by Steve Lewis
He banked and flattened out again at one thousand metres, then turned back to where his commander’s plane had fallen.
He scanned the ocean for any sign of life, but all he could see was the debris from his comrade’s plane scattered over several hundred metres. There was nothing else: no beacon, no parachute.
Nothing except the sun flickering on the waves.
America’s domination of the battlespace was near complete.
Admiral Frank W Vinson had deployed every weapon in his extraordinary arsenal. Four Growlers and sixty conventional F/A-18 Hornets prowled the skies, while MH-60R Romeo helicopters pinpointed the enemy’s submarine.
By wiping out the Chinese communications, superior US technology had disabled the Liaoning’s strike group.
Admiral Yu had wisely not launched any more warplanes, but Vinson wasn’t prepared to take any chances. Nor could the American commander afford to overplay his hand. Vinson intended to humiliate his enemy, but knew that he must limit casualties.
This next move carried the greatest risk. A Hornet would target the Liaoning with a long-range anti-ship missile.
Vinson looked to the heavens as he prayed that it would disable but not sink the carrier.
Then he would deal with the airstrip on Mischief Reef.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Burra
Three black vans roared through the open gates and down the driveway, screeching to a halt just metres from Webster’s lair.
An elite team from the Australian Federal Police Specialist Response Group poured from the vehicles. Three heavily armed officers dressed in military-style uniforms and carrying assault rifles fanned out to the left, each dropping to one knee as he raised his weapon. Another trio covered the right of the entrance.
In the same instant, an agent wielding a black metal battering ram raced across the driveway and dashed up the steps. He reached the doorway and in one fluid movement launched the heavy steel weight at the lock of the double door. It splintered apart and a trailing officer quickly leaped through the shattered opening, followed by his colleagues.
Seconds later a blinding flash of light accompanied a loud bang as a stun grenade detonated in the state room. Screams erupted within the mansion as officers barked, ‘On the floor!’ Then there was silence.
Watching from a safe distance, Martin Toohey turned to his astonished companions. He motioned to Dunkley.
‘Camera ready?’
‘Yes boss.’
‘Great, then follow me. This will be priceless.’
Toohey led his rag-tag team to the verandah and pointed to a plum position. ‘There.’
Dunkley was firing off a shot to check the camera’s flash as the first two officers emerged. A buff naked man was being dragged between them, yelling protests at the indifferent agents.
A short while later two young women were escorted from the house, their modesty protected by blankets. The officers kept a light grip on them as they were led to the waiting vans. They stopped dead in their tracks as an enraged howl erupted from the doorway.
Handcuffed and clad only in a pair of tight leopard-skin briefs, Australia’s military chief was threatening to end the careers of his captors.
As Dunkley’s flash blazed, Jack Webster snarled and flailed in the policemen’s grasp. Toohey waved: ‘Smile for the camera, Jack.’
The defence chief continued to wrestle with the officers as he issued a string of questions and demands.
‘This is private property. You have no right to be here. What am I being charged with?’
From beneath his balaclava an agent offered one word.
‘Treason.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
South China Sea
Admiral Yu Heng paced the bridge of the Liaoning, moving anxiously from station to station as his crew battled to restore the carrier’s eyes and ears.
For the past thirty minutes the pride of the Chinese navy had been sailing blind, its array of communications obliterated. The enemy had launched an attack across the entire electromagnetic spectrum, bringing down radio, radar and navigational equipment.
The admiral’s worst fears had been realised: China’s overzealous leaders had picked a fight they were not equipped to win. Yu had grounded the carrier’s air wing, unwilling to risk the lives of pilots by ordering them into a black hole.
‘Admiral . . .’ A technician beckoned him to a radar screen that was a mess of static.
‘Still nothing?’
‘No sir—’
The sailor’s mouth froze and his face was twisted into a mask of horror as he was catapulted across the bridge. The admiral’s head was slammed against an instrument panel as he tumbled to the floor, opening up a deep gash that rained red across his combat uniform.
The brutality of the blast was amplified in the confines of the bridge. As the air around him compressed, the oxygen was punched from Yu’s lungs and pain screamed in his ears.
He staggered to his feet, slipping in his own blood, pressing the heel of his right hand into his head wound. He stood deafened and breathless as smoke clouded the room.
As the admiral’s hearing returned, the screams of the wounded and dying reached his ears.
The Liaoning’s first and only battle was over.
First Lieutenant Yang Gan flew over the crippled hulk, struggling to comprehend the scene below.
Thick black smoke bellowed from a massive hole blasted above the waterline in the carrier’s hull.
The carrier had been hit amidships on its port side. Planes lay smashed and scattered along a torn and ruined flight deck. Crew were battling fires and tending the wounded. Others lay bloodied where they had fallen. Yang presumed they were dead.
As he flew close one of the aircrew waved him off, not that he’d had any intention of landing on the wreckage.
Yang checked his fuel gauge. He had to land soon or ditch in the sea. With his navigational equipment still disabled, he checked the sun and his watch, then turned towards the point on the horizon where he hoped salvation lay.
If it hadn’t been for the smoke, Yang would never have found the tiny island.
From the air it resembled a sand-coloured arrowhead pointing south-west. Its highest feature rose just metres above the water. A channel had been cut into the broad northern end, terminating in a square-shaped port dug into the reef. On the eastern edge there was a cluster of buildings linked by two roads.
An airstrip flanked the entire western side of the atoll. Its runway was large enough to land a 747, but it would be a long while before it operated again. Yang counted at least eight craters along its length.
None of the reef’s buildings had been touched and he couldn’t see any bodies. He assumed the island’s workers were holed up in shelters. He wondered at the grim lives of those who’d been sent to pile up dirt to turn this dot into a Chinese fortress.
He circled the tiny atoll, a pin-prick of land in the wide blue ocean. This is what had triggered a war. Mischief Reef hardly seemed worth the fight.
He checked his fuel again. Out of options, he lifted his altitude a touch and dropped his speed, then pulled a lever next to his seat. The canopy blew off and he felt a jolt as rockets catapulted him from the cockpit.
As Yang glided beneath his opened parachute, he watched his plane arc into the sea.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Canberra
At 8.16pm AEST the Canberra Times splashed the story of Jack Webster’s arrest.
DEFENCE CHIEF CHARGED WITH TREASON
In a punchy five paragraphs on its website, the ninety-year-old broadsheet told how Webster had been marched from his Burra retreat by elite Australian Federal Police officers, shortly after 7pm. A slightly blurred photo of a scantily clad, handcuffed Webster being pushed into a black van accompanied the article.
It carried the byline: Special Correspondent, Harry Dunkley.
The veteran journalist had dashed off the copy on a laptop borrowed from the technicians.
Martin Toohey had phoned to reassure a sceptical editor.
‘Trust me, it’s rolled gold. Elizabeth Scott will confirm everything. She’s expecting your call. Dunkley will send the copy soon.’
The journalist hit ‘send’ as the four-wheel drive rattled down the Old Cooma Road towards Canberra. The final words of the article held a tantalising promise: ‘More to come.’
Rarely had the paper – as old as the national capital itself – landed such a scoop, and Dunkley’s copy sent newsrooms around the country into a frenzy.
Editors, reporters and producers were dragged from their Friday night revelry as word of Webster’s demise ricocheted around the web.
Just after 8.30pm, an alert was issued by the prime minister’s office:
PM Press Conference. Blue Room. 9pm.
At the same time Elizabeth Scott’s squad of spinners began calling senior gallery scribes to reinforce the story’s grunt.
When pressed for detail they merely replied, ‘Read Dunkley.’
Four Australian flags stood each side of a lectern. A single microphone rose from the timber stand emblazoned with the nation’s Coat of Arms.
Despite the late hour, the Blue Room was crammed with journalists in various shades of Friday night fashion. The room hummed with anticipation and conspiratorial whispers.
The television networks had scrambled to fill the void and were engaged in speculation based entirely on five paragraphs of copy and a single photograph.
Elizabeth Scott swept into the press conference ten minutes late, accompanied by the attorney-general.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I will make a short statement and won’t be taking questions.’
She checked her watch.
‘Two hours ago, Australian Federal Police executed an arrest warrant at the rural residence of John Reginald Webster, the Chief of the Australian Defence Force.
‘Webster will be charged with treason, misappropriation of public monies, improper use of telecommunications services and the wilful destruction of Commonwealth government property.’
Scott reached for a tumbler of water and drank a mouthful. She looked to the attorney who nodded gravely before she continued.
‘Commonwealth security agencies and the AFP have shown me detailed and compelling evidence that supports each of these serious charges.’
The PM put aside her notes and looked into the lenses of the cameras at the rear of the room.
‘On a personal note, I counted Jack Webster as a friend and trusted adviser,’ she said, her voice tinged with anger. ‘Can I say that I am shocked and saddened that a man charged with defending this nation has so wantonly betrayed its trust.’
She ignored a flurry of questions and silenced the room by holding up her hand.
‘I have another serious matter to address. Just minutes ago I spoke with the President of the United States. Mikaela Asta informed me that earlier today there was an exchange of fire between American and Chinese warplanes in the South China Sea.
‘The planes came from the US carrier George Washington and the Chinese carrier Liaoning.
‘The president tells me that the Chinese triggered the conflict by firing on a Philippine navy vessel that was being escorted through international waters by the US carrier. The Americans returned fire, damaging the Chinese carrier.’
Scott gazed at the shocked faces of the journalists who were trying to process this second bombshell.
‘Early reports suggest the Philippine navy suffered casualties. It appears there are Chinese casualties as well, although details are sketchy.
‘The Liaoning, I am informed, is sailing back to its home port and is being shadowed by the George Washington.
‘This is a serious and regrettable incident. It is vital that it is contained and that cool heads prevail. Australia urges these two great nations to peacefully resolve their dispute.
‘I will be calling on the United Nations to urgently convene the Security Council. And I will be discussing this grave situation with the Japanese prime minister when he arrives in Canberra on Monday. Thank you and good evening.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Canberra
He sat coiled in front of the two screens as he clenched and unclenched his right hand, a metronome of anger and despair.
Charles Dancer read the Canberra Times newsflash on his iPad while watching the prime ministerial pantomime on TV.
As he absorbed the scale of the defeat, his surge of emotion was failure in itself. He had spent a lifetime disciplining his mind and his body, stripping away all feeling in order to focus coldly on each mission. Fear, anger, love – all were weaknesses.
Just one person – Kimberley Gordon – had pierced his armour, awakening shameful desires.
He’d followed the order to kill her without hesitation. But the mission held a sting: in death she had awoken another long-silent voice – his conscience.
Jack Webster had issued the command. Dancer’s trust in the defence chief had been absolute. Webster understood the nature of the world, the extent of its evil, and knew that hard and disciplined warriors were needed to man the gates. Without soldiers like Dancer, chaos would reign.
He stood and rolled his shoulders to shake out the tension. Rage was coursing through his body with every heartbeat and he needed to calm himself so he could think clearly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The general had fallen and left his foot soldier alone, vulnerable, defiant.
Soon the trail would lead the enemy to him, but there was time. He would not fail like the others. The standard-bearer would be the last to fall, and his going would be glorious, leaving a blaze of light across the heavens.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Washington
The White House was forced to scramble to announce America’s confrontation with China in the wake of Elizabeth Scott’s loose lips.
Mikaela Asta had been contacting regional leaders to brief them before going public. She was in conversation with the Indonesian president when an aide handed her a piece of paper, detailing the Australian prime minister’s pre-emptive strike.
Simultaneously, global wire services began quoting Scott’s statement on the confrontation on the high seas.
The US president was furious. She had planned a press conference for 9am, but was now forced into a rapid response.
Her staff began calling the executive producers of America’s top-rating television breakfast shows, telling them to clear the decks for a special presidential address to the nation.
It was 0800 and the cameras were ready. Asta checked her notes as an assistant secured a stray hair. This would be the defining moment of her presidency, played out in front of a global audience.
‘Okay, let’s do this.’ She nodded to the crew.
As the red light on the camera signalled she was live, Asta knew she had to strike a tone of measured authority and make the case that China was the aggressor.
‘My fellow Americans. In the early hours of this morning, two Filipino navy vessels were the target of an unprovoked attack by a Chinese aircraft carrier. The ships were taking part in a joint exercise with the USS George Washington. They were sailing through international waters when they were fired upon.
‘Before any shots were fired the George Washington’s commander, Admiral Vinson, issued a clear warning to the Chinese warship, the Liaoning. This was ignored by the Chinese, forcing the George Washington to return fire.
‘Early reports are that ten Filipino sailors have been killed and at least a dozen injured. Only the skill of our naval forces prevented further casualties.
‘I understand that there are Chinese casualties, but I stress we acted with restraint.
‘In light of these events, I have recalled our ambassador from China. The Chinese ambassador to the United States has been given forty-eight hours to leave this country.
‘America is a peaceful nation. For seventy years we ha
ve been the guardians of peace in the Pacific. We will not allow China to continue militarising the South China Sea and we will not countenance the daily cyber attacks on US government and industry.
‘China says that it wants a peaceful rise, but its actions do not reflect that. If it wants to play a larger role on the world stage, then it must obey international laws. And it should never doubt that America has the resolve to enforce them.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, there are difficult days ahead. I am sure that we can resolve our differences, and the starting point must be that Beijing shuts down its naval bases on contested islands in the Pacific.
‘I thank you for your time. I wish you a good day and God bless America.’
Beijing
Meng Tao exploded with rage as he hurled ten pages of text in the air. The president had demanded elegant prose; instead they had delivered pure dross.
‘These words are trash,’ he barked. ‘You make me sound like a peasant. You have failed to convey my thoughts. Fix it. You have ten minutes.’
The emperor had gambled and lost. Meng had wagered that America would retreat as it had in the Taiwan Strait, and that he would emerge victorious. His military had failed him.
The Chinese people would soon learn that his promise of global military might was a lie.
Too late, the president realised that he should have heeded the words of his former propaganda minister. Now Jiang Xiu was gone, and Meng was surrounded by peons.
A makeup artist dabbed at his face to remove the shine from his forehead as he prepared to address the nation. The Hall of Purple Light had been turned into a makeshift television studio. Meng strode to the lectern bearing the distinctive red-and-gold emblem of China, took a last gulp of water, and nodded.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, friends and comrades. Today in the South China Sea our aircraft carrier the Liaoning was attacked, without warning.