Razing Beijing: A Thriller

by Elston III, Sidney

  Jacob Ben-Yezzi returned the cup of rich Turkish coffee to the saucer on his knee. At this point the document was merely a formality, yet Nahman Weir leafed through Ben-Yezzi’s report if for no other reason the man’s old-school deference to the anguish such things took to prepare.

  Ben-Yezzi watched as Weir paged to the addendum of his submittal. Clipped to the back of a series of black-and-white photographs were photocopies of two Chinese passports. Several photographs revealed two men in business attire exiting a Mercedes limousine in bright afternoon sunlight; one taken nearly head-on to the men’s approach; another showed the profile of one of the men about to disappear through a revolving door. Weir spent particular time studying copies of the accompanying passports—Ben-Yezzi knew the general director’s personal exposure to the Middle Kingdom, some forty years earlier. At the time a young katsa, Weir reportedly spent three bloody years in Nairobi waging a merciless battle with the Chinese Secret Intelligence Service, precursor to the Ministry of State Security, trying to thwart that service’s expanding drug trade throughout the African continent. Mossad and the CSIS ultimately called a truce and began to cooperate against the rise in Soviet activity, though not before inflicting on each other the worst brutality Weir would face throughout his career.

  “I would guess these are fake. Both were issued in Shenzhen.” Weir set them aside to more closely study the photos. “Physically fit, aren’t they? Look at the posture—erect discipline of the military.”

  “PLA.”

  “But Shenzhen does not issue to military personnel. What’s the building?”

  Ben-Yezzi believed Nahman Weir to be the most savvy of directors under whom he had ever had the privilege of serving. “Sir, the building is inside the Bushehr nuclear compound. Among other government regulatory functions, it houses the local Intelligence & Security office. The actual identity of the man carrying the briefcase is Chen Ruihan. They were also sighted inside more highly inaccessible areas of the facility.”

  “Oh?”

  “We were tipped-off to their presence by our agent while scouting the inside of what we’ve confirmed is the enrichment facility.” Ben-Yezzi paused to study his superior’s reaction to the unexpected discovery. Rarely had they documented intelligence contact at so high a level between these two particular nations. The potential relevance to current global affairs could not be discounted. “If I may, sir, you are to be congratulated. Our files first begin tracking Chen Ruihan’s career in the Second Directorate as second lieutenant in charge of naval intelligence. Most recently he was recruited from a civilian stint to his current, number two post in State Security.”

  “Hmm...so this is their new deputy minister.” Weir tossed the photographs aside. “What’s their business inside Iran’s nuclear plant? I doubt they were there to buy.”

  “It’s perhaps unfortunate this sighting occurred incidental to our other objective. At the time, I was concerned that steering the agent in that direction would jeopardize our priority.”

  “And yet you deem it important enough that the Americans be informed?”

  Privately, Ben-Yezzi had formed his own opinion of what should be done with the information. Russia had always adamantly denied assisting Iran with weapons-grade uranium enrichment—a quick check at headquarters that morning confirmed neither he nor any other Institute source had collected intelligence to counter that claim. Was it China who had been providing Iran with the technical assistance, after all? Might that explain China’s ready access to importation of oil from Iranian and Arab OPEC producers? “I would think that’s strictly a decision for you to make,” Ben-Yezzi replied.

  “Well, you were right to kick it up to me.” Weir held the folder open and contemplated its contents for several minutes. Without a word or flicker to betray his intentions, he plucked the Chinese photographs and related documents, slid open a drawer in his desk, and dropped them inside.

  “For now, I’m sure your American intelligence colleagues do not need yet another distraction to further complicate their lives.” Weir’s stare was unwavering. “Best keep this to yourself.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Both men stood, and for at least the third time that evening, the director congratulated him. “Our country survives, Ben-Yezzi, on the resourceful fortitude of patriots such as yourself.” Weir handed back the folder containing the revered katsa’s final report, minus the Chinese-related documents. “Unfortunately, I must convey your rather disturbing news regarding the radioisotope match.”

  Weir was later able to place his overseas call on Sunday morning, such that the secure telephone rang immediately upon the DCI’s arrival home from the National Cathedral. “Good to hear from you, Nahman,” he heard Lester Burns say.

  “I’m not so sure you will think so,” Weir began, setting the tone for the call.

  107

  Sunday, July 12

  7:20 A.M. Spratly Islands Local Time

  PETER CAMPBELL STOOD BEFORE a console of relay switches and flat panel displays, his eyes trained far beyond the window glass of the control tower. Out past the tops of palm trees jutting up between the small island’s highest knoll and a narrow beach, the petroleum engineer’s vista from his air-conditioned sanctum captured the whole of Little Ninh Hoa Harbor. The orange glow of morning bloomed above the horizon, and soon the pipe-laden deck of the Exxon Duchess, an oil supertanker moored a half-mile away, would be visible without the aid of high-intensity lamps. He discerned from the ship’s silhouette that her gunwales were riding low to the water, a sight becoming routine, and one Peter Campbell could gaze upon with justifiable pride. With a year of hard work overseeing the depot’s construction, preceded by long months leading the design team for the corporation’s Vietnamese customer, his assignment on the narrow crescent of coral atoll would soon be complete.

  Another familiar sight was the Vietnamese gunboat, a Tarantul class corvette anchored just inside the mouth of the harbor. Angry territorial disputes over the sparsely populated archipelago—with its vast oil and gas reserves—were far from being resolved. Indeed, tensions had only risen since the company first bid on the project. The crew of the military vessel drank heavily but pretty much kept to themselves, watching from the deck and through portholes the dozens of contractors, engineers, locals, and government inspectors moving about the construction sites. The only hint of conflict occurred whenever the gunboat roared over the horizon to ward off another flotilla from Greenpeace, who had sought to protest everything from dredging the harbor to Vietnam’s tanker escorts into the tiny tropical islet. Five months ago a formation of MiG fighter jets, red Chinese stars resplendent upon camouflage-gray livery, roared by fast and low beyond the mouth of the harbor. Otherwise, the most conflict that Campbell encountered had been with the food.

  He turned his attention to the assorted gages and levers inside the tower. Together with the facility computer, the instruments allowed control of temperature, viscosity, and flow rate of crude oil pumped through pipelines from the island’s storage facility, which in turn was fed by the shallow water drilling platforms ‘7 Seas’ and ‘President Minh!’ located some eight nautical miles to the east. Moored at the crude oil’s intermediate destination, Duchess was like all modern dual-hull tankers of the day. Individual bulkheads partitioned her vast interior into multiple tanks, and the reading level for the current compartment being filled indicated close to topping off. Campbell prepared to disengage the gas turbine-driven pumps, in order to allow the tanker crew to re-deploy the hose gantry to the remaining empty tank. He reached out with both hands and slowly retarded two stainless-steel levers. A buzzer on the annunciator panel signaled the temporary halt of oil flowing to the harbor.

  Out of nowhere and barely clearing the treetops, two jets appeared as a blur—a sonic shock wave ripped across the control tower and cracked the window glass. Neither he nor the Vietnamese navy had time to react before both jets unleashed air-to-surface missiles and the gunboat’s conning tower disappeared i
nside an orange ball of flame. The waterline erupted in a foamy spray before the forward gun crew had even managed to chamber a round. The jets roared off in full afterburner and snap-rolled into hard left banks. The crew of the listing gunboat scrambled to extinguish the fire.

  Campbell spun around and his jaw fell open. Two black helicopters rose from the ocean surface heading directly toward the control tower, proboscis-like appendages slung beneath their fuselages—these the civilian engineer sensed could only mean trouble. Stunned as the choppers beat directly toward him, Campbell finally dropped to the floor. They split around the tower with their gatling guns raining a fusillade down on the harbor.

  Campbell poked his head over the console. He stared in disbelief at the ominous mass of ships and aircraft blotting out the northern horizon.

  Already the facility crew were dashing half-dressed out of their double-wides, running frantically in every direction, some away from the harbor while others rushed to man emergency equipment and extinguish the fire from a ruptured pipeline. Campbell’s responsibility was to safeguard the facility. Stooped in a crouch, he reached out and stop-cocked the turbines, slued shut the emergency stops and opened pressure relief valves on top of the storage tanks. Then he hit the emergency switch and every alarm on the island started to wail. A staccato of automatic weapons fire from the mouth of the harbor signaled the desperate attempt by the Vietnamese to retard the attack. The crew of the Duchess stood by as two MiGs boomed past overhead, their pilots apparently content to have the helicopter gunships finish their work.

  Campbell grabbed the telephone—but who to call? He tore open a book of emergency numbers. Penciled in at the bottom of a page he found the company’s central telephone number and dialed the operator in Corpus Christi, Texas. He waited for a voice on the other end when the door behind him burst open. Four shouting Asian soldiers stormed the control room. Machine gun muzzles swept for signs of opposing force before being leveled at his chest.

  “Wo!” Campbell shouted, his hands overhead. “I am unarmed!”

  The last soldier to enter the room appeared to be their leader. His eyes narrowed at the sound of the civilian’s words. “American?” asked the officer, barely intelligible. He gazed with interest at the telephone Campbell gripped in his hand.

  “Yes, yes, American!” Campbell was reasonably certain by the sharp red stars adorning helmet and shoulder epaulets that the men were Chinese. They’ll lower their muzzles any moment now.

  The cropped-hair older man issued a series of terse commands to his men, who further terrified their captive by responding with grunts of laughter. The officer stepped toward him, and the submachine gun in his grip swung loose on its shoulder strap. Campbell’s momentary relief vanished when the man reached for the semi-automatic on his hip.

  The People’s Liberation Army sergeant worked the action, and leveled the pistol in front of him. When the round exited the barrel the expected blast within the confines of the tower jarred even his men. The bullet struck the telephone on the windowsill next to Campbell, sharp bits of plastic shrapnel piercing the skin under his arm.

  The governments of Vietnam, the Philippines, Brunei, and Malaysia were soon to discover similar scenes playing out at nine other installations in the South China Sea. But the Battle of Spratly was already over.

  108

  “YOU’D BEST READ THIS NOW, SIR.”

  Howard Denis looked up from the unopened binder on his desk at the sheet of paper held out for him by his chief of staff. He was about to protest when the dark circles surrounding Aaron Davi’s eyes reminded him that the Iranian conflict was taking its toll on all of them. The President glimpsed the Chinese embassy letterhead and plucked the sheet from Davi’s fingers.

  Denis mouthed the words as he scanned the document. “We regretfully take this action in response to United States aggression, which now threatens equitable distribution of the world’s energy resources...blah blah, cannot stand by and allow the gangster logic of hegemonism to bully the struggle, work, and efforts of the Chinese people...and continue to encourage that all parties return to a peaceful status quo as such opportunities present themselves. We urge the U.S. to sit down calmly and to sensibly solve their disputes, through negotiation...blah, blah, blah...”

  Denis finished reading and handed it back. “So, now I’m the hegemon. When did they seize the Spratly oilfields?”

  “We’re still receiving reports that aren’t very clear. Our first came by way of a phone call to the State Department operator at about five-thirty this morning. I guess a corporate executive suspecting trouble at one of their sites made the call. He wanted to know if he had reason to worry because...” Denis was shaking his head.

  The President’s eyes landed on the portfolio binder wedged beneath the chief of staff’s armpit. “What else have you got?”

  Davi presented the only qualifying documents yet available on the Chinese assault, rushed to him by an NRO staffer. Denis stood to lean over and examine four separate satellite images of China’s coastline, taken at noon Hong Kong time Friday and twenty-four hours later on Saturday. Both sets depicted a different river tributary, but common to each was a complex of railways, harbors, ships dockside and large, rectangular buildings surrounded by ancillary roads and circular storage tanks. The photographs were labeled, ‘Guangdong Province west of Macau,’ and ‘Shantou, southern Taiwan Strait.’

  “I’m told we don’t have anything yet as far south as the Spratlys,” Davi explained.

  Denis squinted hard to discern the certain glint of revelation that he was apparently missing. “And what do these tell me?”

  “Well, these show two of their naval ports. The absence of any vessel in the more recent photographs has to mean that all their ships have taken to sea.”

  Denis looked up. “Aaron, I might have found this enlightening on Friday. Today’s Sunday. Is this all?”

  “Morning,” said Thomas Herman, entering the Oval Office in time to catch the President’s comment. “I guess they’re spread a little thin over there. I spoke to Burns about it.” Herman’s expression conveyed annoyance with the DCI’s insufferable failings. “I finally convinced him that he’d better have something together in time for tonight’s briefing. Umm, he wanted you to know Beijing’s got students blockading our embassy.”

  “Blockading?”

  “ ‘Protesting,’ tight as a drum. I guess that’s their stunt to choke off our local intelligence.”

  The President’s eyes widened in astonishment, and for an instant it appeared as if he might actually explode. He lowered his gaze to the overhead images. “How much of the Seventh Fleet is still in Japan? I’ve lost track of how many ships we’ve dispatched to the Middle East.”

  “About a battle group,” Herman replied, “I think.”

  “How many is that in English?’

  “I’ll have to confirm the number with Marcia Fuller. I think the latest redeployment is still steaming west. I sure hope they had already cleared the Strait of Malacca by the time these attacks took place this morning.” Herman eagerly relayed the gist of his reason for showing up, which included telephone discussions with his Australian and Filipino counterparts who, besides expressing sentiment that they had been left in the lurch, warned that critical shipping lanes through the South China Sea were in peril, as the plunging Asian markets had already broadcast. Elsewhere, the EU leadership was convening in Brussels to decide if they would urge the Security Council to issue a resolution condemning the action.

  “That’s got to be the brashest move by China in sixty years.” Howard Denis leaned heavily against the desk, his eyes searching the photographs, deep lines of worry creasing his forehead. “They must be pretty cock-sure of themselves. What are they up to?”

  Herman had a different take. “I feel this is a calculated move on their part to distract us from our action in the Arabian Sea, perhaps to throw us off guard and defuse the situation.”

  The President watched him closely.

/>   “Iran’s become an ally of sorts for them. At the very least, we represent a threat to a significant trading partner. What I would—”

  “Taiwan?”

  Herman realized he was at risk of being viewed as casting about without any facts. “That might be one objective.” He pointed his finger at the photos littering the President’s desk. “What I would suggest to cut through the noise is just give Vice Chairman Rong a call. Ask him directly what’s going on. There may be an explanation that we’d be comfortable with.”

  His face purple with anger and veins protruding from his temples, the President collected the satellite images into a neat stack. He then tore them in half once, twice, then three times before handing them back to his breathless chief of staff. “Tell me why we have the CIA, NRO, NSA, DIA, FBI, State Department, Army, Air Force, Navy, Marines, the NSC—you, Thomas—to pull all of it together, and I have to hear about a fucking naval invasion from corporate FUCKING America?”

  Herman just looked at him. Davi held his stare on the shards of photos in his hand.

  “And then you have the balls to suggest that I make a telephone call—and ask about it myself?”

  Herman opened his mouth to respond.

  Denis told Davi, “Prime Minister Funatagawa must be climbing the walls. Advise Ambassador Harikawa that I’d like him to stop by. Where’s Walter Laynas?”

  “He’s on his way over.”

  “All right. Summon the Chinese ambassador to my office immediately.”

  Davi hesitated. “Right away, sir.”

  “On second thought, before you summon that prick, I need to speak to our China expert...oh, what’s his name?”

  “On Walter’s staff?”

  “No, the CIA.”

  “You mean Sam McBurney?”