“Form of government? Constitutional republic. One party, the Revolutionary Party—the CCM—has been in the driver's seat since independence; there are three small parties with about a quarter of the legislature between them and a bunch more with no seats at all. The CCM's presidential candidate—that's the guy in office now, Mkembe—won almost seventy percent of the vote in the last election.”
“Rigged?” asked a voice in the back.
“Not particularly. The CCM's good at staying popular. That's not going to help, I know.”
“What's the military like?” This from another voice.
“I was about to get to that. They've had a major buildup under way for more than a decade now. They had plenty of oil money even before this latest business, and the Chinese have been helping them too—hardware, but not just that. The PLA's had training cadres there, lots of them, since we popped Kenya out of the Chinese orbit in ’23.”
The general clicked a button, and the map zoomed out to take in the whole continent south of the Sahara. “These days Tanzania's a big regional power, as influential as any nation in Africa. South Africa's maybe a little stronger, but there's a tacit agreement between Pretoria and Dar es Salaam—maybe more than tacit. Both countries have their own spheres of influence; where the spheres overlap, they're careful to avoid conflict; other than that, Tanzania doesn't mess with South African client states and vice versa. They were on the same side in the last two Congo wars, remember.
“Here's what they've got.” Another click brought up names and numbers. “Army, just over 100,000 men, mostly motorized infantry—what's the word for the pickups—”
“Technicals.”
“That's it. You know about those? No? Take a small pickup, mount a fifty cal machine gun on the roof of the cab, stash a couple of grenade launchers somewhere, load the back with soldiers and gear, and you've got your standard African fighting vehicle. Don't laugh; they're fast and they can handle any terrain; the only thing that's sure to stop them is air superiority or a solid defensive line. Tanzania's got maybe two thousand of them ready for service.
“Other than that? One artillery brigade, mostly obsolete; one armored brigade equipped with Chinese armored cars, Type 92s, which are pretty good; and an airborne battalion with some old Russian helicopters and some new Chinese ones. Both those saw plenty of service in the Congo. The police force gets some military training, and there's a national militia. Give ’em time to prepare, and they could mount a pretty fair defense.
“The Navy's not an issue, though—it's a glorified coast guard. Three destroyers that used to be Soviet Navy, a dozen cutters with fifty cal guns, and a two-masted square rigger they use for training cadets. That's it. Nothing to worry about.”
Another click brought up a new list. “Air defense is a mixed bag. They've got around sixty planes, nothing close to new technology—twenty J-7Bs from China and a few old MiGs is as close to a fighter force as they've got. On the other hand, they've got decent air defense systems, not state of the art but only a couple of generations back—Russian S-400s, six of them. Those'll have to be taken out early on.”
“Shouldn't be too hard,” someone toward the front said.
“Yeah, but it's got to be in the plan. Last thing we need is Congress on our case because a couple of our planes get shot down.”
A murmur of agreement went around the room. “Okay,” said the general, and clicked the control again. A map of Tanzania appeared, marked with the location of military bases. “The only friendly state we've got anywhere close is Kenya, and they've clashed with the Tanzanians a couple of times recently, so a lot of the Tanzanian forward bases are along the Kenyan border, and four of the six S-400 systems are there. That means there's going to be some fighting when the troops go in.”
That set off a murmur through the room. “Any chance we can avoid sending in the troops at all?” someone asked. “Get an insurgency going with special forces and mercs, slap on a no-fly zone, take out the government that way?”
The general shook his head. “We can't risk the kind of stalemate we got in Syria, and if we don't get boots on the ground fast, the Chinese could probably give us one.”
“Any chance they'll try anyway?” This from the back of the room.
“Hell of a risk for them to take,” said the general. “Still, we can get an intel assessment on that. One way or another, the plan is to get it done fast and clean.”
“Before the 2032 primaries,” somebody added.
There was a moment of silence, and then the general shrugged. “You know the score as well as I do. What's that bit from Clausewitz? War is an extension of politics by other means? I don't think he was talking about election campaigns, but you never know.” Another click, and the lights came up. “Any more questions? Okay, let's get to work.”
21 March 2029: The White House, Washington DC
“Fair enough,” said President Weed, and set the briefing papers down on the table in front of him. “Any more discussion?”
Half a dozen glances flicked toward Stedman, but the Secretary of Defense was silent, his lips taut. He had spent the previous half hour arguing against the proposed invasion of Tanzania, and lost.
“No? Okay.” He flipped through the papers to the executive order authorizing the project, signed it. “Let's get this thing rolling. Is there anything else on the stack?”
“No, sir,” said Stedman. No one else contradicted him.
“Fair enough,” Weed repeated. “Nine o'clock Monday, unless something comes up. See you then.”
Stedman got up and headed for the door. “Bill,” Weed called after him. “If you've got a minute.”
He stopped, waited while the other members of the National Security Council left. “Bill, I know you think this is a bad idea,” said the president. “I hope you'll still help make it work.”
“You're the boss,” said Stedman. “If I ever get to the point that I can't do my job, you'll have my resignation.”
“If you ever get close to that, you come talk to me. I value your experience—hell, all of us do.”
Stedman gave him a bleak look, thinking of the obvious exception. “I'll do that.”
“Thank you.” Weed cuffed him on the shoulder. “Take a break this weekend. You look like you could use it.” He turned and left the Roosevelt Room. After a moment, Stedman followed.
THREE
24 April 2029: Arusha, Tanzania
McGaffney came out of the door of his hotel, glanced up at the gray wet sky, and started up Sokoino Road. After two months in Dar es Salaam, interviewing politicians and TPC executives about the new oil discovery, he'd been ready to head just about anywhere else, but the editors back in Brisbane wanted more on the story, so he'd compromised and gone inland for a bit. Arusha, right up against the mountains and the usual starting place for Serengeti tours, was always good for a travel section story; he'd made arrangements to stay there for a couple of days, get something written to pay the bills, then go somewhere less crammed with tourists and try to find a story that mattered.
First things first, though. Thursday night meant there'd be a café concert on the grounds of the old German fort; that would be worth a paragraph or two, maybe a few leads, maybe someone to keep his bed warm for a night or two. A few minutes of walking got him there, and a smile and a few bills slipped into the palm of the maître d’ got him the table he wanted, a little two-seater with his back to a corner and a good view of the whole place.
He settled into the chair, ordered a local beer—you could tell the Germans had colonies in East Africa back in the day, the beer was that good—and then took in the crowd. Arusha drew a lot of tourists and it also was where most of the big international charities had their East African offices. Still, that didn't explain the men two tables away, dressed like civilians but sitting like soldiers, who were downing beers and talking to each other in American accents.
The art of observing while looking intent on something else was one that McGaffney had
mastered years and continents earlier. He plopped his tablet on the table, started typing, paid for his beer distractedly when the waitress brought it and ordered a meal in the same something-else-on-my-mind style. All the while, as his face imitated the frowning and fretting of a writer busy with his story, his attention was on the Americans. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but that didn't matter; he could see their faces clearly enough, and they weren't the faces of men who were kicking back on holiday.
Another American came into the café. He spotted the others, came over. Just then the waitress brought McGaffney's dinner, and he remembered to look distracted. By the time she was gone, the newcomer was sitting with the others, leaning forward, saying something in a low voice.
Screw the travel section story, McGaffney said to himself. This is worth looking into.
5 May 2029: The Presidential Palace, Dar es Salaam
“You are certain of this?” said President Mkembe.
“As certain as a man can be.” The director of the Tanzanian Intelligence and Security Service tapped the papers he had placed on the table. “One: our highest level source in Nairobi says that Kesembani's signed a secret agreement with the Americans. Their idea, not his, and he's not happy about it. Two: three newly minted nongovernmental organizations with US funding have opened new offices here in Tanzania in the last three weeks, and they're getting into contact with leaders of the other parties. Three: close to a hundred Americans have been seen in the middle of nowhere in southern Kenya, near Narok; they're out of uniform but they look and talk like soldiers. Four: a corporation we know is owned by the CIA has leased a great deal of land south of Narok, chattering some nonsense about an industrial park. Five: our people in the United States are convinced that something is up; soldiers’ leaves are being cancelled, units are being sent to Texas and California for special training—”
“Where the climate and landscape are like ours. I know.” Mkembe sat back in his chair.
“Exactly,” said the director. “And now these reports.”
“From bars and whorehouses.”
The director shrugged. “When men relax, they talk freely—especially when they think nobody around them can understand their language.”
The president picked up the last packet of papers, leafed through them. Each reported a conversation overheard in some Kenyan tavern or brothel, where some of the Americans who looked like soldiers happened to spend an hour or an evening. Oh, they were careful enough not to speak too openly of what they were doing, but this turn of phrase made it clear there would be many more Americans coming soon, that one hinted at a big airfield being built in a region where an ordinary dirt landing strip had been adequate for many years: put the pieces together and it was impossible to ignore what they were saying.
“Are you prepared to present this to the cabinet?” the president asked.
“Absolutely.”
The president reached for the phone on one side of his desk.
The next two hours were chaotic, as cabinet ministers and the chiefs of the Tanzanian armed forces broke off whatever they were doing, hurried to the Presidential Palace, and were briefed on the news. Finally, though, Mkembe had all of them together, the last briefing was finished and the last question asked, and he had their agreement for the step they all knew he would have to take.
Only then did he have a call put through to the Chinese embassy.
Less than thirty minutes later, the phone rang to tell Mkembe that Jun Yinshao had arrived. He was shown immediately into the presidential office. After the ordinary pleasantries, Mkembe handed him the same briefing papers the cabinet ministers had seen, one at a time, and watched the man's face as the pieces came together.
Finally Jun glanced up from the last page. “This is very serious.”
“Quite so.” When the ambassador did not say anything else, Mkembe went on. “Since we won our independence, China has been our closest friend among the world's nations. We owe you much already, and it is an embarrassment to have to turn once more to one's constant benefactor and say, ‘Please help us again.’ But—” He leaned forward in his chair. “If you abandon us now, we are lost.”
Jun considered him for a moment. “All I can promise is that I will relay this to the highest levels as soon as possible.” Then: “But that much I promise you.”
6 May 2029: The August First Building, Beijing
General Liu Shenyen got up from his desk and walked over to the windows. His office, high up in the headquarters building of the People's Liberation Army, had an unsurpassed view of central Beijing: the Forbidden City lay spread out before him, with the walled Party enclave of Zhongnanhai full of trees and blue lake water beyond it. After a decade of stringent antipollution campaigns, the air was almost clear enough to see the suburbs further out. The spectral shapes of wind turbines rose through the haze in the middle distance, wheeling silently against the pale sky.
He stood at the window, barely noticing the landscape before him, and then turned back to his desk, picked up the stack of papers: the long message from China's ambassador to Tanzania, two briefing papers from the intelligence department of the People's Liberation Army, and a third from the Ministry of State Security, China's principal intelligence agency. All four documents told the same story, freighted with grim implications and dazzling possibilities.
Liu considered the papers one more time, then went to his desk phone, picked it up, punched a number. Two rings, and then a familiar voice: “General! A pleasure to hear from you, as always. What can I do for you?”
Liu wasted no words. “Are you available for lunch today?”
“Of course. A game, or…”
That earned a fractional smile. “In a certain sense.”
A brief silence, then: “Excellent. I will look forward to it.”
They settled on a restaurant, ended the call. Liu glanced at the clock on his computer screen, then sat down with a sigh and spent the next hour taking care of routine business. In theory, a vice chairman of the Central Military Commission should not have had to worry about routine business. In practice, there was always something the Party or the General Staff Department wanted done at the highest level, and that usually meant one of the vice chairmen got tasked with it, no matter how easily it could have been done by some staff officer a dozen floors further down. Now that China's military concerns circled the globe, that happened more and more often.
An hour later, after wading through reports on the upcoming joint naval exercises with Brazil, Liu shook his head, left his desk and headed for the elevators. Guards saluted smartly as he headed for his car; he told the driver the name of the restaurant, got in back, let himself relax for a moment against the leather seat and then took the reports on Tanzania out of the portfolio he'd brought with him. He reviewed them again, frowning, while the car pulled out of the August First Building's huge garage and threaded its way through the noisy chaos of Beijing's lunchtime traffic.
The restaurant was a few blocks from Zhongnanhai and drew nearly all its business from within the walled Party enclave; it had no sign and no name, just a street number. The doorman and the hostess both recognized Liu at once and greeted him effusively. He chose a table for two in a secluded corner, next to a window overlooking the little walled garden in the center of the restaurant compound, and sipped tea while waiting for his guest.
He did not have to wait long. “General! I trust I have not kept you…”
Liu got up. “Not at all, Fang. It's good to see you.”
Fang Liyao, professor of strategic studies at the Academy of Military Science in western Beijing, beamed. “Likewise.”
The waitress appeared the moment they both sat, and for the next hour the two men ate dim sum and talked about irrelevancies: the doings of their wives, the latest projects at the Academy, the latest gossip from the upper circles of the PLA. Finally, when the meal had reached that pleasant moment when two cups of green tea made everything perfect, Liu reached for his portfol
io and said, “By the way, I would be grateful for your advice on something.”
Fang considered him. “Ah. I wondered how soon you would move your chariot.”
Liu smiled; the chariot was a piece in xiangqi, the Chinese variant of chess, which both men played avidly. “Good. Very good.” He handed Fang the briefing papers on the situation in Tanzania, watched while the other read through them.
Fang finished the last briefing paper, handed them back to Liu. “Fascinating,” he said. “Do you think it's at all possible that the Central Military Commission might be willing to take certain risks over this?”
Liu smiled. “You see it too.”
“Of course. The Americans are immensely vulnerable if they go ahead with this.”
“My thoughts precisely.” He leaned forward. “I need a plan of campaign that I can present to the other members of the Commission. If you need time off…”
“That won't be necessary.” Fang's face took on an abstracted look. Liu knew the look well; he had seen it many times across a xiangqi board, the only warning he could expect before some dazzling series of moves that left his position in tatters and his general in check.
“That won't be necessary,” Fang repeated after a long moment. “I can have something suitable ready within three days.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, General,” said Fang. “I welcome the chance to be of service to the Motherland—and it is a fascinating problem. A most fascinating problem.”
7 May 2029: Stone Town, Zanzibar
McGaffney let the crowd carry him off the ferry and through the terminal into the narrow streets of Stone Town, the old capital of the island chain. Clouds piled up over the Tanzanian coast behind him, brought by the kusi, the southwest monsoon that made April and May the wettest months of the year. Still, the trip across from Dar es Salaam had been fine, with barely a drop of rain, and sunlight splashed across the old stone houses that gave the town its name.
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