Drone Command

by Mike Maden

  Fagan rolled his eyes. “How do you think a bunch of third world peasants armed with AK-47s are going to stand up to our fleet of B-2 stealth bombers?”

  “Women wearing suicide vests beneath their burqas are pretty stealthy, too. So are Toyotas loaded with C-4 on a crowded city street. In a war by civilians against civilians, the burqas trump the bombers.”

  Fagan stood. “I’ve got a committee meeting in ten minutes across campus.”

  Troy stood and held out his hand. Fagan reluctantly took it. Troy resisted the temptation to crush his moist grip. The other faculty stood as well, chairs scraping against the linoleum.

  “Thanks for taking the time to hear me out,” Troy said.

  A smile stole across Fagan’s face. “Interesting presentation. Good luck.”

  That’s a no vote, Troy knew. Fagan was too much of a coward to say it to his face. “Thanks.”

  Fagan left the room. The other faculty members shook his hand and clapped him on the back.

  Garth said, “Best thesis defense I’ve heard in twenty years. Don’t worry about him. He’s just mad he didn’t think of your idea first. You’ve got my vote.”

  Troy relaxed. Even smiled. “Thank you.”

  Pembroke added, “Great job. You can easily turn that third section into a journal article. I know a couple of editors who would eat this up. I’m happy to write a cover letter for you.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Garth stroked his graying beard, barely hiding an impish smile. “Just one thing kept bugging me while you were talking today.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How’d you get that black eye?”

  FIFTY-SIX

  WILL’S HOUSE

  PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA

  MAY 1999

  Will grilled thick steaks on the backyard barbecue and broke out the best whiskey in the house. Troy and his friends danced on the polished hardwood floors and toasted his success. Three of the young women in attendance made plans to sleep with Troy that night. Troy made plans to sleep with just two of them, preferably at the same time.

  After feasting on succulent T-bones and corn on the cob slathered in butter, Will finally got Troy off to the side for a quiet moment. He pulled out two Cuban Cohibas, and they lit them up over snifters of Hennessy cognac.

  “So, Mr. Chips, what’s next? Staying at Stanford? Or is Yale still a possibility?”

  Troy puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. “Neither.”

  “What other school do you have in mind?”

  “I’m done with academics.”

  Will frowned. “I don’t understand. You’ve worked like a dog these last six years. You’re talented. A hundred doors are open to you. Money’s not an issue—you’ll get a free ride wherever you go with your academic record.”

  Troy blew out a billowing blue cloud. “I need to get out of the ivory tower. I want to stretch my legs, see the world. Work up a sweat, you know?”

  Will’s eyes narrowed. He swirled the cognac in his glass.

  Troy was afraid he’d disappointed him. “Not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done, Will. It’s been an amazing ride and, God knows, I’ve learned a helluva lot, in and out of the classroom. And thanks to you, I’m civilized now, or at least some of the sharper edges have been knocked off.”

  Will took a sip. “It’s your life, sport. You do what you’ve got to do.”

  “You understand, don’t you? I grew up with chain saws and deer rifles in the Rockies, not laptops and lawn mowers in the ’burbs. I don’t know if I’m cut out for the academic life. Especially if I’m not allowed to smash anyone in the mouth.” Troy was still sore about Dr. Fagan’s no vote. A petty, petulant stab in the back by a petty, petulant department chair.

  Will chuckled. “I understand on all counts. Believe me. So what are your plans? Working on an Alaska crab boat? Backpacking across Europe? That sort of thing?”

  “What I need is a challenge. An adventure. Something physical, but something important. I don’t know exactly.”

  Will’s green eyes twinkled. “I’ve been waiting for six years for you to say something like that.”

  Troy’s eyes widened, shocked. “Really? I thought you wanted me to be an academic like you.”

  “No. All I ever wanted for you was to become truly and fully yourself. You’re a really smart kid, but you’re not exactly cut out for the campus lifestyle.”

  “Then what?”

  Will laid an arm across Troy’s broad back. Pulled him in close. His breath stank of cigars and sweet liquor. A smile stole beneath the neatly trimmed mustache. He whispered.

  “You need to go to the Farm.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  PRESIDENT SUN’S PRIVATE RESIDENCE

  ZHONGNANHAI

  BEIJING, CHINA

  18 MAY 2017

  President Sun rose well before dawn to begin a ritual he’d practiced for forty years. After finishing a simple breakfast of Earl Grey tea and two baozi filled with spicy ground pork, he shuffled in his slippers and silk pajamas to his den. For the next thirty minutes, he sat in his chair and played his beloved cello.

  His parents were both high-ranking Party members and accomplished musicians who were tragically purged and reeducated during Mao’s Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. That ended their dream for their only child to follow in their artistic footsteps, but Sun never lost the love of music they had instilled in him from an early age. Sun was a gifted musician, a prodigy, really. But musicians and other artists—particularly those favoring Western “bourgeois” forms and instruments like his parents had—were held in some suspicion during Mao’s sadistic reign, so he was guided into a career in chemistry by his grandfather that led, ultimately, to politics. He still worshipped his long-deceased mother and father; the time with his cello was time spent with their memories and the most pleasant moments of his idyllic childhood. It was also an opportunity to process the events of the coming day.

  This morning, Sun took up the bow and played from memory the famous Adagio in G minor, improvising the part written for the first violin, his mother’s orchestral seat and preferred instrument. The familiar neo-Baroque composition was a passionate, maudlin affair, but it was his mother’s favorite and thus his. He needed his parents’ encouragement to face the day. Today’s secret meeting with select members of the Standing Committee was fraught with peril—and promise.

  They would question his decision to allow Admirals Ji and Deng to embark on this reckless adventure. But he would tell them that even if he were inclined to stop them, an attack on the base or on the fleet once at sea was simply not feasible. Admiral Ji’s popularity within the Party was greater than his own, and the Mao Island campaign was enthusiastically embraced by the officer corps. Besides, nothing would please China’s enemies at home and abroad more than to see the PLA and PLAN turn on themselves.

  But Sun understood the Standing Committee’s concerns. By any measure, this truly was a reckless action, but he was of the opinion that Ji would actually pull it off. The United States would avoid war with China at all costs, if for no other reason than the fact that the Americans had been engaged in the Global War on Terrorism for more than a decade and they were exhausted. Even their armed forces were reaching a breaking point, and the budget freeze had slowed American defense spending while China’s increased by double digits every year. But Sun was confident of American appeasement for another reason.

  The Americans were idiots.

  China’s trade surplus with the U.S. was on the order of hundreds of billions of dollars annually. China used those billions to buy American CEOs. Nothing mattered more to American executives than profits. They were more than happy to sacrifice American national interests in the name of stock prices, market share, and bonuses—all of which were tied to privileges awarded them by the Chinese government, privileges
based on compliance with Chinese national interests.

  American congressmen, in turn, were in the CEOs’ pockets, groveling for campaign dollars and lucrative postretirement board memberships. Sun marveled at America’s blindness. How could they not see that they themselves held all the cards? China was the one who had the weakest hand. Shutting down trade with China would collapse China’s economy, not theirs. But the spirit of globalism and “free markets” had so infected the American political establishment that a bloodless trade war was more feared than an actual war in graveyards like Afghanistan. Capitalists would, indeed, sell him the rope to hang them with. And, apparently, they were willing to tie the noose and even pull on the other end if it meant an increase to the bottom line.

  In Sun’s mind, the worst-case scenario could actually prove to be a bonus. It would be a national tragedy, certainly, if Admiral Ji and his fleet were attacked by the Americans or Japanese and sunk, but in reality, the death of Admirals Ji and Deng would eliminate his two greatest uniformed opponents and permanently discredit the adventurism of the so-called patriotic militarists. Discrediting military adventurism would also allow him to push forward with his military reforms. China was spending far too much money on defense that could otherwise be spent on economic development and education for the tens of millions of Chinese still trapped in rural poverty.

  Better yet, a defeat at Mao Island would end Vice Chairman Feng’s political career. Feng was the greatest civilian threat to his presidency and the strongest opponent of his anticorruption reforms. Sun and his allies believed that failure to end corruption would result in the collapse of the political and economic legitimacy of the state. Revolution, civil war, or dissolution would be the only possible outcomes. But Feng was still too strong to openly oppose.

  However, if Admiral Ji and the others pulled off the Mao adventure and successfully captured the Diaoyu Islands, Sun would claim victory for himself by running to the head of the parade. By not opposing Ji, he appeared to be supporting Ji’s actions, and if Ji succeeded, it would only strengthen Sun’s position with him, and Ji was as fervent about anticorruption as he was. The two of them would pose a formidable alliance against Feng and his cronies. It might yet cost him the presidency, but at least China would be saved.

  Sun found his fingers playing out the last high, hopeful notes of the adagio. He felt his mother’s smile. He could face anything now. A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  An aide entered. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s phone call for you. It’s quite urgent.”

  Sun thanked him, told him he’d be in his office presently, and waived him away with his bow. The caller could wait. He wanted to play the last fifteen bars again.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  ON BOARD THE TAI SHAN

  EAST CHINA SEA

  ONE HUNDRED MILES SSE OF NINGBO NAVAL BASE

  18 MAY 2017

  Admiral Ji stood on the flying bridge of the Tai Shan, his flagship. He greeted his old friend, the rising sun, as it crested the wine-dark ocean. The cold, salty breeze stung his face, but he was warm beneath his thick woolen greatcoat. He was as happy as he could remember. Ji was a man at the peak of his powers, the admiral of China’s largest invasion fleet since the days of the great emperors. Today he would make history. China would assume its rightful place under heaven, and the world would never be the same again.

  The newly built Tai Shan was a giant 210-meter-long amphibious transport dock ship carrying a battalion of PLAN marines, two French SA 321 Super Frelon transport helicopters, and four Russian Zubr-class troop transports, the world’s largest military hovercraft.

  The Tai Shan was well guarded by its escort of Type 056 corvettes and Type 052 guided-missile destroyers, including the Kunming. Both classes of vessels possessed powerful long-range antiship, antiair, and antisubmarine systems. Two diesel-powered Kilo-class submarines shadowed the Tai Shan as well. The task force wouldn’t be complete until Admiral Deng arrived with the aircraft carrier Liaoning and a full complement of conventional jet fighter-bombers along with six of the Lijian UCAVs. Once the Liaoning and its support ships rendezvoused, Ji would transfer his command via helicopter to the Liaoning. Per their battle plan, they would proceed toward Mao Island and the Diaoyus, careful to not accidentally signal that the task force was intent on the long-awaited invasion of Taiwan. It wasn’t.

  In Ji’s mind, the Taiwan campaign would be his crowning achievement and the first goal of the PLA Navy once he was installed as president of the People’s Republic. Shaming the Americans into backing down over the Diaoyus would finally convince the rest of the world that the United States was no longer a reliable ally, and the rebellious Taiwanese would either capitulate or suffer the mainland’s wrath in a lightning-swift war of reunification. The Mao Island campaign was the key to China’s rise and dominance in the East. It was as bold as it was necessary, which was why Ji was able to convince a significant number of PLA and PLAN flag officers to support the adventure, including Admiral Deng, commander of the South Sea Fleet. Neither he nor Deng were under any delusions that the Mao task force could withstand a direct confrontation with the U.S. Navy’s vastly more powerful Sixth Fleet—but the Wu-14 virtually guaranteed that such a confrontation would never occur.

  Ji believed the greatest threat to the expeditionary force at the moment was President Sun. As a precaution, the admiral had deployed a second battalion of marines to guard Ningbo from a possible PLA attack that Sun might mount to stop the small fleet while it was still at base replenishing for the mission, but no such attack occurred. Ji wondered if Sun’s inaction was a tacit endorsement of his efforts. But Vice Chairman Feng argued that President Sun was more afraid of the blowback he would suffer for an attack on a Chinese naval facility led by China’s greatest and most admired military commander. Feng also assured his allies in and out of uniform that Admiral Ji’s task force was preparing for a mission to secure China’s future and glory, and squashed the ugly rumor that the PLAN was preparing some sort of military junta against Sun and his reformist cronies.

  A junior officer approached Ji with a cup of steaming hot tea. The young man’s eyes radiated with hero worship. Ji took the tea with a grateful nod and dismissed him, cherishing the last few moments of solitude he would enjoy before he transferred his combat command to the Liaoning.

  FIFTY-NINE

  THE KANTEI

  TOKYO, JAPAN

  18 MAY 2017

  10:01 A.M. (JST)

  The cabinet room on the fourth floor was much larger than the prime minister’s circular private conference room, matching the shape and scope of the enormous blond birchwood table in the center. The walls were a combination of birchwood and diatomaceous earth, and a window afforded a view of yet another tranquil rock garden. For Myers, the intention of the design was to induce a kind of natural serenity, but the mood in the room this morning was just the opposite.

  Prime Minister Ito’s entire cabinet was seated around the table in supple white leather chairs, while their assistants and secretaries stood anxiously behind them, clutching file folders, tablets, and smartphones.

  Myers sat to Ito’s right, a position of high honor. She wore an earpiece linked to an official government interpreter in an adjoining room. Lane had informed her about the Chinese fleet setting sail and the latest Chinese demands. The crisis was escalating, yet Lane’s calm voice reassured her. For a president on the verge of war, he was amazingly composed. Another advantage of having a commander in chief with combat experience.

  Lane asked her to attend Ito’s emergency cabinet meeting. She agreed, of course. Anything to help. They discussed his agenda. Under no circumstances could she allow the Japanese to undertake unilateral action. She concurred, silently wondering how in the world she could possibly prevent them from doing so. Lane wished her luck.

  Ito called the meeting to order.

  “Today
’s session will be recorded for posterity, but the information discussed is top secret. Under no conditions are any of the matters we discuss in this room today to be released to the general public.”

  Heads nodded around the table.

  “What is she doing here?” Tanaka asked, glowering at Myers.

  The translator’s voice echoed with Tanaka’s anger. The emphasis was hardly necessary, Myers thought. His eyes were enough.

  Ito stiffened. “President Myers is here today as my guest and as a personal envoy of President Lane. As many of you know, President Myers and I have been friends for many years. I trust her as I trust my own sister. She also enjoys the complete confidence of President Lane. We may speak freely and candidly in front of her, and I encourage her to speak frankly as well. Her role is to convey the substance of today’s meeting to President Lane and his cabinet, which will be meeting shortly as well. Does anybody object?”

  As both the prime minister and party leader, Ito’s authority in the room was unquestioned. But anti-American sentiments were escalating around the country—it appeared as if the United States were abandoning the Japanese to their fate. The elected officials and representatives seated in the room reflected those public sentiments.