by David Poyer
The other’s tone turned dire. “We wish to stop suffering on both sides. Chairman is reaching out to you, General. I would not reject his overture.”
“This is not a rejection, sir.”
“Then let us know what terms we can settle on.”
“I would rather have you propose them, sir.” Vincenzo shot Blair a look. Questioning, or uncertain?
She tried for an encouraging smile. “That’s good. Keep him talking,” she whispered as two more men stepped in. A junior officer followed, toting folding chairs which she snapped open across from where Vincenzo sat hunched over the phone.
“We have discussed acceptable terms with Dr. Titus. Is she there with you?”
Vincenzo glanced at her. “Yes, she is.” His contracted frown asking: What the hell did you agree to, Blair? She shook her head furiously. Spread her hands and whispered, “I agreed to nothing. Just listened to what they had to say.”
Chen spoke again. “I have General Pei and Admiral Lianfeng here. We are entering fourth year of this war. We have given proof of our indestructible strength. So have you. But at enormous cost.
“Therefore, we propose an armistice. All territory conquered on either side, to be returned. All China’s territories to which we have historical rights, you must cede back. A return to the status quo ante bellum.”
Blair and Ricardo exchanged glances. Pei had commanded on Taiwan, but escaped before the island’s fall. Lianfeng was China’s naval chief of staff. If this feeler was being undertaken behind Zhang’s back, it was from the highest level of the military establishment.
The J-2, the intel officer, leaned down to murmur in Vincenzo’s ear. The general batted him away. “Please convey my greetings. However, those terms are not acceptable,” he said into the phone, and a droplet of sweat rolled down his neck into his collar. “Your ally Korea has succumbed to our forces. We are firmly established on Hainan and preparing to take Hong Kong. It is time for you to capitulate.”
Silence on the other end of the line. More heavy breathing. Then another voice, deeper, broke in, speaking in rapid Chinese.
“He says, the People’s Empire will never surrender,” the interpreter said. “You will regret not … uh, not accepting this extended hand of peace.”
Vincenzo twiddled his fingers. The J-2 handed him a pen. He jotted on the scratch pad, signed it, and shoved it over. Blair caught a glimpse. It read SACOM: DEFCON One Charlie. The staffer cleared his throat, scanning it, then rushed out.
She shivered. Despite the bodies crowded into it, the temperature in the little room seemed to have fallen twenty degrees. Was this how the world ended? And what was One Charlie? The nuclear first strike Szernci had described? She put a hand on Vincenzo’s shoulder. He clasped his free one over it, as if grateful for the reassurance. So she bent and murmured, “Keep him talking, Ricardo. At any cost, keep him on the line.”
But the legal rep was muttering too, from Vincenzo’s left. “You need to kick this upstairs, General. End the conversation! Tell them the White House will call back.”
Vincenzo said levelly, ignoring her, “Sir, let me make clear that I welcome this initiative. We are open to the idea of an armistice. The United States, the Allies, would be glad to pause hostilities.
“But this decision is not a matter for generals. It’s time to involve our president.” He gestured to the interpreter. “Tell him we’ll have the White House call back. Immediately. Will that be all right?”
The conversation shifted to Chinese. Blair hugged herself, afraid to breathe. The clock on the wall jerked steadily forward. More people kept crowding into the room, until Vincenzo angrily hissed, “Nonessential personnel, get the fuck out.”
A subdued hubbub bled in from outside each time the door opened. She glanced through the crack into the command center. A throng hovered there, looking somber and frightened, though a few countenances seemed to glow with nervous hope. Sort of how she felt right now … if only they didn’t drop the ball … but DEFCON One Charlie … and what about the Russians? They’d facilitated the contact, maybe pushed the Chinese toward making the call, but had their own irons in the fire.
She didn’t know what to think, or how to feel. Only that the world seemed to have suspended its breath. And that she herself found it hard to keep on breathing.
The interpreter held up a hand. All their gazes shifted to her. “Sir, they are agreeing to talks with the White House,” she said.
“And the armistice?” Vincenzo said.
“No armistice until an agreement is reached. Sorry, sir. I—”
“That’s okay. I understand.” He leaned toward the phone again. “Deputy Minister? Are you still on the line?”
“I am, General.”
“I understand we have a path forward. The White House will call you back. At this number?”
“We will wait for the call. But cannot do so for long. Events move without us. The call must come soon.”
Vincenzo nodded to the colonel who’d set up the room. “Sit Room on the line?”
“Yes, sir, and they’re getting the chief of staff there. Mrs. Madhurika.”
Vincenzo said, “Deputy Minister: You’ll hear back within minutes. Thank you for reaching out. It’s time we went forward together.”
“I hope so as well. Goodbye, General.”
“Goodbye, Deputy Minister. General. Admiral. Goodbye.”
The chairman hung up, the handset rattling just a bit as he did. For a second no one spoke.
Then he glared around. “No one discusses this outside these rooms. Is that clear? The White House makes the next move. This was just preliminary. Setting up the call. I said, is that understood?”
Reluctantly, they all nodded. Blair did too.
Vincenzo got up and stretched. He patted her arm. Gave her a tired smile. “Let’s hope this works out. No. Let’s pray it does.”
She nodded, unable to reply. And sank into a chair as soon as he left.
* * *
SHE was back in her office that night, unwilling to leave the building, when the Sit Room logo flashed on her official screen. She sat up straight, suddenly quickened with hope. This could be it. The armistice, put out to the government before the public announcement. Tonight crowds would celebrate in Times Square, in every city and hamlet in America. Would they call it V-C day?
Instead the logo dissolved to a map. “From national reconnaissance assets. Troops and armored forces of the Russian Federation have crossed the northern Chinese border at three points. This is a major movement. It was possibly rehearsed in advance by the Vostok operational-strategic exercises Russia conducted last year.
“Seven army brigades, along with airborne troops and tactical air forces, took part in that joint exercise, staged by the Far Eastern and Siberian Military Districts. This incursion is on an even larger scale. Chinese forces are falling back. DIA estimates they were denuded of advanced weapons and drawn down in numbers in response to the Allied offensives in the east and south, as well as internal unrest in Xianjiang and Tibet.
“Stand by…”
The map vanished, replaced by an Air Force officer’s face. He looked harried. “Moscow has just announced they are joining the Allies in bringing peace to Asia. Um, ‘responding to Chinese aggression in the Blagoveshchensk region.’ But we’ve seen so evidence yet of what they’re referring to.”
Blair watched, disoriented at first, then suddenly comprehending.
The Russians wanted their money. But the White House had refused to guarantee their loans as part of the armistice deal. So their way of insuring they would be paid back had been to join the Allies. Demand a seat at the peace table, and insist on repayment there.
They’d stood aside as long as they could profit, waiting to see who would emerge as the victor. Now that the Opposed Powers were weakening, it was time to join the winning side.
Cold-blooded.
Machiavellian.
But perfectly rational, in the ruthless logic of great-powe
r chess.
The Sit Room was still on the screen. The map came up again, updated. More Russian units were being identified. Their forces were advancing. Air strikes were taking out Chinese airfields.
This was a major attack. No, an invasion. Designed to gain land, eat territory, carve out China’s northern heart. So it could be sold back later at a terrible price.
Events were sliding, tumbling. The whole planet shifting under their feet.
Her phone rang, startling her. Her secretary had gone home long ago. She looked at the ID. From Stanford, California. She picked up. “Kevin?”
“Blair.” Glancey sounded desperate. “Are you watching this?”
So the Sit Room was only thirty seconds behind cable news. “About Russia’s entry into the war? I just heard. It’s a stab in the back, considering they were sort-of allies with Zhang. But still, with us attacking from the south, the Russians from the north, that means the war’s over.” She debated telling him about the call to Vincenzo, but couldn’t discuss it on an open line. “Maybe things will all turn out okay,” she said cautiously.
“That’s what I’m calling about. The revolt.”
She blinked, taken aback. “The … what revolt?”
“You’re not watching? Fox, BBC? There’s been a coup in Beijing. Hard-line elements. It’s confused. But no one knows what’s going on. And that’s not good.”
“No, it isn’t.” She felt whiplashed, a sense of doom overtaking what had a moment before been hope.
“If Zhang’s being overthrown, he’s already told us what he’ll do. He’ll issue the orders. Some of the rocket forces will obey and launch. Even if he doesn’t, I’ve studied their command and control structures. They’re not as centralized as ours. They don’t have PAL links on their warheads, and we cyber-degraded their automated command and control. Meaning, they’ll have reverted to manual. Which means—”
“Which means individual theater commanders can launch,” she murmured, and the fear grew until she bit her lip to stem rising panic. “What can we do, Kev? You’re the expert on war termination. Help us.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know! There’s no template. No precedent. Maybe what Ed was saying is the only way left—”
She squeezed her eyes closed. A first strike, with the biggest thermonuclear warheads ever mounted. Earth Penetrators, to shake down mountains. That was the horror Szerenci had designed for the last act of this tragedy.
But no strike, massive as it might be, could take out everything.
She groped for words to reassure the frightened voice on the other end of the line. But nothing came to mind. Nothing she could say. Nothing she could do.
He was still talking when she hung up, and lowered her head into her shaking hands.
21
In the Golden Mountains
MASTER Chief Teddy Oberg was back in the Teams. Readying for a mission. But unable to assemble his dive gear. Missing the fins. Then his rebreather wouldn’t give him air. He sucked and sucked, but his lungs stayed empty.
“Sumo” Kaulukukui was there. His old swim buddy. Teddy wondered at that. Vaguely recalling fast-roping into a night-shrouded city, being trapped in a kill room. Galleries above them. A machine gunner behind them. A grenade, bouncing between them … and Sumo …
War’s a mothefucker, ain’t it.
“You fatass Hawaiian shitbird,” he told the other SEAL. “Thought you checked out on the way up to the roof. Waiting for the medevac.”
“Look like I’m K?” the big SEAL said. He tapped his chest, where Teddy now saw a gaping but bloodless hole. “Stick your hand in, you retarded Laurel Canyon haole.”
He woke to someone shaking him. He coughed, hacking out the fluid buildup that had dogged him since the chlorine attack, and reached for a green bottle. When the oxygen hit, icy life seared his lungs and his brain defogged like a cleared mask. “Yeah,” he grunted.
“Lingxiù, it is time,” the big bearded muj, Yusuf, said. Teddy’s fingers tightened on the thin-blade inside his sleeping bag. But Yusuf backed away, visage unreadable.
It was still black dark. Oh-dark-thirty. But today was the day.
The day they’d find out if Jedburgh was a doable mission, or a massacre.
The supply drop had included the Stingers Vlad promised, plus ammunition, antibiotics, and the black, heavy teardrop-shape that might just give them a chance to cripple Zhang’s remaining deterrent.
The Sandia TA-4 was an electromagnetic pulse generator driven by a nuclear microdevice. It had done the job on Teddy’s last mission, but that installation hadn’t been protected by solid rock.
Which meant they’d have to get in close before activating the initiation sequence.
He and most of their remaining rebels had trekked east through the mountains for weeks. A grueling, dangerous forced march conducted mainly by night, or when snow masked them from overhead observation. It had taken longer than he’d estimated. He’d had to cut their rations. Some had dropped out, deserters, losing the faith, but Teddy was ready for that. Three of his most trusted men had trailed the main body, to shoot anyone who turned back. Guldulla had stayed behind, to try to revive the rebellion. Spearheading a new recruiting drive, to rebuild their ranks after the cadre had been decimated by Chagatai’s surprise attack.
Leaving Teddy and Qurban to honcho the raid to the east, with Teddy accompanied 24/7 by a guy he didn’t trust and who outweighed him by at least fifty pounds.
He coughed again, spat, and rolled out. Dandan #3 knelt to make up his bedroll. A hefty girl, another captured Han, this time selected not for bed but her suitability as a pack animal. He couldn’t carry his old loads, not with a bad leg and now crap lungs too. Fortunately Vlad had included several cylinders of oxygen in the drop. But sometimes, defiling up a cliff, Teddy had to stop and rest while the others waited.
Hotshot SEAL’s getting old, dream-Sumo said in his mind.
Shut up, you dead motherfucker.
Gone south on us. Got religion and gone south.
I figured some things out, that’s all. Mainly, that the fate of the fucking universe isn’t up to me.
Gone over to the fucking ragheads. Bought into that “Allah rules” shit. Probably waste his old teammates, if they showed up there.
He pushed the dream out of his head and squatted in the ravine with his squad leaders, shielding a flashlight. The air was bitter cold this high. Vlad had downloaded him maps of the missile site. It looked impenetrable. Was designed to be, of course. Their last mission, against the computer facility, had been across open desert. This one was across terrain as rocky and precipitous as ITIM’s old mountain hideout.
Of course, they weren’t approaching by road.
In three weeks they’d traveled almost five hundred miles, first through mountains, then leaving the Taklimakan behind for rugged, treeless, blasted terrain that made the moon look friendly. The empty central heart of China. Mongolia lay to the north. Then south of the Jiuquan road the mountains began again.
Here, in the Altun-Shan, the Golden Mountains, China had dug in its most potent strategic deterrent. The massive missiles whose revelation had astonished the Allies, and overturned their comfortable assumptions of escalation superiority.
Or so Vlad had said. All Teddy could see was that after that trek, he was down to a hundred effectives. A paltry number to take on what was probably at least a regiment of security troops, barriering the area from intruders and ready to decimate any who tried.
“There is only one road in,” he told them, showing it to them on the map. “Look at those tight turns. And cliffs. Must be hell in deep winter. These used to be lead mines. Silver too. They used the old mining roads to get their construction equipment up here.”
“And where precisely are the missiles?” Qurban asked, in his exacting, slow Guantánamo English.
Teddy regarded him uneasily. The old al-Qaeda fighter marched up front, with the youngest rebels. His stocky form, shaggy with the sheepskins they wore a
gainst cold and infrared surveillance, seemed to take the steepest uphills in stride. Then he glanced at the younger man beside them. Yusuf was big, and smarter than he looked. He understood the squirt comms that connected them to their Agency handlers as well as Teddy did. The problem was, he was one of the ALQ veteran’s guys. The squad leaders, too, seemed to defer to al-Nashiri as much as to their Lingxiù.
But for the moment at least, they seemed ready for a fight. “Uh, Higher says they’re here. At the end of this side road.” He called up the imagery. “See where it crosses what looks like an embankment? That’s actually a dam. Coming down, we’ll hit that road near this turn. But just now the stream will be dry. So we don’t need to cross it during the approach phase.
“Should be two, three hours’ march in from where we’re sitting. In the dark. Total silence. Remember, the Han drones can detect electronics. So all radios must be off. The Stinger carriers will only turn their seekers on if we’re attacked. Our shaheeds, martyrs, will not arm their loads until we are within sight of the enemy. They will go in last, after the scouts and the rocket grenade teams. And after that, the black idol.”
That was what Qurban called the TA-4, with barely concealed scorn. In the faint light the guerrillas looked doubtful. Hey, he didn’t feel that confident about this one himself. Their only advantage would be surprise. Lose that, and they’d be overwhelmed.
The only way he could see them actually accomplishing this mission, to disable or at least damage the missiles’ guidance systems, was to detonate the electromagnetic weapon as close to the silos as they could get. Sandia put out a good product. After the previous mission, he was pretty sure the Package would work as advertised.
The question was whether they could fight it in close enough to penetrate the hundreds of feet of solid rock the Agency said protected their targets.
“All right, let’s move,” he told them, knees creaking as he cranked himself to his feet. “Follow the plan. Aim before you fire. Put the devils of fear behind you.”
Qurban stood too. The old fighter said softly, “Say your du’a that I taught you. It will banish the djinn of fear that al-Amriki speaks of. Trust Allah and all will be well, whatever happens.”