Empire Rising

by Rick Campbell

  Admiral Tsou paused, waiting for the Politburo to absorb the information and its implications. His eyes met President Xiang’s for a moment, then passed over each man in the room. Finally, Tsou could no longer contain the emotion. A broad smile spread across his face, matched by wide grins displayed by Huan and the eight men around the table.

  The smile faded from Admiral Tsou’s face as he continued, his features returning to their normal, stoic state. “Everything is proceeding exactly as planned.”

  EN PASSANT

  33

  PANAMA CITY, PANAMA

  Seated alone at a table for two on the patio of the Miraflores Café, Daniel DeVor leaned back in his chair, a drink in his hand, admiring the crimson sun as it set into the lush green canopy of the Arraiján rain forest. He wished instead he could have watched the sun sink below the waters of the nearby Pacific Ocean, hoping to observe a rare flash of emerald green as the last light of day slipped beneath the horizon. According to legend, one who has seen the Green Ray is able to see closely into his own heart and read the thoughts of others. To Daniel, only the first part mattered. He didn’t care what motivated his Asian friend. Understanding why he had agreed to the man’s plan was where his thoughts dwelt tonight.

  The decision had been a difficult one, and even now Daniel struggled with his conscience. Three years ago, the family farm in West Virginia was about to go under. The rising price of fuel, combined with four summer droughts, had wiped out what little savings his father had squirreled away and no bank was willing to extend additional credit. Fortunately, an opportunity arose from an unlikely source. Chris Stevenson was a complete stranger the day he pulled up a chair at this very café three years ago. But while Daniel knew nothing about Stevenson, the thin Asian—with a fake American name, no doubt—knew everything about Daniel’s dire situation.

  A pact had been proposed and after much consideration, Daniel had accepted. No one would be injured and his family would benefit. That’s what mattered, he told himself. His father’s debt was paid and a comfortable annuity established for Daniel’s parents. In return, Daniel had agreed to complete a predetermined task.

  Three years had passed without hearing from Stevenson and Daniel had slowly convinced himself he would never be asked to complete the task. But Stevenson had been waiting in his car by the curb when Daniel stepped from his house today. The conversation was short and Stevenson left behind the brown satchel currently at Daniel’s feet, along with a clear warning of what would happen should Daniel fail to fulfill his end of the bargain.

  Daniel finished his drink, placing the glass onto the thin cardboard coaster on the table. Pulling a ten dollar bill from his wallet, he placed it next to his glass, then stood, grabbing the brown satchel firmly. With one last glance at the Panama Canal stretching before him, he turned and headed toward the café’s exit.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Daniel approached the security checkpoint to the Panama Canal’s Miraflores Locks. With his heart racing, he emptied his pockets into a small container and placed it on the X-ray machine conveyor belt next to his satchel, then stepped through the metal detector. The technician monitored the display as the briefcase exited, sliding slowly toward Daniel. As he reached for his satchel, he froze when the technician spoke.

  “Bag check.”

  The conveyor halted, Daniel’s satchel only a few inches away from his outstretched hand. A second security guard stopped across from him, retrieving the satchel from the conveyor belt. With feigned disinterest, Daniel looked past the guard toward the lock entrance, only twenty feet away.

  After taking the satchel to a side table, the guard opened the case. Daniel’s heart hammered in his chest as the guard eyed the contents suspiciously, tilting the case as he examined the assorted items, finally pulling out an old iPod, one of two Chris Stevenson had given Daniel earlier that day. Both were filled with an explosive supposedly ten times more powerful than C-4.

  The guard glanced at the iPod in his hand and the matching device in the satchel. “Why do you have two iPods?”

  “They’re older versions and don’t have much memory. I need two to hold all my songs.”

  The guard studied the iPod in his hand. “Yeah, these are pretty old. Why don’t you buy a new one?”

  “Easier said than done, with what they pay us around here.”

  The guard grunted in commiseration. “Don’t I know it. You should get a new iPod Touch. You can even watch movies on those things.”

  “Already on my list.” Daniel smiled.

  After a final examination, the guard started to return the iPod to the satchel when it slipped out of his hand. Daniel watched the iPod fall, almost in slow motion, toward the concrete floor. He lunged forward, his hands closing around the iPod just before it hit the ground.

  “Sorry,” the guard said sheepishly. He took the iPod from Daniel’s hands and placed it back into the satchel. “Thank you,” he said as he handed the bag back to Daniel, the guard’s eyes already shifting to the next person in line.

  Daniel took the satchel and exited the security checkpoint, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal.

  * * *

  Fifteen years ago, Daniel had been hired by the Panama Canal Authority to oversee maintenance of the canal’s elaborate lock system. Ships entering the canal on either end were raised eighty-five feet as they passed through the locks, and lowered back to sea level after their transit. Each set of locks had gates, which, when closed, formed a chamber within which the water level could be adjusted. Each gate was over six feet thick, with some as tall as eighty-two feet, weighing over seven hundred tons.

  Instead of heading to his office, Daniel crossed over one of the Miraflores Locks’ massive gates, headed toward a center causeway separating the dual lock system. After stepping onto the causeway, Daniel descended a narrow staircase. The smell of damp, century-old concrete greeted him as he continued down the steps leading to one of two tunnels that ran the length of the locks. Daniel stopped where East Gate 3 was attached to the center causeway on a pair of two-foot-diameter pintle hinges. Destroy one of the hinges while there was a water level imbalance, and that half of the gate would shear away, disabling the lock for weeks, if not months.

  Opening his satchel, Daniel retrieved one of the iPods and placed it against the metal access plate where grease was periodically pumped into the upper hinge. The magnet on the back of the iPod adhered to the metallic frame. After a few taps and swirls of the iPod’s click wheel, the timer was set for ten minutes. Another tap and the timer began counting down. Daniel hurried to the adjacent tunnel, running parallel to this one, where he affixed the second iPod in a similar location for West Gate 3. Checking his watch, Daniel set the iPod timer to seven minutes, synchronizing both iPod countdowns.

  Five minutes later, Daniel was in his office, standing at the window overlooking the Miraflores Locks, counting down the remaining two minutes. Container ships had just exited both of the upper locks, and their water level was twenty-seven feet higher than the locks below. Just as he checked his watch again, the floor of his office rumbled and windows rattled. He looked up to see half of East Gate 3 shear away from its upper hinge. The massive gate tilted back toward the lower lock, ripping away from its bottom hinge. Twenty-six million gallons of water in the upper lock, no longer held in place, surged into the lower lock, spilling over the lower gates into the Pacific Ocean. Seconds later, Daniel felt another rumble, and half of West Gate 3 also sheared away.

  The Panama Canal was now impassable.

  34

  ISMAILIA, EGYPT

  Caleb Malcom knelt in the darkness, his knees sinking into the soft sand at the base of the escarpment, sloping thirty feet up toward the clear night sky. His knees sank farther than they would normally have, for tonight he carried an extra sixty pounds slung across his left shoulder and in the black rucksack strapped to his back. The two men accompanying him, one on each side, also knelt low to the ground, their features illuminated
by bright white security lights located just over the top of the embankment. Each of the two men, also clad in black, carried a matching rucksack and identical weapon slung across their shoulder.

  There was no cloud cover tonight and the temperature had plummeted. Malcom’s breath condensed into fine white mist as he exhaled, recovering from his sprint across the flat expanse of sand between the security fence and the base of the escarpment. The security patrol had passed by only three minutes ago, so they had seventeen minutes to accomplish their task and retreat through the hole they had cut in the fence. Their vehicle was just over the ridge, and they’d be long gone before the security forces arrived. Malcom glanced at each man beside him, ordering both men to begin their ascent in ten seconds.

  After ten years in the military in one of the Army’s elite units, Malcom had been hired by Bluestone Security, spending six years protecting supplies en route to forward bases. However, after America withdrew from Iraq, his employment had been terminated due to lack of contracts, and with no job came no money. After becoming accustomed to a $200,000 annual salary, it wasn’t long before Malcom racked up serious debt and was willing to entertain more creative methods of employment.

  Chris Stevenson had approached Malcom two weeks ago, offering a lucrative deal. Malcom considered declining, but only for a moment. Someone would take the job, and it might as well be him. It would be easy to accomplish the mission; he knew men who would assist, had access to the required weapons, and knew contacts in the region who could perform reconnaissance. The decision was easy.

  It was difficult tonight, however, climbing the steep embankment. Malcom’s feet slipped in the loose sand, but less than a minute later, all three men crested the top of the escarpment. Stretching into the distance in both directions lay the 120-mile-long Suez Canal, and directly in front of Malcom transited the Aegean Empress, a 200,000-ton oil tanker passing from the Red Sea into the Mediterranean. A half-mile in front of the Empress was another tanker, and behind, a third. He had timed it perfectly.

  Malcom slipped the RPG-29 from his shoulder and shrugged off his rucksack, as did the two men beside him. It took only five seconds to load the anti-tank round, another five to stand and hoist the launcher into position, and another five to take aim on the Aegean Empress. After a quick glance at the two men beside him, Malcom shouted his order. All three men fired simultaneously, their projectiles streaking through the darkness.

  The anti-tank round sliced through the Aegean Empress’s hull just above the waterline, igniting the ship’s oil tanks in a jarring explosion. A fireball billowed hundreds of feet skyward, illuminating the three men atop the escarpment in a burst of orange light. Two rumbles in the distance followed, accompanied by similar pulses of light.

  There was no time to be wasted. Security forces would be converging on their location within minutes. Malcom slung the RPG over his shoulder but then paused, staring dispassionately at the oil tankers burning brightly in the darkness. He found it odd, but he felt no adrenaline rush from his destructive endeavor. The thought of what awaited him in his bank account, however, was quite exciting. Reaching down, he grabbed his rucksack and slung it over his other shoulder as he began working his way down the steep embankment.

  35

  USS NIMITZ

  USS Nimitz surged south at ahead full, alternately launching and recovering aircraft on its patchwork Flight Deck. Twenty miles to the north, USS Lincoln followed behind as the two carrier strike groups entered the northern entrance of the Taiwan Strait. Arrayed to the west, cruisers and destroyers mirrored the carriers’ movement, establishing a screen against Chinese missiles. Unseen in the waters ahead, twelve fast attack submarines straddled the width of the Strait, searching for Chinese submarines. Meanwhile, two hundred miles to the south, another twelve American submarines were headed north, leading the other two carrier strike groups through the Strait’s southern entrance.

  Nimitz was at General Quarters, and Captain Alex Harrow stood his watch on the Bridge, supervising his carrier’s flight operations. Their aircraft had fared well thus far, losing only ten percent of their fighters. Anti-air missile defense and enemy fighter resistance was almost nonexistent as Nimitz’s F/A-18 jets struck supply nodes along the Chinese coast and beachheads on the west coast of Taiwan.

  It would take another twenty-four hours to completely cut off the supplies flowing across the Strait. The number of ships ferrying equipment from China to Taiwan was impressive, but the four carrier strike groups had been whittling away at the small transports all morning.

  Harrow looked out the Bridge windows, observing one Super Hornet descending from the Flight Deck to the Hangar on Elevator 1 while another ascended on Elevator 3, the fighter’s normal allotment of self-defense missiles cut in half, increasing its payload of anti-ship missiles. There had been only sporadic Chinese fighter jet activity, and CAG Captain Helen Corcoran had decided to alter the mix of defensive and offensive weapons, increasing the wing’s kill rate.

  It was just too easy. Harrow’s gut told him something was wrong, but there was nothing to confirm his fear. Everything was proceeding exactly as simulated in countless war games.

  36

  YǏN BISHOU FUJIAN PROVINCE, CHINA

  Just above the island of Taipei, a shimmering orange sun was climbing into a deep blue sky, bathing the cliffs rising from the Chinese mainland in gentle warmth. Deep inside the volcanic cliffs, harsh fluorescent lighting illuminated a cavern carved from the mountain’s innards. Through the center of the mile-long cavern, with wharves lining each side of the man-made harbor, a channel flowed into the Taiwan Strait. Moored to the wharves were twenty-four Yuan class diesel submarines, their crews assembled topside, standing in formation. A hundred feet above the submarines at the inland end of the cavern, Admiral Tsou Deshi stood behind a narrow terrace, surveying Yǐn Bishou and the East Sea Fleet’s flotilla of attack submarines with pride.

  It had taken ten years to construct Yǐn Bishou, its creation concealed from America and their satellites in orbit. The United States was focused on Sanya, another underground base at Hainan Island. China had stationed their nuclear-powered submarines at Sanya, knowing it would focus America’s attention there, and help keep Yǐn Bishou concealed.

  America believed the only threat to their Navy was China’s nuclear-powered submarines. If the Pacific Fleet had remained in deep water east of Taipei, that assessment would have been correct. But that wasn’t the case today. The Pacific Fleet had been lured into the Strait. True, America had sunk many submarines and destroyed hundreds of missile batteries, but that was part of the plan.

  In the next two hours, twenty-four new Yuan class submarines, just as advanced as their nuclear counterparts, would sortie to sea. Additionally, these submarine crews wielded a potent advantage. But before his crews sank the dagger into the American Navy, Admiral Tsou felt it fitting to offer a few words of encouragement.

  Tsou spoke loudly, his voice carrying across the cavern. “Today, you will battle America, an enemy bent on the destruction of our country. They send their fleet to the shores of our homeland, attempting to subjugate us to their will. But their Pacific Fleet is overconfident. Today, America will feel the full might of China’s Navy, and you will deliver a death blow, ending America’s domination of the high seas.” Tsou paused a moment before continuing. “I am proud of the men standing before me, ready to serve the people. This will be our finest hour.”

  Tsou turned to Admiral Guo Jian, commander of the East Sea Fleet, standing beside him. “Commence operations.”

  37

  OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE, SUITLAND, MARYLAND

  “This is taking forever.”

  Inside the four-story National Maritime Intelligence Center in eastern Maryland, Cindy Pon stood with a coffee mug in her hand, peering over Jay Wood’s shoulder, examining his computer monitor. She had stayed late tonight, in case her analytical and language skills were required, but the decryption algorithms were still crunching away,
the contents of the secure flash drive still unknown. Cindy took a sip of her coffee; it was 10 P.M. and she needed a caffeine jolt before the drive home.

  Sitting at the workstation in front of her in the windowless, high-security enclave, Jay monitored the progress of the algorithm running on the computer, attempting to break the encrypted flash drive they had received from Okinawa two days ago.

  “Have faith,” Jay said without taking his eyes off the monitor. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  Only twenty-seven years old, Jay Wood was ONI’s best cryptologist. He had spent the last two days running various algorithms on the drive, evaluating how each algorithm performed before selecting the next. He had already determined which algorithm had been used to encrypt the flash drive, and was now attempting to determine the encryption key. Unfortunately, the key permutations were almost endless, and the process took time. The encryption key at the bottom of the monitor continued morphing—it had now increased to fifteen digits, each digit rapidly scrolling through the over-fifty-thousand characters of the Chinese language. Cindy had a hard time wrapping her mind around the number of permutations possible. A trillion had twelve zeros. The number of permutations in a Chinese encryption key with fifteen digits had seventy zeros. It definitely could take forever.

  “I’m calling it a day,” Cindy said. “If you happen to decrypt the drive before morning, give me a call. Also let Jina Hong know. She’s got the night shift and will take a look at whatever you’ve got before I get in.”