As Xiang stared through the portal of the casemated bunker, the horizon melting into the darkness, he recalled the times he stood on the plateau above them in his youth, straining to see the distant shore of Taipei, the island referred to by the West as Taiwan. It was to Taiwan that Chiang Kai-shek’s forces, defeated in China’s civil war, retreated in 1949. If the Politburo Standing Committee approved the People’s Liberation Army’s plan tomorrow, there would be many benefits, one of them being the long overdue unification of the two Chinas.
Zhou interrupted Xiang’s rumination. “It is an honor you have visited us again.”
“The honor is mine, Captain. It is the dedication of men like you, who serve the people, that keeps our country safe and prosperous.”
Upon uttering those words, Xiang’s thoughts returned to the MAER Accord. The United States had restricted China’s access to vital oil supplies, strangling its economy. Although America’s aggression hadn’t been formally approved by Congress, its proclamation was just as clear.
America had declared war.
3
BEIJING, CHINA
In the center of Beijing, on the western edge of Tiananmen Square, is China’s Great Hall of the People, its gray marble colonnades rising above a thin ringlet of cypresses and pines. China’s parliament building covers almost two million square feet, containing over three hundred meeting halls, the largest of which—the Great Auditorium—seats over ten thousand. Affixed to the center of the Great Auditorium’s ceiling is an immense ruby-red star, the symbol of the Party, surrounded by the People—represented by a sparkling galaxy of lights embedded within four concentric rings, their scalloped, wavering edges illuminated in a diffuse, white light.
Along the eastern facade of the Great Hall, with the early morning sun slanting through tall rectangular windows, Huan Zhixin moved briskly down a corridor lined with marble statues honoring the Heroes of the People. Mao Zedong’s statue rose a foot taller than the others, but Huan’s attention was drawn instead to the resemblance of Zhou Enlai, China’s first prime minister. The assassination of Bai Tao, China’s current prime minister, was fresh in Huan’s mind, and he could sense the anger in the man beside him.
On Huan’s right walked Xiang Chenglei. His appointment as general secretary and president ten years ago wasn’t without concessions. Xiang and his rival had been deadlocked, and Shen Yi, the most senior Politburo member, would cast the deciding vote. Shen’s endorsement of Xiang was contingent on accepting his nephew Huan as chairman of the Central Military Commission—head of the People’s Liberation Army, and Xiang had agreed.
As head of the People’s Liberation Army, Huan had meticulously reviewed the PLA’s plan, and was confident they would prevail. However, as the Politburo cast the most important vote in four millennia of China’s history, a majority would not be sufficient. Huan’s proposal required unanimous approval.
* * *
At the end of the long hallway, Huan pushed against two heavy ten-by-twenty-foot wooden doors. Each of the mammoth doors swung silently inward, revealing a twenty-by-thirty-foot chamber. Seated around an oval table were the seven junior Politburo Standing Committee members, grim expressions on their faces. Xiang took his seat at the head of the table while Huan settled into a chair along the room’s perimeter. The empty chair at the table weighed heavily on Huan, and while Bai Tao’s death was unfortunate, it was also fortuitous. Tao had been staunchly opposed to Huan’s proposal.
Huan turned his attention to the front of the conference room. Standing beside a large plasma screen was Admiral Tsou Deshi, the highest-ranking Admiral in the PLA Navy. The Admiral wore a disapproving frown. The conservative officer had never been enamored with the objective of his assignment, but he had crafted a superb plan. But before Admiral Tsou began his brief, Huan decided to prime the Politburo members.
He stood, addressing the men seated around the table. “As you are aware, we face the most severe crisis in the history of our country. For the last four decades, we have compromised our principles and endorsed capitalism, convinced the prosperity of our people is more important than the purity of our ideology. That sacrifice has been wise—China has become a formidable economic power and will soon overtake the United States. As our economy has grown, so has our influence around the world. America fears what we have become and is frightened even more by our potential. So they are trying to cripple us, depriving us of the oil our economy needs to thrive.
“If we do nothing, everything we have sacrificed over the last four decades will be for naught. So I ask you—do we sit by and let America destroy us?” Huan paused as the eight men shook their heads solemnly. “Or do we take action?”
Huan could tell his message was resonating, so he moved quickly toward his proposal. “America believes we are cornered, outmaneuvered politically, and without the military might to challenge them. However, they are mistaken. We have significantly improved the capabilities of the PLA, and we now have the ability to defeat the United States’ Pacific Fleet. We can obtain the resources we need, ensuring China’s continued prosperity. All that stands in the way, is your vote.”
Huan paused momentarily before addressing the one critical element. “I understand your reservations. We cannot embark on this path without the assurance of success. Admiral Tsou is here to brief us on the PLA’s plan, to convince you we will defeat America.” Huan turned his attention to the Admiral, standing stiffly at the front of the conference room.
* * *
Admiral Tsou’s gaze swept across the conference room, his eyes surveying the eight Politburo members, coming to rest on the chairman of the Central Military Commission. Huan was a visionary. A decade earlier he had predicted China would find itself in this situation. When Huan approached him years ago, Tsou was convinced the objective was a bridge too far. The Chinese navy lacked the sophisticated command and control and advanced weapons of the American Fleet. But Huan had promised him that gap would be closed, and he had delivered. Now, it was his turn.
Tsou pressed a remote control in his hand and turned to the side as the monitor behind him energized, displaying a map of the Western Pacific Ocean. To the east of China lay the island of Taipei, the bait for their trap.
“The PLA has been tasked with securing the natural resources we require, located primarily along the Pacific Rim. Standing between our country and those resources is the United States Navy. Thus, the first step we must take is the neutralization of America’s Pacific Fleet.
“In the open ocean, we are no match for the American Navy. So we must engage their Navy in the littorals, where our missile batteries along the coast will eliminate the American advantage. Additionally, we must engage the United States in a campaign where we can predict their strategy and tactics. To do this, we must invade Taipei.”
Admiral Tsou paused. There was no visible reaction from the men seated at the table. He continued, “The Americans believe they are the guardians of democracy, and will surge their Navy to Taipei’s defense, which is exactly what we want. We have spent the last decade developing the missiles and submarines required to defeat the Americans, and we are finally ready.”
Tsou spent the next thirty minutes detailing how the United States Pacific Fleet would be drawn toward its demise. It was a delicate chess match, and in most cases China’s pieces on the board were inferior to America’s. In addition, a sacrifice would have to be made, further weakening China’s position. But Tsou was confident the gambit would succeed.
At the end of his brief, Tsou pressed the remote in his hand and the display fell dark. Silence descended upon the conference room.
Finally, Xiang asked the only question that mattered. “Are you sure we can defeat the United States?”
Tsou thought carefully before replying. He had supervised every detail of their military buildup, simulated the American response countless times with endless variations, and the PLA was now consistently victorious. There was no doubt in his mind.
“We will preva
il.”
* * *
Huan waited patiently as additional questions followed. He had chosen well, promoting Tsou to Fleet Admiral ten years earlier. He had superbly guided the PLA Navy, and a decade of preparation had come down to this moment.
When the questions ended, Huan addressed the Politburo. “Admiral Tsou has outlined our new path to prosperity. But before we proceed, you must vote. We cannot commence offensive military action without unanimous approval.” Huan turned to the most junior committee member.
After a moment of reflection, fifty-five-year-old Deng Chung spoke. “I am uncomfortable with the use of military force. The loss of life will be great, and I fear that even if we obtain the natural resources we need, our economy will be crippled by international sanctions.” Deng paused, surveying the other Politburo members before returning his attention to Huan. “We should continue diplomatic efforts, not resort to war.”
Huan considered Deng’s words. Like Deng, Huan had initially misunderstood the role of war. But Mao Zedong had not.
“We are continuing diplomatic efforts,” Huan replied. “It was Chairman Mao himself who stated—‘War is the continuation of politics by other means. When politics develops to a stage beyond which it cannot proceed by the usual means, war breaks out to sweep the obstacles from the way.’”
Huan continued, “We failed to negotiate access to the natural resources we need. It is time to employ a more effective method of diplomacy. It is time for war.
“Once the American Pacific Fleet is destroyed, America and the world will eagerly accept our terms—the unification of the two Chinas, access to the natural resources we require, and termination of any economic sanctions imposed. The war will be short, and it will help us negotiate the terms we desire but have failed to achieve by peaceful methods.”
There was silence in the conference room as the Politburo members digested Huan’s assessment. Finally, Deng nodded his consent. “I concur with the plan.”
One by one, each member of the committee approved until only Huan’s uncle, Shen, and Xiang remained. Huan already knew how his uncle would vote, and he did not disappoint.
“I concur,” Shen said.
Huan’s eyes moved to Xiang. The older man was silent, reflecting on the information presented. As Huan waited for Xiang’s vote, China’s future—as well as Huan’s—lay in the balance. Huan needed to persuade him. Perhaps he could motivate Xiang to approve the plan for personal, rather than political reasons. However, it was risky to bring the topic up. He had no idea how Xiang would react.
“There are many benefits to my plan,” Huan began. “Benefits your mother would surely approve of.”
Xiang’s eyes narrowed. “What happened to my mother will not be discussed here.” He clenched his teeth, glaring at Huan before replying. “My personal prejudice will not affect my assessment of what is best for China.” There was an uneasy silence as the two men remained locked in each other’s stare.
Xiang finally broke contact, his eyes roving across the faces of the other committee members as he spoke. “Huan is right. America fears what we have become, and our potential even more. They are cowards, attempting to castrate our economy. China requires a new path to prosperity, one that places our fate in our own hands, not in corrupt negotiators courting even more corrupt oil suppliers.” Xiang’s eyes settled on Huan. “I concur with your plan.”
Huan nodded his appreciation, then turned to Admiral Tsou. “How long until you are ready?”
“Seven days.”
4
WESTERN MARYLAND
The beat of the helicopter’s four-bladed rotor filled the humid morning air as the VH-60N White Hawk skimmed low over the thick forest canopy, climbing the gentle slope of the Catoctin Mountains. Although it could carry eleven passengers, there were only two aboard the presidential helicopter for the half-hour trip from the White House to the compound originally called Shangri-La by President Franklin Roosevelt, renamed Camp David by President Eisenhower in honor of his grandson. Christine O’Connor and the president’s senior military aide, Captain Steve Brackman, were approaching the end of their seventy-mile journey, and in a few minutes, Christine would deliver the unwelcome news.
A change in the rotor’s tempo and the feeling of her seat falling away announced the helicopter’s arrival at Camp David. Peering out the starboard window, Christine watched their steady descent toward a small clearing in the dark green forest. A moment later, the White Hawk’s landing wheels touched down onto the concrete tarmac with a gentle bump. Stepping out of the helicopter, Christine and Brackman hurried across the pavement and slipped into the backseat of a waiting black Suburban.
After passing the camp commander’s cabin, the Suburban turned right onto a steep secondary road, immediately pulling to a halt at a security checkpoint. The Marine guard checked the IDs of the driver and both passengers, then waved the Suburban through, and the SUV began winding its way through the heavily wooded 120-acre compound. A few minutes later, Aspen Lodge came into view, sitting atop a three-acre clearing lined with cattails and irises, sloping down to a copse of maple, hickory, and oak trees. Calling the president’s residence a lodge was misleading at best. The four-bedroom ranch-style cabin, constructed with natural oak wall paneling and exposed ceiling beams, was cozy but certainly not elegant.
The Suburban ground to a stop on a narrow gravel driveway and the Marine sentry standing guard near the front door saluted as Christine and Brackman stepped from the SUV, with Brackman returning the salute. After knocking on the door and hearing the president’s acknowledgment, Brackman opened the door for Christine, then followed her into the cabin’s small living room, stopping beside a stone fireplace as the president rose from a couch against the far wall. Through the window behind the president, the late morning sun reflected off the surface of the swimming pool behind the cabin, the bright sparkle contrasting with the president’s dark eyes.
The president waited for Christine to begin.
“Mr. President, China is mobilizing the People’s Liberation Army. Liberty for all military personnel has been canceled and two army groups are being moved toward the coast across from Taiwan. Every warship is being loaded with a full weapon complement, with most of the activity occurring at night.”
“Do they have any war games scheduled?” the president asked.
“Not to our knowledge.”
The president reflected on Christine’s words before replying. “China’s relationship with Taiwan has never been better.”
“The timing points more toward the MAER Accord than their desire to unify the two Chinas. Their mobilization began almost a week ago, right after you signed the accord.”
“Perhaps China is just rattling its sword,” the president offered, “mobilizing their military to pressure us into modifying the accord.”
“Perhaps, Mr. President, but we can’t be sure.”
The president didn’t immediately reply. Finally, he asked, “How do we respond?”
“SecDef recommends we increase Pacific Command’s readiness one level and cancel leave for all warship crews, putting Pacific Fleet on a twenty-four-hour leash. He also recommends we reroute all combatants on deployment in the Western Pacific toward Taiwan, just in case.”
The president nodded his agreement. “I’ll give Jennings the order.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “We need to find out what’s going on and diffuse the situation. I’d send Ross, but she’s on a flight to Moscow for a meeting with her secretary of state counterpart. I don’t want to cancel the meeting and divert her to China, nor do I want to wait another week to address this issue. That means I send someone else.”
He stared at Christine for a moment, then asked, “How’s your Mandarin?”
5
GUIDED MISSILE SUBMARINE USS MICHIGAN
“Raising Number Two scope.”
Standing on the Conn in the submarine’s Control Room, Lieutenant Steve Cordero lifted both hands in the darkness, grabbing t
he periscope ring above his head, rotating it clockwise. Although he couldn’t see the scope as it slid silently up from its well, he knew the handles would emerge in three seconds. Dropping his hands, he held them out near his waist on each side of the scope until the top of the periscope handles hit his palms. He snapped the handles down and pressed his face against the eyepiece as the scope finished its ascent, checking the periscope settings. He twisted his right hand forward, verifying the periscope was set on low power. With a flick of his left wrist, he rotated the handle backward, tilting the scope optics skyward. But there was only darkness.
Cordero called out to the microphone in the overhead, “All stations, Conn. Proceeding to periscope depth.” Sonar, Radio, and the Quartermaster acknowledged the Officer of the Deck’s order, then Cordero followed up, “Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet.”
The Diving Officer repeated Cordero’s order, then directed the two watchstanders in front of him, “Ten up. Full rise fairwater planes.”
The watchstander on the left pulled his yoke back, and five hundred feet behind them, the control surfaces on the submarine’s stern rotated, pushing the stern down until the ship was tilted upward at a ten-degree angle. To the Dive’s right, the Helm also pulled the yoke back, pitching the control surfaces on the submarine’s conning tower, or sail as it was commonly called, to full rise.
“Passing one-five-zero feet,” the Dive called out. USS Michigan was rising toward the surface.
Years ago, Cordero would have rotated on the periscope during the ascent. But protocols had changed. Peering into the periscope eyepiece, he looked straight ahead, up into the dark water, scanning for evidence of ships above, their navigation lights reflecting on the ocean’s surface.
Empire Rising Page 3