Empire Rising

by Rick Campbell

  As Brackman turned to leave, Christine grabbed his arm. “Don’t let him persuade you. I’m counting on your support.”

  Brackman hesitated before replying. “I know, Miss O’Connor.” He eased his arm from her grip, then turned and headed toward Hardison’s office.

  Christine watched him disappear down the hallway, then decided to wait where she could keep an eye on the Oval Office’s doors. She headed down the seventy-foot-long hallway, turning left into the Roosevelt Room. While she waited, she took the opportunity to admire the two oil paintings hanging on opposing walls: Alfred Jonniaux’s portrait of Franklin Delano Roosevelt seated behind his desk, and Tade Styka’s equestrian portrait of Theodore Roosevelt titled Rough Rider. In accordance with tradition, the incoming administration had reversed the two portraits, placing the image of FDR over the fireplace and Theodore Roosevelt to Christine’s right, on the south wall.

  As Christine examined the portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, she reflected on his famous slogan—Speak softly and carry a big stick. If the president signed the MAER Accord and China responded as she predicted, the United States was going to need a big stick, indeed.

  There was a knock on the Roosevelt Room’s open door, and Christine turned to spot chief of staff Kevin Hardison, who tapped his watch. “The president’s waiting.”

  * * *

  Christine followed Hardison into the Oval Office. Captain Brackman also joined them, and Christine took her seat in the middle of three chairs opposite the president’s desk, with Hardison and Brackman flanking her.

  The president addressed Christine. “Any details on the assassination of China’s prime minister?”

  Christine answered, “Our Intel agencies have narrowed the potential motives down to the two most probable. The first is a terrorist attack by one of the separatist organizations from the Xinjiang region in northwest China. The second is internal strife within the Politburo, with one of the junior members taking matters into his own hands. In that case, Shen Yi is the leading suspect. He’s the longest serving Politburo member, yet sits third in the power structure behind Xiang Chenglei, the general secretary of the Party and president of China, and Xiang’s protégé, Bai Tao, the prime minister. Shen is getting up in years, and the death of Bai Tao is fortunate from his perspective, making him the leading candidate to replace Xiang when he steps down.” Christine paused for a moment. “Or if something happens to Xiang.”

  The specter of Politburo strife plunging China’s leadership into chaos couldn’t have come at a worse time. The instability would make an accurate prediction of China’s response to the MAER Accord impossible. In concert with Christine’s thoughts, Hardison changed the subject.

  “We need to discuss the accord, sir. The terms expire at the end of this week, so you need to sign it before you leave this afternoon for Camp David.”

  “What are the current projections?” the president asked.

  Hardison replied, “Without price constraints, world demand for oil will increase by eight percent per year, with oil production increasing by only one percent. To reduce oil consumption to within production capacity, the price of oil will double over the next three years. We crafted the accord to prevent skyrocketing prices, and the terms we negotiated are more than fair, restricting each country to an appropriate percentage of the world’s oil supply.”

  “The terms are not fair,” Christine replied. “The method used to calculate each country’s fair share is flawed, and you know it. The accord will strangle China’s economy.”

  Hardison shrugged as he turned toward Christine. “And that’s a bad thing? They had their chance to negotiate a better deal, and failed.”

  “They failed because we bribed our way to favorable terms, offering over a hundred billion dollars in military grants.”

  “We negotiated,” Hardison jabbed. “Negotiated.”

  Christine folded her arms across her chest. “Bribed.”

  Hardison leveled a malevolent gaze at Christine before turning back to the president. “Gasoline prices have doubled since you took office and will double again before the reelection if you don’t sign the accord. If you want another term in office, you don’t have a choice.”

  “I don’t recommend it,” Christine interjected. “The main question is whether China will use its military to obtain the resources it needs. They won’t be able to buy the oil and natural gas they require, and they might use their military to obtain it by force. It’ll be Japan and Pearl Harbor all over again. In 1941, the United States placed an embargo on oil and gasoline exports to Japan, cutting off eighty percent of their oil supply. Japan did in 1941 what China will likely do today—they moved south to secure the natural resources they required.

  “The Pacific Rim contains several billion barrels of oil, plus nine hundred trillion cubic feet of natural gas. China has already staked claim to the Spratly Island Archipelago and the Senkaku Islands. The Spratly Islands alone are under the control of six different nations, and if China decides to enforce its claim to these islands and their offshore natural resources, it’s going to put the United States in a bind. Per the MAER Accord, we’ll have to come to the defense of these countries. We’ll be at war with China. Is that what you want? Because that’s exactly what you’ll get if you sign the accord.”

  “China wouldn’t dare start a war,” Hardison replied. “They know we’d come to the aid of anyone they attacked. And another thing to consider, Mr. President,” he cast a derisive glance in Christine’s direction, “is that Christine has a track record of being wrong, so I recommend you factor that into your decision.”

  Christine leveled an icy stare at the chief of staff. She hadn’t kept tally, but was pretty sure it was Hardison who was wrong most of the time. His long list of flaws apparently included a short memory.

  * * *

  While Christine glared at Hardison, the president reflected on the relationship between the man and woman sitting across from him. Aside from a temporary truce following the Kentucky incident, Christine and Hardison got along like oil and vinegar, and didn’t realize what a great team they made. He had selected Hardison as his chief of staff primarily for his experience, and secondarily for his ruthlessness, an essential trait of an effective chief of staff. But he also recognized Hardison’s zeal would intimidate many of the men and women on his staff and in his Cabinet.

  He had wanted a strong national security advisor, someone with the necessary background and keen insight. But—just as important—he needed someone who wouldn’t wither under Hardison’s overbearing demeanor, and he had known after his interview with Christine that she was the right woman for the job. She told him his proposed policies would ruin the country’s ability to defend itself. She spoke her mind and pulled no punches.

  Christine was the right woman for the job, and it didn’t hurt that she was attractive. He noticed how his two teenage sons popped out of the woodwork whenever Christine dropped by the Executive Residence. Their eyes followed her every movement, surveying her attractive face—sparkling blue eyes framed by auburn hair—and her lean, yet womanly curves. After Christine departed, the two boys would vanish as quickly as they appeared.

  * * *

  The president clearing his throat brought Christine’s attention back to the commander-in-chief. He looked toward Brackman. “What’s your assessment? If China uses its military, can we defeat them?”

  Brackman didn’t immediately respond, and the president’s question hung in the air as Brackman cast a sideways glance at Christine before focusing on the president.

  “If China starts a war over oil,” Brackman answered, “we can defend any country they attack. Although they’ve significantly modernized their military over the last decade, they’re still no match for our Pacific Fleet. With five carrier strike groups off China’s shore, along with our Marine Expeditionary Forces—two Marine divisions and their air wings—any attempt to seize oil reserves in the region will be defeated.”

  Christine gave B
rackman a frosty glare as the president absorbed the Captain’s words, his eyes canvassing each of the individuals seated in front of him. Christine felt a deepening uneasiness as the president moved toward his decision.

  Finally, he spoke. “I’ll sign the accord.”

  A smile broke across Hardison’s face. “I’ll have Sikes inform the press. How about a signing in the Rose Garden at noon?”

  The president nodded. “That’s fine.” His gaze swept across the three individuals on the other side of his desk. “Anything else?” After all three offered negative shakes of their heads, the president added, “I’ll see you at noon.”

  Christine stood, leading the way from the Oval Office. Brackman turned right as he exited while Christine and Hardison turned left, headed toward their diametrically opposed corner offices in the West Wing. Christine looked up at Hardison as he joined her at her side.

  “You better be right,” she said.

  Hardison offered a smug, condescending smile. “I always am.”

  No other words were exchanged. As the chief of staff entered his office while Christine turned right, toward hers, her instinct told her signing the accord was a serious mistake.

  2

  FUJIAN PROVINCE, CHINA

  As the sun slipped behind the Wuyi Mountains, shadows crept east from the red sandstone slopes, sinking into the lush green gorges of the Jiuqu Xi River before encroaching on the Pacific Ocean. Not far from the coast, a lone figure ascended a narrow trail toward a grassy plateau overlooking the East China Sea, its frothy white waves crashing into the rocky shore six hundred feet below. With a steady gait, the elderly man moved toward a circular stone building flanked by a curving thicket of magnolia trees.

  After climbing a half-dozen cracked stone steps, Xiang Chenglei entered the Mazu temple, stopping before the altar to kneel on the cold granite floor. In the four corners of the building, torches flickered in the fading light, bathing the goddess of the sea and her two dragon guardians in dancing hues of amber and burnt orange. Carved from the metamorphic mountain rock, Mazu sat upon her throne holding a ceremonial tablet in her right hand, a staff in the other. On her left coiled the fierce dragon Thousand Miles Eye, the red paint peeling from the two-horned guardian, while on her right reclined the fading green With-the-Wind Ear, the dragon’s single horn broken near its tip.

  For tonight’s prayer, Xiang knew he could have chosen a more decorative temple, with Mazu and her guardians fabricated from precious metals and jewels instead of simple stone and paint, but it was fitting that he knelt before this unadorned goddess just as his mother had done countless times when Xiang was a child. As he knelt beside her in silence, the moisture collecting in her eyes, he wondered what she prayed for; she clasped her hands so tightly her fingers turned white. It was not until Xiang became an adult that his father explained, the revelation igniting his hatred. Tonight, forty years after learning his mother’s dark secret, personal and political aspirations had unexpectedly converged. Lijuan and China would finally have justice.

  Xiang prayed tonight for the protection that would enable that justice, requesting Mazu watch over the thousands of men who would soon journey upon the seas. As he finished his appeal to the patron saint of fishermen and sailors, a warm, moist wind blew in from the ocean, carrying the scent of childhood memories. He had grown into a man in the small fishing village at the bottom of the winding path he had just climbed. The only son of Bohai and Lijuan Xiang, he was no stranger to hard work; the life of a fisherman was arduous at best. Although he had planned to follow in his father’s footsteps, the older man had a grander vision, explaining that the hands of a fisherman could take him only so far. The mind of a scholar, however, could take him anywhere. But not even his father could have imagined the path his son would follow.

  After completing his prayer, Xiang rose to his feet, the stiffness in his knees reminding him of his sixty-five years. Exiting the temple, he strolled to the edge of the plateau, looking down at the small fishing village nestled along the shore. He knew the six men at the base of the narrow trail would be nervous by now. The men from the Central Guard Bureau’s Cadre Department had objected when he instructed them to stay behind, but he wanted to visit the temple of his childhood, filled with strong memories of his mother, alone. He ought to head back now; he guessed he had only twenty minutes before dusk succumbed to night, the dying light of day supplanted by the pale glow of a full moon. But there was another building of stone and mortar he desired to visit, not far down the sloping cliffs overlooking the Taiwan Strait.

  Xiang carefully descended another trail, winding his way down the steep slope until he came to a smooth outcropping of rock. Upon close examination, he spotted a rectangular seam in the side of the protrusion and knocked firmly on the heavy metal door. A few seconds later, a cover over a small window in the door slid away, revealing the face of a young soldier, the green epaulets on his uniform proclaiming him a Private First Class in the People’s Liberation Army.

  Even in the dim light of dusk, Xiang could see the blood drain from the young man’s face when he recognized the man standing outside. The Private stuttered an unintelligible greeting, then slammed the cover shut with more force than required. Xiang waited patiently as the soldier’s footsteps raced away from the door, returning a moment later at a more measured pace, another pair of footsteps joining his. The lock mechanisms rotated, and the door swung inward. Standing next to the Private was a Captain who saluted crisply, as did the Private a split second later.

  Tension was evident in the stiff posture of both men, and Xiang attempted to put them at ease by issuing the formal greeting to his troops, a time-honored custom since the words were first uttered by Zhu De in 1949.

  “Greetings, comrades.”

  “Greetings, leader!” both men replied in unison.

  The two men stood rigidly at attention, awaiting Xiang’s next words. He offered a warm smile instead, and the Captain and Private dropped their salutes.

  “There has been much progress since your last review,” the Captain said, accurately assessing the purpose of Xiang’s visit. “We are now fully operational, and have many new men who will be proud you have visited us.”

  Leaving the Private behind, the Captain turned and headed down a long hallway. As Xiang followed Captain Zhou Pengfei down the narrow passageway, his thoughts returned to the path he had traversed since leaving the sandy shore of his village almost fifty years ago. After excelling in elementary and high school, he gained entrance to Beijing’s Tsinghua University, where he earned a degree in mechanical engineering. While in college, he joined the Communist Party of China during the Cultural Revolution, quickly concluding Mao Zedong’s socialist reforms were crippling the country, stagnating sorely needed economic growth. During those formative years, Xiang developed the yearning to lead China to prosperity. All he lacked was the opportunity.

  That opportunity emerged when the repression of the Cultural Revolution ended. China’s new leader, Deng Xiaoping, implemented the “Four Transformations,” promoting foreign investment and entrepreneurship, infusing Party leadership with men who were younger, more knowledgeable, and more revolutionary. Xiang was promoted quickly up the Party ranks and just before his fiftieth birthday became the youngest member ever of the powerful nine-member Politburo Standing Committee, China’s supreme ruling body. Now, as both general secretary of the Communist Party and president of the country, there was no one more influential in all of China. Yet his vast power had proved insufficient to sustain China on its path to prosperity.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago, barricades had come crashing down. The United States and its allies had negotiated preferential access to the world’s oil supply. Xiang had reviewed the projections of his economic ministers—the exorbitant oil prices they’d be forced to pay would plunge China’s economy into a death spiral, unraveling the last forty years of progress.

  Xiang and Captain Zhou reached the end of the long corridor and turned left, delv
ing deeper into the mountainside. The opening led to a twenty-by-twenty-foot room crammed with electronic consoles, the blue glow from the displays illuminating the faces of the soldiers seated behind them. The Captain called out as Xiang entered and the eight men snapped to attention, awe evident in their expressions as they stood in the presence of China’s supreme leader. After Zhou ordered them To Rest, the men settled uneasily into their chairs, exchanging glances as Xiang and the Captain stopped behind one of the consoles.

  “I believe it is dark enough to bring the battery on-line,” Zhou said. It was more a question than a statement, and Xiang answered with a nod of his head.

  Zhou turned and issued orders to the enlisted man seated at the console. The soldier acknowledged, and as his fingers flicked across the glass surface of the touch-screen display, Xiang knew that above them, radars were being raised from recesses in the mountain’s surface, beginning their rhythmic back-and-forth sweeps. A three-dimensional image of an island appeared in the center of the display, separated from the mainland by a two-hundred-mile-wide swath of the Pacific Ocean.

  “With our new Hong Niao missiles,” Zhou proudly announced, “we have complete coverage of the Strait. Nothing can enter without our permission.”

  Xiang nodded again. China had spent the last decade developing advanced anti-ship cruise missiles, deploying them along the coast in forty concealed bunkers like this one. The People’s Liberation Army had done their task well, camouflaging their construction from American satellites in orbit. The United States had no idea what awaited them.

  The Captain added, “Each man controls one of the eight launchers, selecting the desired target. Come, the launchers have been installed since your last visit.”

  Zhou led Xiang out of the control room, crossing the hallway. They entered a second room containing eight quad-missile launchers, the fifteen-foot-long missiles pointing toward a closed portal measuring four feet high by sixty feet wide. The Captain tapped a control near the room’s entrance, and a twelve-inch-thick section retracted slowly upward, revealing the Pacific Ocean, providing a flight path for the thirty-two missiles.