry run . . .’

  Webster rose and gave Brooks a kiss on the cheek, gathering up his briefcase in one fluid motion.

  As she watched him go Brooks felt a small sense of triumph. She had a practised eye for spotting a politician. Webster was one of the best she’d ever seen.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Washington

  Zero hour was approaching. Since the sun had set across the White House lawns, the US president had been walking a diplomatic high wire on one of the most sensitive military operations ever proposed by America.

  Mikaela Asta stifled a yawn as she prepared to make one last call to slot the final piece into a fragile alliance. A single misstep could bring the whole house of cards tumbling down.

  Weeks of groundwork had preceded these conversations.

  Using her trademark ‘strongarm charm’, Asta had already secured the backing of South Korea’s president, Park Geun-hye, for the international flotilla in the South China Sea. But it had been a close-run thing.

  Seoul was deeply worried about China’s regional ambitions, but Park was equally concerned by Japan’s mooted inclusion in the US-led fleet.

  ‘Madam President, my people will not take kindly to joining forces with Tokyo, and Japan’s inclusion will only fuel China’s nationalistic fervour,’ Park had said.

  The leader of the free world was starting to appreciate the complexity of relations between China, Japan and South Korea. Each brought their own interpretation of recent history plus two thousand years of grievances to the table.

  Asta’s advisers had given her a potted version of East Asia’s complicated past with its ancient feuds and atrocities. Korean mothers still threatened misbehaving children with ‘The ear-nose devils are coming’, a reference to a 400-year-old war in which Japanese soldiers had mutilated the faces of murdered Koreans. Even the most recent grievance had roots that reached back more than a century, to Japan’s annexure of Korea, a brutal and bitter colonisation that only ended with Japan’s defeat in World War II.

  ‘I understand the sensitivities,’ Asta had soothed Park. ‘I’m not asking you to send a ship to join the flotilla; I just need a public declaration of your support.’

  The American leader had sensed President Park was wavering. It had been time to play her trump card.

  ‘Madam President, I’m aware that you would like to buy three Aegis shipboard combat systems and three vertical launch missile systems from us, which your navy considers vital to defending your maritime interests. I can have the sale approved by the State Department tomorrow if it helps you ease your people’s concerns.’

  Asta had paused to let the offer sink in before adding a rider.

  ‘But if you cannot offer even vocal support for this vital mission, then this request will be bound up in red tape for years.’

  The line had gone silent for a moment before the Korean translator confirmed the deal, contingent on the US garnering a broad coalition.

  ‘I have one last question,’ President Park had said.

  ‘About what, ma’am?’

  ‘Australia. They have followed America into every conflict for eighty years, yet my ambassador in Canberra tells me its leadership is divided.’

  Asta had shifted in her seat.

  ‘Madam President, I assure you, Australia is in. We are just working on the detail and, as you know, this project is highly sensitive. We haven’t gone public yet.’

  Despite her bravado, Asta was troubled. Her vice president had assured her that Australia was a shoo-in and had advised against making an early call to the prime minister. Morgan McDonald had told her that ‘my man in Canberra’ would close the deal so that when Asta spoke to Elizabeth Scott it would be a formality. She feared this call would be anything but.

  The president rubbed at a knot in her neck as the Oval Office phone rang.

  ‘Prime Minister, thanks for taking my call.’

  ‘Madam President, good afternoon – or should I say good evening? It must be late in Washington.’

  ‘Approaching 11pm, Elizabeth. The day is but young.’

  The two leaders briefly shared a laugh before Asta outlined the American plan. An armada of warships drawn from seven nations would sail into the South China Sea then through the twelve-nautical-mile exclusion zone around the Spratly Islands. It would be an unprecedented show of solidarity and send the most defiant of messages to Beijing.

  And this would be no public relations parade. China had to be shown that the threat of force was real. So the US would establish a forward base for an aircraft carrier strike group in the Philippines, while other navies would rotate their warships through Subic Bay.

  Any move by Beijing to stockpile weapons on the terraformed islands would be met with a blockade.

  ‘But we don’t think it will come to that,’ Asta said. ‘Beijing’s hand is weak. We know that. More importantly, President Meng knows that.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ The hesitation in Scott’s voice was amplified by the speaker on the Oval Office desk.

  ‘Our intelligence is solid. The combat systems on the experimental planes that China displayed during Meng’s visit to the Spratlys are not ready. They won’t be ready for years.’

  Scott sounded far from convinced. ‘With respect, Madam President, that’s not the point. China will be forced to challenge any blockade, otherwise Meng would suffer a loss of face that would cripple his leadership. Like Kennedy in the Cuban Missile Crisis, you risk a high-stakes confrontation on the high seas. The slightest mistake could lead to war.’

  ‘If that moment came we would prevail, just like Kennedy. China doesn’t want war, neither do we.’ Asta’s voice rang with conviction, but Scott was unmoved.

  ‘Mos
t countries don’t want war but they wage war when the alternatives are worse,’ Scott said. ‘For Meng, losing face would trigger internal unrest and that would threaten his hold on power. Losing power at home is worse than risking war abroad.’

  Each time the president raised a point, the prime minister objected. Asta hadn’t needed or wanted a debate. It was now 11.28pm. She was beat and annoyed, but she couldn’t afford to show it.

  ‘Elizabeth, China is playing us because it thinks we don’t have the guts to fight. If we don’t make a stand now we might not be able to in the future. Beijing knows that. So it will be delighted to pat your hand and keep you talking until it builds those islands into an unbreachable wall.’

  Asta noted a long pause on the other end of the line.

  ‘Mikaela, you are also asking for a nuclear-capable B-1 bomber to be based at Tindal in the Northern Territory. Its range is close to twelve thousand kilometres. It’s half that distance from Tindal to Beijing. What message do you think that will send?’

  Asta tried to maintain her calm. The entire mission – her mission – hinged on this phone call. If Australia baulked the fragile coalition would fall apart.

  ‘Elizabeth, China’s ballistic missiles now have a reach of over seven thousand miles. One launched from Mischief Reef could land on your parliament. How would the Australian people feel if you allowed nuclear weapons in reach of their homes?’

  She softened her tone a touch.

  ‘This is about protecting all our interests. I hope that Australia will support us in this vital mission. We do not want to act alone, but we will if we must.’

  The line went quiet and then Asta heard Scott taking a deep breath. ‘Madam President,’ Scott said, ‘the situation for us is delicate. If you push me for an answer today . . . tonight, then the answer is no – I need more time.’

  Asta’s response was immediate, and as frigid as a Minnesota snowstorm.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve just run out of time, Prime Minister.’

  Her sleep had been more restless than usual. In the month she’d been president, Asta had taken on all the troubles of the world. Everywhere nations cried out for help and every time America responded it was pilloried and left to do the heavy lifting. The South China Sea was an exemplar: the entire region quailed before Beijing and called on Washington for protection. And when push came to shove Asta had been abandoned by her closest regional ally. Australia’s greed had trumped its fear.

  After being rebuffed by Scott, she’d retired to bed, but her efforts to snatch some decent rest were in vain. She was up by four, in the Oval Office an hour later, and demanding to see the vice president at 6am. Sharp.

  ‘What the hell’s she playing at, Morgan? You told me Australia was on board. You were wrong.’

  Asta stared down the rumpled vice president who, unusually, was at a loss to provide the right answers.

  ‘No Mikaela, I told you what Webster told me – “We’ve got your back.” Clearly that did not translate into plain English for Ms Scott.’

  Like the president, Big Mac had been working round the clock, hustling up the players in what would be a highly dangerous but calculated political gamble.

  The play against China would be a declaration that Asta’s presidency would restore American pride, a bold statement that there was still only one superpower. It was strategically vital too. Beijing’s annexation of the South China Sea was threatening the security of America’s key trade routes.

  With an eye to next year’s election, the move would also cement Asta’s credentials as an uncompromising commander in chief, unafraid of deploying America’s arsenal. This would be her Falklands moment. But it wouldn’t be a squabble over a windswept waste with a bankrupt third-tier nation. This would be a heavyweight bout with the biggest thug in the world. Eat my dust, Margaret Thatcher.

  When she and Big Mac were mapping out the Chinese strategy they had spent countless hours on the ‘hard asks’: securing Japan, hustling Indonesia and Malaysia, cajoling Vietnam and South Korea. That Australia wouldn’t play ball had never occurred to them.

  Mystified, McDonald recounted his conversations with his close Australian ally.

  ‘Webster said Cabinet would debate our request, but that a sign-off would be “routine” – and that is a direct quote. It seems someone’s got in the prime minister’s ear,’ the vice president said.

  Asta sat down heavily in her chair. ‘Yes, it appears someone has. And the B-1 bomber? Who asked for that?’

  ‘It was Webster’s idea. But no formal request has been made.’

  Asta breathed out hard.

  ‘Well, it was very unhelpful. We should be solely focused on the flotilla. If I ever want to bomb Beijing from the air, I’ll send the plane from Guam. And if I really want to nuke it, I will be firing missiles from Ohio-class subs parked just off its coast.’

  The tense mood in the Oval Office reflected the gravity of the setback. America did not need the members of the international flotilla for their firepower; it needed them for their flags. Canberra’s hesitation meant others were likely to pull out, and that was a risk they couldn’t afford.

  It was time to gamble everything on a ‘Hail Mary’ play.

  ‘Morgan,’ Asta said, ‘let’s drop the flag on Plan B.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Canberra

  They hunted in the shadows. Their headquarters were virtual, their operations ultra-secret, their preferred target vulnerable government agencies.

  They whispered through highly encrypted networks, managing to outrun and outsmart the cyber police. Every assignment was different, every outcome the same.

  A common routine was to send a document via email. Embedded within the PDF was custom code, undetectable and lethal. The email would bypass security checks before lodging at the destination. There it would lurk patiently, sometimes for months, until the bomb was detonated.

  Then it would unleash its hidden code, exploiting a previously unrecognised system vulnerability, usually within Adobe Acrobat. Quietly the code would migrate into the Windows Explorer process, at the same time disabling antivirus software.

  The infection would spread. As the host searched the internet, reaching out through legitimate connections to random files, it was unwittingly unpacking and strengthening an army.

  Periodically the invader would read and parse hidden code from a hacked webpage as data ricocheted back and forth across encrypted systems. Emails, usernames, passwords and other network tools needed to execute the attack would be extracted. Files on a network share would be poisoned and other users infected. The army would strategically position itself across the network, marching up the ranks towards the IT manager, moving closer to a zero day attack.

  Once the network was breached, the manager’s account would log into the area’s domain controller. Hashed passwords would be extracted, then ‘brute forced’ offline. The malicious code would then masquerade as the ‘administrator’ of the domain controller. New accounts would be created, further compromising the system.

  More network information would be exfiltrated. A domain account would then be able to log into the back-up server as an administrator. The back-up system would be altered, but only slightly. The system would believe it was duplicating certain files, but instead they would be empty.

  On zero day minus one, all beaconing systems on desktops would self-wipe and delete, with the exception of the target endpoint. A logic bomb would be planted on a small number of servers that would, in a week, reinstall some malicious code. Then, these systems would also self-delete, minimising the footprint and the chances of being caught.

  On zero day, the target would be watched, and when it was time an innocuous document would be replaced with another, one that would ultimately throw the hand-grenade over the trenches.

  The auditor-general’s office was pristine in the early morning light. His personal assistant had arrived early to tidy up some basic admin before the daily mayhem, fussing with his
diary notes before settling in to read his overnight email.

  Most would be routine requests or briefing updates and she hummed a familiar tune as she dipped into his inbox.

  Boring. Boring. A note from PM&C. Dull, dull . . .

  Oh! The invitation was glossy black and white, stylishly designed and presented. She enlarged it to fit the page, admiring the Art Deco lettering and illustration. For the past five years the auditor-general had received a personal VIP invitation to the Cancerians Ball. He’d been a key supporter since ovarian cancer robbed him of his wife.

  This event was a must. She delved deeper into the PDF to check for dates and other logistics.

  The Hyatt Hotel. Five-star elegance. August 22. Black-tie, of course. Sequins, fur, feathers. How lovely. He would probably book his usual table of ten; she made a note to check. The RSVP closed on June 30. A silly date, what with the end of financial year and all. Still, the Cancerians Ball was an important occasion raising funds for a worthwhile cause.

  She closed the file and moved onto the next email, from some nobody in Human Services. She stifled a yawn, then quickly checked her appearance.

  Any moment he would stroll through the door, a model of public service efficiency, oblivious to the fact that his über efficient PA had unwittingly tripped the switch on a time bomb.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Beijing

  Jiang Xiu paused as he studied his handiwork. The early morning ritual acted as a balm, the effortless grace of the brushstroke offering respite from the stresses of leadership. He loved calligraphy, an art form that had risen in an epoch when China ruled the world.

  He visualised the next stroke, dipped his brush in the oily liquid and gently tapped off the excess ink.

  As he began an elegant curve his hand slipped, the brush sullying the Xuan paper. His discipline had deserted him. He had not been able to empty his mind of its burdens. Jiang put the brush down and stepped back to consider the error.