by Mike Maden
“I’m sure the Chinese know as well as we do about your unwillingness to do anything to provoke them. Don’t you see that such passivity will goad them into action?” Tanaka insisted. “If you’re not willing to show your sword, then your enemies will assume you can’t use it.”
“The George Washington and other American combat forces have been ‘showing the sword’ on Japan’s behalf for seven decades,” Myers said.
“Mr. President, let’s be frank,” Ito said. “If the Chinese do start hostilities, what will the United States do? If you’re not even willing to threaten them now before hostilities begin, why would you be more willing to issue threats against them afterward?”
“The Chinese would know that we would have to respond,” Lane said.
“What if they sink your carrier?” Tanaka asked. “Won’t your response to the sinking only escalate the violence? Put even more American lives at risk?”
“The State Department doesn’t believe that China would be so foolish as to provoke either Japan or the United States into a war it couldn’t possibly win,” Davis said. “America and Japan are two of China’s largest trading partners. They have far more to lose and little to gain by starting a war over the Senkakus.”
Tanaka turned toward the American ambassador. “Then why have they created this fiction about Mao Island? Why have they started drilling operations? Don’t you understand? The Chinese have sent a very clear signal. They’re willing to start a war. And I believe they’re willing to start a war because they know you won’t do anything to oppose them.”
“Our intelligence sources disagree,” Davis said.
“With all due respect, American intelligence has fallen short on many occasions in recent years, beginning with the notable lack of WMDs in Iraq,” Ito said. “That failure of intelligence led to an unnecessary war against Saddam Hussein and a decadelong war against the Iraqi insurgency afterward. As the prime minister of Japan, I reaffirm my nation’s unwavering commitment to the United States, but I don’t affirm our confidence in your intelligence services.”
Tanaka grunted his approval. “Hai.”
Can’t say that I blame you, Myers thought. “Let’s not forget the Chinese threat about the red line that they conveniently placed just beyond the Senkakus. They said they would consider it an act of war if American naval vessels crossed it and promised to launch the Wu-14 at any carrier that did.”
Tanaka threw out several other tactical possibilities that kept the George Washington out of harm’s way, but every scenario he proposed had already been hashed out at the Pentagon. In each case, the likely outcome was war, and the only way to carry out operations against Chinese forces was with force projection and that meant deploying the George Washington and its battle group. The United States didn’t want to risk losing either. Tanaka finally threw up his hands in disgust.
“It seems clear to me, Mr. President, that the United States has no wish for war with China. Neither do we,” Ito said. He sat up straighter in his chair. “But we are determined to defend our national interests and our national honor. If the Chinese dispatch the Liaoning into Japanese territorial waters, I will instruct the JSDF to respond.”
“Then you’ll be at war with China, a war you cannot win,” Lane said.
Tanaka nodded. “If one is forced to choose between honor and life, it is always best to choose honor.”
The room went silent. Myers kept her eyes on Ito. He was clearly lost in thought. She’d always known him to be a rational, affable, intelligent man. But he was also a proud Japanese. Back in Denver, whenever she talked about American exceptionalism, he was quick to point out his own sense of Japanese exceptionalism. She couldn’t blame him. Japan was an ancient and remarkable culture, one of the world’s oldest and greatest civilizations. She knew the rational part of Ito’s brain understood Lane’s position, but his Japanese sense of duty, kinship, and honor inclined him toward Tanaka.
“It sounds like you’re saying that you would abandon your friends in a time of war,” Ito said.
“I didn’t say that. But if Japan launches a preemptive strike against Chinese forces, then you limit our options and put all of us at risk. I’m asking you to trust us and refrain from any actions that might give the Chinese any reason to act against you. But you have my assurance that the United States is completely committed to the defense of Japan, no matter what happens.”
Tanaka shook his head in disbelief.
“There is, of course, the matter of the North Koreans to consider,” Ito said. “They’ve moved their MIRV to its launch pad at their test facility at Musudan-ri.”
“The North Koreans are China’s lackeys,” Tanaka said.
Lane nodded grimly. “They aren’t making things any easier, that’s for sure.”
“It’s a strange time to test an intercontinental ballistic missile,” Davis said.
“It might not be a test,” Lane said.
“Then what could it be? A message?” the ambassador asked.
“They may be trying to send a message,” Myers said. She took a deep breath.
“Or they just might be preparing for World War Three.”
FIFTY-FOUR
OAKLAND CITY JAIL
OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA
MAY 1999
Pearce!”
The African-American jail guard glowered at Troy through the cell door. Standing six-foot-seven and carrying three hundred pounds of sculpted muscle on his wide frame, he was as intimidating as he was large.
Troy looked up at the sound of his name. He was seated on a steel bench in the overnight tank for drunks, johns, and other less dangerous miscreants. He had no shirt, only athletic shorts, jailhouse slippers, and a black eye.
Keys rattled in the lock and a massive black hand guided Troy by the arm, cuffed and shuffling toward outtake processing.
Will was at the front desk signing papers. A paper bag by his elbow.
The guard unlocked Troy’s cuffs. “Don’t come back, kid.”
“Thanks,” Troy said.
Will nodded his thanks to the desk officer and tossed the paper bag at Troy. He opened it. A hooded Stanford sweatshirt.
“We gotta roll,” Will said, turning for the exit. Troy followed suit, yanking on the hoodie.
—
The drab downtown jail facility was an unremarkable building on the outside. The kaleidoscope of broken people inside provided the color.
Will pushed open the glass door and dashed for the parking lot, Troy on his heels.
“What’s the hurry?” Troy asked.
“You kidding me?”
“Oh, shit.”
“‘Oh, shit’ is right. Your thesis defense is in an hour. It’ll take an hour and twenty to get to Encina Hall.”
Will unlocked the doors to his Porsche 911 and they both fell in.
“I can’t go like this. I need to change, take a shower.”
The Porsche engine roared to life and Will turned around to back out. “I’ve got your slacks and sport coat under the hood, along with a shirt, tie, and shoes. No point in looking like a complete slob.”
Troy smelled his underarm. His nose crunched. “Don’t suppose you have a shower under there?”
“There’s a bottle of Old Spice under your seat. Go ahead and slap some on now, use plenty of it. It’s gonna be a long ride.”
—
Will gunned the Porsche down the I-880 on the east side of the bay to avoid the traffic in San Francisco.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Will asked. “I thought you gave that shit up.”
“I told you I’d quit fighting when I had enough cash. Can’t exactly make serious money flipping burgers at Carl’s Jr.” Troy had been cage-fighting in the underground circuit since his sophomore year at Stanford. The infamous Chinese triad Wo Hop ran the illegal gambling enterprise thr
oughout the state, especially in the Bay Area.
“You almost threw everything you’ve worked for out the window last night.” The warehouse where Troy was fighting had been raided by the Oakland PD’s gang unit.
“Still have bills to pay.”
“Your dad’s debts were his, not yours.”
“My dad was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a bum.”
“That’s what bankruptcy laws are for.”
“He couldn’t do it.”
Troy leaned back his seat to close his eyes. He hadn’t slept all night in the holding tank. The stink of stale urine and vomit was stronger than his fatigue. They drove along in silence for a few minutes. Will finally calmed down. Couldn’t stay angry with the kid. He risked his life in the no-holds-barred cage fights to earn money to pay off his old man’s debts. It was stupid, but honorable.
“So you won.”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I used to be a spook, remember?” Started to tell Troy that he was the one who had tipped the Oakland PD to the location, but the boy was already sound asleep, the unopened bottle of Old Spice still clutched in his hand.
FIFTY-FIVE
ENCINA HALL WEST
STANFORD UNIVERSITY
STANFORD, CALIFORNIA
MAY 1999
The three faculty members sat on one side of the conference desk and Troy on the other. The air reeked of too much Old Spice but no one said anything. Troy was better dressed in his sport coat and tie than the faculty who wore Levi’s, collared shirts, and loafers.
Troy’s master’s thesis was brilliant but controversial. He applied a quantitative game-theory approach to the qualitative work of William S. Lind and others on fourth-generation warfare. He proved the hypothesis that 4GW was the future of conventional warfare in the third world because it was superior to the current forms of warfare deployed by the West. The Black Hawk Down incident in Somalia a few years earlier wasn’t just a tragic error, he argued; it was a portent of things to come.
Troy’s thesis defense for his master’s degree today was a technicality, but it was also a chance for the department chair, Dr. Fagan, to get even with him. Troy had embarrassed him publicly on a number of occasions in seminars and colloquia, successfully challenging the professor’s indefensible positions on security issues and his slavish devotion to political correctness.
Dr. Fagan was also an intellectual bully, and Troy wouldn’t put up with it. Fagan was infamous for publishing articles in his own name that had been researched by talented graduate students in his department without giving those students proper attribution. Troy had publicly denounced that practice in faculty meetings, earning Fagan’s undying enmity.
Drs. Garth and Pembroke were the other two faculty members on his thesis committee, men he deeply respected for their scholarship and integrity. He was glad they were there. Garth was his thesis advisor, and Troy had been a teaching assistant for Pembroke’s undergraduate poli sci classes.
Garth opened with a softball question and Pembroke followed up with a few technical clarifications of Troy’s game-theory analysis. They were both satisfied with his responses and spoke effusively about his graduate work in general and the thesis in particular.
Then it was Fagan’s turn.
He waved a copy of Troy’s thesis in the air.
“I don’t get the title. ‘Future War’ sounds like a sci-fi novel, not a serious academic treatise. And for the record, fourth-generation warfare isn’t the future of warfare. It’s just terrorism by another name.”
The sonofabitch hasn’t even read it, Troy realized. He wanted to grab Fagan by the nape of the neck and toss him out of the door. How many times had he seen Fagan screaming at some poor sleep-deprived grad student for not coming to one of his seminars fully prepared?
But Will had warned Troy about controlling his temper today. Troy’s goal was to get Garth and Pembroke to approve his defense and the master’s degree was assured. Only two votes out of three were needed. It would be better, though, if all three committee members signed off, and better still if they would award him a superior commendation. That would require a unanimous vote, but if he got it, it would guarantee him a slot in the Ph.D. program at Stanford or anywhere else in the country he might choose. Unfortunately, Fagan’s recommendation carried a lot of weight in the tight circles of top-tier academia.
The worst-case scenario would be that Troy would so lose his cool that he wouldn’t provide a coherent defense of his work despite its obvious merit. That might prompt Garth or Pembroke to vote against him and delay or even deny him his master’s. Garth and Pembroke, despite their tenured status, feared Fagan’s power over them as department chair, a position that could make their professional lives extremely inconvenient—seven a.m. classes, odious committee memberships, extension-class assignments. If Troy was too rude or even threatening, Fagan might bully them into voting with him, literally. At six-foot-four and two hundred forty pounds, Fagan towered over the other faculty in his department, mostly narrow-shouldered hipsters or portly middle-aged golfers in penny loafers. But like most bullies, Fagan was wary enough to never try that with an alpha male like Troy despite his junior status in the department.
“As I’ve cited from the works of Lind, Schmitt, Sutton, Wilson, Hammes, and others, 4GW isn’t just ‘terrorism’ or even asymmetrical warfare, though both would be subsumed under that rubric. 4GW is a whole new strategic conception of warfare, which is why I refer to it as the future of warfare. The next major war the U.S. will fight won’t be with other industrial powers like China and Russia, but with nonstate actors like Hezbollah and al-Qaeda.”
Fagan shook his head. “Hezbollah and al-Qaeda are terrorist groups. You’re talking about terrorism, not warfare. Terror tactics are what terrorists use when they can’t fight wars. Don’t you understand the difference?”
Troy flexed his aching fists beneath the table. Watching Fagan swallow his teeth might just be worth losing his master’s. But Will had invested too much time and energy into him these past six years. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Fagan, but he’d rather die than disappoint Will Elliott.
“Nonstate actors use terror as part of their concept of strategic warfare. We did the same thing at Dresden, firebombing an ancient city with no military value in order to terrorize the Germans into surrendering. If we’re smart enough to use terror to accomplish our strategic goals, so are our opponents.” Troy leaned forward. “Unless you’re calling the United States military just another terrorist group.”
“You’re just proving my point. World War Two was a war between state actors. War-fighting nations can use terror in their campaigns, but they’re still fighting wars for strategic goals. Terrorism as practiced by nonstate actors isn’t a strategic concept, it’s a reaction. A tactic at best.”
“The strategic goal of warfare is winning, period. And the tactics of 4GW are aimed at undermining the will of state actors to continue fighting, and they almost always work. But the 2G and 3G tactics we use against nonstate actors are almost always guaranteed to fail.”
They argued back and forth for the next forty minutes, ignoring the other two faculty who relished the savaging Troy was giving Fagan. They were careful not to smile or verbally agree with Troy, but they were silently cheering inside. Troy successfully reviewed the history of twentieth-century warfare and further explicated the 4GW concepts that Lind and the others had outlined. Troy also sided with them on the most controversial idea of all.
“Not only will our next major war be with a nonstate actor or an alliance of nonstate actors, it will be long, costly, bloody, and we’ll likely lose if we don’t change our strategic concepts of war.”
“That’s just stupid,” Fagan said. “We have overwhelming firepower and technology. We’re the wealthiest and most advanced economy on the planet. No nation can stand up against us. What hope would a far less pow
erful nonstate actor have?”
“We had overwhelming air, land, and sea superiority in our war in Vietnam. We even had nuclear weapons. How’d that work out for us?” Troy asked. “And don’t forget about the Soviets in Afghanistan. The Taliban broke them.”
“Thanks to poor tactics on the part of the Russians and the deployment of advanced American weaponry like Stinger missiles by the Taliban. You know as well as I do that Afghanistan was a proxy war between us and the Soviets. We prevailed, once again proving my point.”
“In order to frustrate the Soviets, we funded and armed the Taliban and al-Qaeda. They’re the real enemy. The Soviet Union was on its last legs, crumbling under the weight of its failing economic system and corrupt political regime. They would’ve lost that war with or without our help. But now we’ve trained and equipped our real enemies, who are playing a very long game.”
“We’re not the Soviet Union. If we ever decided to go to war against the Taliban and al-Qaeda, we’d squash them like bugs. Worst-case scenario? We sit back and fire cruise missiles at their command centers and hideouts. War is about power, and it takes two parties to fight a war. Nonstate actors don’t have the power to wage war with us; therefore, the next war can’t be with them. End of story. To think we’d ever be in a protracted war with a low-rent organization like al-Qaeda is specious at best.”
“In the West, states fight wars against states. We win when we occupy enemy territory and force their governments to sign our peace treaties. But ‘terrorism’ doesn’t have a capital, and jihadism is completely decentralized—who would have the authority to sign a peace treaty that would end it?”
“You win the war on terrorists by killing terrorists faster than they can make them. It’s as simple as that.”
“No. You can only win the war on terrorism by killing all the terrorists—a genocidal war against the nonwhite, non-Western world, something we’d never do, nor should we. We’d lose that kind of war on moral grounds alone. But even if we did want to wage that kind of war, the only way to kill every terrorist is to occupy the entire globe, because terrorism is everywhere. It won’t be just a long war, it will be a forever war. And we’ll lose it because we don’t have the will to do what it takes, and they always win by not losing. Time will be on their side, not ours. Trying to fight a 4GW war with 2GW weapons and tactics is the strategic equivalent of a nineteenth-century cavalry charge against a twentieth-century machine-gun nest.”