Twilight's Last Gleaming

by John Michael Greer

  A moment of silence came and went. “The Chinese,” said Ellen Harbin then. “We've talked about them every single day since this started. We need to do something about them.”

  “Jim, she's right,” said Gurney.

  “No!” This from Stedman. To Weed: “Jim, a proxy war's one thing. Going head to head with the Chinese is something else. We can't afford a major war.”

  “We're not facing a major war,” Harbin snapped.

  “We will be if we keep this up.”

  “That's completely unrealistic.”

  Weed held up a hand before Stedman could reply. “Bill, I know you've had doubts about this whole project since the beginning. I understand your feelings, but we've got to force the Chinese to back down. There's no other option.” He turned to face Harbin. “What do you have in mind?”

  All at once, Stedman knew he'd had enough. He slammed his folder of briefings down on the table, pushed his chair back, and stood up. “Jim, you'll have my written resignation tomorrow. I'm not willing to sit here and watch while you drag this country into a war it doesn't need and isn't prepared to fight.”

  “Bill,” said Weed, “for God's sake, not now!”

  “Personal reasons,” said Stedman. “Health concerns. I'll give you all the plausible deniability you want, but I'm through.” The door slammed behind him a moment afterward.

  He was out beneath the West Wing portico, waiting for his car in the damp evening air, before enough of the anger drained away that he could think about what came next. After a few moments, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed his wife. “Karen? It's me.”

  “Are you okay? You sound awful.”

  “Yeah. We need to talk. Are you home?”

  “Right now? Yes. What—”

  “Not now. I'll be right over. Bye.”

  6 September 2029: Academy of Military Science, Beijing

  “They will attack us on a different front shortly,” Fang Liyao said. “It is simply a matter of where, and how soon.”

  Liu gave him a hard look. “You say that so casually.”

  “It's hardly a surprise, General. Do you remember my comments earlier about their inability to imagine defeat? Now that their forces in Kenya are in trouble, they will try to escalate somewhere else. That really is the only option their culture allows them to consider.”

  The two men sat in Fang's office, the desk between them a wilderness of maps and reports from the fighting in East Africa. So far, all the news was good. Nairobi was in Coalition hands, and so were the airfields there and in Mombasa, bringing PLAAF units closer to the retreating American forces and providing defense in depth against air strikes from the Americans’ Persian Gulf bases. The supply route through the middle of Africa was coming under increasing pressure: slowly and unevenly, so the Americans would keep on trying to force convoys through long after an objective assessment would have discarded it and looked for new options, but steadily enough that the US force was running short of everything it needed to keep fighting.

  The thought of a second front, though, was troubling. “Do you have any sense where they might attack?” Liu asked.

  “Difficult to say,” said Fang. “Much depends on how much international condemnation they are willing to risk. The best options strategically would be air strikes on our bases at Sittwe or Trincomalee.”

  “But you don't think they'll do that.”

  “No.” A quick shake of his head denied it. “They treasure the mask of legality too much. No, my guess is that they'll attack the Motherland directly.”

  Liu stared at him for a long moment. “That cannot be permitted.”

  “It cannot be avoided.” Fang leaned forward. “Nor will it work to China's disadvantage. Think of the international outcry, the reaction of the Chinese people—and the justification it will provide for a far more damaging response from our side.”

  “The escalation you've proposed.”

  “Exactly. Have orders been issued for that?”

  “Of course,” said Liu.

  “Excellent.” Then: “Their move will almost certainly be an air strike. I would encourage you to place air defenses on the highest alert.”

  “If the attack is serious enough, and they use their best planes, some will get through.”

  “Of course.” Fang leaned back, folded his fingers together. “But it would be useful if they were to suffer losses. As we approach the endgame, anything that reminds the Americans of their lack of omnipotence will benefit us.”

  7 September 2029: Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri

  Major Jim Kroger crossed the concrete at a run, hauled himself up the ladder into the belly of the B-2. The four big turbofan engines were already cycling, filling the air with a low whine; the ordnance crew truck was backing away as the bomb bay doors swung shut.

  “Good to go?” Captain Phil Bennington, “Benny” to his friends, looked up from the pilot's controls.

  Kroger nodded, swung into the commander's chair. “Washington just gave the go-ahead. Straight from the White House is what the colonel said.”

  “I bet,” Benny said. “What exactly are we supposed to blow to hell?”

  “Lingshui Air Base on Hainan Island. Here's the mission order.” He offered the papers.

  Benny took them, read the top page, handed them back. “Lingshui? Wasn't that where that EP-3 got forced down back in 2001?”

  Kroger grinned. “You do know your history, don't you? That's the one.”

  “Bit of a grudge match, then,” said Benny.

  “Yeah, but that's not the point.” Kroger tapped the flight order. “They've got a big satellite intel station right next to the airfield. That's our main target—that and the airfield defenses.”

  Benny snorted. “They don't have anything that can touch us.”

  “We hope. They've got a full moon and clear skies to work with. The Creature says standoff weapons only.” Brigadier General Abel Creech was in command of the 509th Bomb Wing, the Air Force's B-2 unit; nobody in the 509th called him anything but the nickname except to his face. “You heard about the Bones over in Kenya.”

  “Those were Bones,” Benny said. “Nothing touches a Spirit.”

  The radio hissed and spat instructions; Benny pushed the throttle forward, and the bomber began rolling forward onto the taxiway. Three other B-2s were headed the same way: two to hit Yulin Naval Base on the southern tip of Hainan, the third to join Kroger's plane in the attack on Lingshui Air Base. Kroger shook his head; it was a hell of a show of force, that was for sure. “Well, we'll see,” he said.

  8 September 2029: Lingshui Air Base, Hainan Island

  Major Guo Yunmen went over to the radar technician's station. “What is it?”

  “I'm not sure, sir. Possibly just a malfunction, but—”

  Orders had come from Beijing the day before placing the base on highest alert. “Treat it as hostile until you're certain otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Guo turned. It was probably just a malfunction; still, orders were orders. “Get a second combat patrol up,” he told the air chief on duty. “Better—”

  “Sir!” It was the radar technician. Guo turned back, saw the text on the computer screen: the distinctive signature an American B-2 bomber showed during its one moment of radar visibility, when its bomb bays opened.

  “Range?”

  “Just over two hundred kilometers, sir.”

  Cruise missiles, then. “Kao—” The air chief was already on his feet. “Get every fighter into the air. That B-2 is to be destroyed if—”

  “Sir.” The radar technician again. “Another.”

  Guo turned back to him, saw the second warning. “Antimissile defenses—”

  “Already engaged, sir.” This from an officer on the other side of the room. “I've alerted the rest of the air defense net.”

  “Good.” Guo looked up at the clock. “Kao, you will take charge. Beijing needs to know.”

  He was out of the command center a momen
t later. The corridor to his office seemed to stretch for kilometers. Still, he got to the door, got to his desk, found the phone and started punching numbers. The window across from him showed darkness, lit here and there by the lights of distant buildings.

  “Yes?”

  “Major Guo Yunmen, at Lingshui. I need to speak to General Cai at once.” He forced steadiness into his voice. “We are under attack.”

  He could hear the orderly's breath drawn in, like a dying man's. “One moment, please.”

  Silence followed. Guo glanced at the clock on his desk, then wished he hadn't.

  “Guo?” General Cai's voice. “What is this—”

  “Forgive me, General,” said Guo, quickly. “Two B-2s are in our airspace east of Hainan, just over two hundred kilometers out. Both have opened their weapons bays. Our fighters have been scrambled and antimissile defenses are engaged. The rest of the air defense net—”

  The first flash lit up the sky outside Guo's office, and the phone line crackled and went dead. Instinctively, Guo ducked behind the desk; an instant later the window exploded into flying shards as the shock wave hit. He stayed crouched, and wondered whether there would be another blast, and when.

  A flash a moment later answered him, and his world dissolved into flame.

  8 September 2029: The August First Building, Beijing

  “You were quite correct, of course,” Liu said into the handset. On the computer screen in front of him were the first damage reports from Hainan and news reports from the media. There had been hundreds of deaths; he tried not to think of that.

  “Regrettably so.” Fang's voice was measured, soft. “And the response?”

  “Already under way. I had the necessary special forces unit sent to Sittwe, and made arrangements with the naval commanders there, after our last conversation.”

  “I am honored by your trust,” Fang said. Then: “The next few weeks will be the most delicate phase of this process.”

  Liu knew at once what his friend was not saying. “I will be sure to consult with you.”

  “I will welcome the opportunity,” said Fang.

  8 September 2029: The White House, Washington DC

  “The damage assessment is in,” said Admiral Waite. He pressed buttons on the control, and satellite photos appeared on the screen: craters and rubble, mostly, with lines and captions drawn in to indicate what had been there the day before. “The satellite intel base is a total loss, the airfield defenses likewise.” Another click, showing tangled wreckage where blue water met land. “The port facilities at Yulin were pretty badly hit, though the sub base inside the cliffs is hardened against anything this side of nukes—maybe against those as well. One way or another, though, we've given them a black eye.”

  Weed nodded, taking this in. “And the missing plane?”

  Waite turned to face him. “No trace so far.”

  Silence, then, as the images of crumpled harbor facilities warred with an unwelcome realization. Only two of the B-2s had returned safely to Whiteman Air Force Base; a third, half crippled by an air-to-air missile, fought its way to an emergency landing in Guam, and the fourth vanished somewhere over the South China Sea with a swarm of PLAAF fighters closing in on it.

  “Who was on board?” Weed asked.

  Waite glanced at his notes. “Major James Kroger, mission commander, and Captain Philip Bennington, pilot. Excellent service records, both men.”

  Weed grimaced. “Inform their families that they're missing, no details, we're still looking. I don't want anything about this in the media yet.”

  “That's not going to be easy,” said Greg Barnett. “The foreign media's all over it. You'll have to call in a lot of favors to keep it out of the news here.”

  “As many as I have to,” Weed growled. He turned to Claire Hutchison, asked the question everyone in the room wanted to ask. “Any word from the Chinese?”

  Her expression was flat, unreadable. “They've lodged a formal protest with the United Nations,” she told him, “broken off diplomatic relations, and recalled their ambassador and embassy staff. They've told our entire diplomatic presence to get out of China within seventy-two hours.”

  “They can't be serious,” Ellen Harbin said then.

  “I admire your confidence,” Hutchison replied. Then, to Weed: “I've asked our diplomatic corps to watch for indirect approaches, third-party initiatives, face-saving maneuvers of that sort. So far, though, what I've heard back is that the Chinese aren't interested.”

  “What I'm hearing matches that,” said Barnett.

  Weed drew in a ragged breath, made himself speak. “We'll give them a few days to come to their senses. In the meantime—” He turned to Waite. “I want the supply line to our forces in Kenya wide open. I don't care how. Make it happen.”

  “We'll do what we can, sir,” said the admiral.

  “That's not good enough,” Weed snapped. “Make it happen.”

  9 September 2029: Russell Senate Office Building, Washington DC

  Bridgeport leaned forward over the table. “Weed is lying.”

  None of the members of his staff disputed the point. The table in the conference room was half covered with printouts of the latest internet news from East Africa. The ones that came from US-based news sites parroted the official White House line: the US task force had come under hostile fire and some ships had been damaged, no further details at this time.

  The sites from overseas told a different story. That story involved witnesses reporting scores or even hundreds of cruise missiles flying belly to the waves off Tanzania's coast in the small hours of 24 July, thousands of wounded sailors and body bags ferried into Mombasa by Navy helicopters later that morning, at least three embedded reporters with the task force who hadn't been heard from since 23 July, half a dozen ships whose whereabouts nobody was willing to discuss any more—and one whose whereabouts were all too clear. Nearly every one of the overseas news reports showed the gray ghost of the Ronald Reagan somewhere on the page.

  “Bill, Nora, Ari, I want all three of you to get to work on the data,” Bridgeport said. “Track down everything you can find about the task force. Every ship, every sailor. Whatever you can get that'll stand up in hearings.”

  Joe Egmont put down the printout he'd been reading. “Bill, if you try to hold hearings when the war's still going on, the media will crucify you.”

  Bridgeport's gesture brushed aside the possibility. “I'll call for hearings now, postpone them when Weed asks me to—and he will—and then hold them as soon as the fighting's over. I want Weed to know right now that he'll be held accountable.”

  “That could be risky,” said Egmont.

  “I know. I'll take the risk.” All at once he thought of Melanie, somewhere in Kenya with the retreating US forces. “Our people in East Africa are taking bigger ones, you know.”

  Egmont nodded, conceding the point. “What else?” Bridgeport asked.

  “The Chinese are claiming that US planes bombed a naval base on their territory,” said Nora Babbitt. “The international media have some pretty convincing photos. The Chinese have called their ambassador home; the Pentagon's refused to comment so far.”

  Bridgeport turned to face her, aghast. “On Chinese territory? Where?”

  “Hainan Island. It's in the South China Sea; they've got naval and air bases there.”

  He stared at her for another moment. “Get me as much data on that as you can,” he said finally. “That's—stunningly reckless.”

  Egmont had his hand to his chin. “It's Harbin's style,” he offered. “With Stedman out, I'm guessing we'll see more stunts like that.”

  “That's what worries me,” said Bridgeport. “That, and how the Chinese are going to respond.”

  11 September 2029: Sittwe Naval Base, Myanmar

  The executive officer saluted. “Welcome aboard, Major.”

  “Thank you.” Major Chung Erhwan returned the salute, glanced around the inside of the submarine. The Zheng He was a far c
ry from the aging coastal-defense craft he and his team knew so well. Fast, silent, and effectively undetectable, the attack sub was the pride of the PLA Navy, and the bright metal and clean paint all around him showed that clearly enough. Chung's pulse picked up. They would not have assigned his team to such a vessel for any ordinary mission.

  “We will be under way in a quarter hour,” said the executive officer then. “I trust you have orders—”

  “Of course. To be opened once we are out of Myanmar's territorial waters, and under the strictest communication silence.”

  The executive officer's expression brightened. “Excellent. I will inform Captain Kuo at once. If you or your team need anything, please let me know.”

  Half an hour later, after seeing to his men and making sure everyone and everything was settled for the voyage, Chung went forward to the quarters he'd been assigned aboard the sub. The little room was spartan but neat, with ample stowage for his gear. Though he knew the sub was under way, he could barely feel the hum of the engines through the deck. He sat on the bunk, leaned back, let himself relax for a moment.

  It had been a long week for him, and for everyone in Unit 6628, the PLA's special forces team for island operations. Orders had come from Beijing in the middle of an exercise, their ninth so far that year—even among China's special forces teams, Unit 6628's training schedule had a reputation for inhuman severity—and suddenly men and gear were being pulled out of the water in the middle of a simulated raid and loaded on buses and trucks for the long trip inland and south across the mountains to Myanmar. Hints and whispers from higher up the chain of command warned Chung and his men that something out of the ordinary was under way, but it wasn't until they'd arrived at Sittwe Naval Base and received sealed orders from a PLA admiral in person that Chung knew that it wasn't simply another readiness drill.

  He thought he could guess what the Central Military Commission had in mind, once he had the orders and was leading his men aboard the submarine. News and pictures from the raids on Hainan were all over the media; China would certainly respond in kind, and Unit 6628's special training and weapons meant that an island or a coastal base would be the target. The only question was where.