Ultimatum

by Matthew Glass

  During those thirteen hours, Chinese and American fighters in international airspace came closer than a hundred meters on eighteen separate occasions. A Chrysler showroom was burned in Zhejiang province, and the windows of a string of Bank of America offices were smashed. An exchange of shellfire broke out between a shore battery and a Chinese destroyer off the northern coast of Taiwan, killing eleven Taiwanese soldiers and wounding thirty-four.

  ~ * ~

  Sunday, October 30

  Oval Office, The White House

  Benton waited impatiently for Knight to arrive. He knew by now that the banker had seen President Wen. He knew that he was carrying a letter that Wen had given him. He also knew that over the last twenty-four hours, the incidents and provocations around Taiwan and China’s southern territorial borders had continued to intensify, and the pressure building on him to take action was almost unbearable. By luck, there had been no further U.S. casualties. Had another American died, he wouldn’t have been able to hold off, even with Knight on his way back.

  Knight was ushered in. Hoffman, Olsen, Ball, Eales, Cohen and MacMahon were waiting in the Oval Office along with the president.

  Hoffman introduced the banker to Cohen and MacMahon.

  “You saw President Wen,” said the president when the formalities were done.

  “Yes, sir.” Knight took an envelope out of his pocket. “He asked me to give you this.”

  Benton took the envelope. Then he stopped. “What was he like?”

  “President Wen said very little to me.” Knight cleared his throat. “He took your letter and read it. Then he told me when to come back, and he had this letter ready.”

  “He didn’t say anything else?”

  “He said that you should take it seriously. What he says in his letter.”

  Benton frowned. Of course he would take it seriously. “He didn’t say anything else to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  The president nodded. “And . . . how did he seem?”

  Knight didn’t answer immediately. In private, with people he trusted, even on serious occasions, Wen Guojie was an expansive character, almost uproarious. Knight could hardly remember a conversation with him that hadn’t included a string of jokes. There had been no jokes this time, not one. Not a smile. Wen’s handshake at the end of their meeting had been dry, clasping. As if Wen had been trying to impress something upon him, something desperately grave, desperately important, that words alone couldn’t capture. Maybe it was that handshake that unsettled the banker more than anything else. Knight had been through dark, difficult days with Wen back in 2013, but he had never seen him like this. Wen was under intense pressure. Knight even wondered about the extent to which he was still in control.

  “Quiet, Mr. President,” said Knight.

  “That’s all? Quiet?”

  “Troubled. Not the Wen Guojie I know.”

  Benton looked at him thoughtfully, then he nodded. He took the envelope to his desk.

  “Shall I go, sir?” said Knight.

  “No, stay while I look at this, if you wouldn’t mind.” The president waved toward a space on the sofa next to Ben Hoffman. Ben moved to make room.

  The president slit open the envelope and took out the sheet of paper inside. Like his own note, it was handwritten.

  He read it. Then he looked up. “Mr. Knight,” he said quietly, “thank you for everything you’ve done. I don’t believe I will be requiring your services any further at this time.”

  Knight stared at him. “Thank you, sir,” he muttered hoarsely.

  Ben Hoffman got up and took Knight out.

  The president read over the note again.

  To His Excellency Joseph Emerson Benton, President of the United States of America:

  The government of the People’s Republic of China will not tolerate the interference of the United States or any other foreign government in its internal affairs. The province of Taiwan is an integral part of the nation of China since time immemorial. It is time to bring its anomalous situation to an end. The full normalization of the governance of the province of Taiwan is not dependent on the resolution of any other matter, nor is it in the gift of the leader of any country or a matter for external negotiation.

  I urge you therefore to withdraw your forces from the region and allow our two nations to resume the friendship they have labored so hard to build in recent years. In times gone, hostile actions by foreign governments were tolerated by governments of China and led to many years of subjugation. The government of the People’s Republic will never adopt this attitude. Do not make the mistake of thinking that the armed forces of the People’s Republic are intimidated by the army of the United States. Do not think your country will be safe because it is distant. Any hostile action by the forces of the United States on the sacred territory of the Chinese people will be met by a terrible response that will shake your nation to its foundations. Pay heed to this warning. If you do not, you alone will bear the responsibility for the result.

  I urge you to withdraw your forces immediately and end the crisis that you have created in a region of the world that is far from your own country.

  Wen Guojie

  President of the People’s Republic of China

  Benton handed the letter to Stuart Cohen, who was nearest, and he watched as Cohen read it and then passed it on. There was no note of conciliation in the Chinese president’s words, thought Benton, not even a hint. Not even an intimation that Wen would sign up to the Carbon Plan once Taiwan was recovered. If Wen had said that, at least, there might have been a glimmer of hope, even though Benton had demanded that the sequence should be the reverse. But there was nothing on which to hang any expectation.

  “Mr. President, did you really think you were going to get anything different?” asked Olsen when he had read it.

  Benton didn’t reply.

  Jay MacMahon was left holding it. “It’s bombastic,” he said. “You can hardly take it seriously.”

  “He’s expecting you to back down,” said Olsen. “At every stage, sir, he’s expected you to back down. He’s had a week to invade Taiwan if he was really prepared to fight for it, and he still hasn’t done it. We’re at the end now. This is where it’s been heading for the last year. Now’s the time to show we’ve got the courage to go all the way. One strike, Mr. President, and everything changes. What will he have left then? Nothing. Nothing but empty threats.”

  “All we need is the go-ahead,” said MacMahon.

  Olsen took back the letter and scanned it. “A terrible response that will shake your nation to its foundations,” he said contemptuously. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  MacMahon shrugged. “They don’t have a plane or a naval vessel within a thousand miles of us.”

  Alan Ball’s face was grim. He didn’t say a word.

  “Sounds like President Wen’s been reading his own press,” said Cohen.

  Jay MacMahon laughed.

  The president took back the letter, read it again. It was bombastic, as MacMahon had said. A ridiculous, almost schoolboyish response to the serious and constructive message he had sent with Knight.

  “He just doesn’t get it,” said Benton. “I don’t know what else I’ve got to do. I don’t know how much plainer I can give him the message. He just doesn’t seem to get it.”

  “He will soon,” said Larry Olsen.

  ~ * ~

  Monday, October 31, 2033

  The scope of the initial strike had widened. By now incidents had taken place that could be traced to four separate airbases and a naval base. All of them would be attacked, with the intention to target installations that would be unmanned at two a.m. local time, the time designated for the action. The attack would be carried out by eight Lance cruise missiles launched from submarines in international water off the Chinese coast.

  The previous night—a crisp Monday morning over the South China Sea—an incident had occurred that could only be described as a dogfight with
out shots. Thirty-eight aircrafts were involved. One Chinese plane went down for causes that were unclear. The Chinese media were informed that it had been fired on by two American planes. A U.S. Air Force spokesman immediately denied the claim. In retaliation, the northern batteries of Taiwan’s coastal defense came under prolonged bombardment from a Chinese naval group.

  On Monday morning, the president received a final briefing from the Joint Chiefs. The heads of naval and air force intelligence reported that no Chinese vessels were in striking distance of the continental United States for the Ying, the Chinese cruise missile. To get the U.S. cruise-firing submarines in position, Enderlich needed approval by midday.

  Joe Benton spoke to Secretary-General Nleki, who had nothing to offer but a despairing plea for calm and dialogue. He then spoke to Hugh Ogilvie, informing the British prime minister of the upcoming action and asking for his support. He gave the same message to Prime Minister Nakamura in Japan. He also spoke with Gorodin again, hoping that a last-minute declaration of support from Russia might bring China to the table. But he didn’t trust that he could reveal to Gorodin the imminence of military action, and the Russian president, unaware of what was about to happen, remained equivocal.

  At eleven forty-five, Admiral Enderlich came to the Oval Office. President Benton gave the order.

  Then there was nothing to do but wait. The address that he would give after the firing was already written. In the Oval Office, technicians arrived to set up for the broadcast. Benton left the office. He found Ewen MacMaster as he went down a corridor in the West Wing, and he pulled him into the Cabinet Room to talk. Education. He asked Ewen what was happening. It felt as if he hadn’t talked about stuff like that in months, years. This was what he really cared about. And yet it was surreal, like some kind of dream. In the South China Sea, three submarines were positioning themselves for a cruise launch on China. Ewen, like every other staffer, knew something was likely to happen, even if he didn’t know what and he didn’t know that the order had already been given. The president found it hard to focus. He let MacMaster go.

  He went up to the residence floor and had lunch with Heather. Soup and salad. He had no appetite. Heather didn’t know he had just given the order, but she guessed. She didn’t say anything. He tried to read, kept glancing at his watch. The time crept toward two o’clock. Finally it got there. He watched the hand move, the final twitch.

  He looked up. Heather was watching him.

  “We’ve just fired.”

  She nodded.

  They didn’t say anything after that. Fifteen minutes later, he got a call from Enderlich, confirming the attack had taken place. Sunrise over southern China would be in about three hours. Shortly after that, the first satellite images would be analyzed, and they’d have a good idea of the degree of success.

  The president called Jodie Ames and told her he was coming down.

  He stood up. Heather stood as well. She stopped him, looked in his eyes, and kissed him. Then she took his arm, and they went down together.

  The moment Ames put down the phone, she had put out an alert. Web stream controllers had ten minutes to get ready. As he took his seat behind the desk in the Oval Office, Joe Benton knew that all over the United States, all over the world, announcers were interrupting their programs, and in another minute they would carry his image from the camera positioned on the other side of his desk.

  He glanced at Jodie. She nodded. Then he glanced at Heather.

  “We’re ready, sir,” said Jodie.

  He looked at the camera, set his face.

  “Okay, Mr. President.”

  The light on the camera went on. He began.

  “My fellow Americans. Although I speak to you today as your president, I speak also to the people of China as the leader of a friendly nation who wants nothing more than our mutual goodwill and prosperity. I speak to all the people of the world as an American president who wants nothing more than to work with you, your leaders, to achieve a better world for us all.

  “It is my grave duty to announce that in the past hour United States forces have been in action against a number of facilities attaching to the armed forces of the People’s Republic of China. We have been forced to this measure by the series of unprovoked attacks over the past week by the army of the People’s Republic against both United States forces in international airspace and against Taiwanese targets, a number of which have resulted in fatalities, and by the failure of dialogue to achieve a cessation of this activity. I emphasize that this is not a declaration of war by the United States on the People’s Republic of China, nor does a state of war exist between us. This carefully selected set of defensive actions was designed only to protect United States service personnel from attacks in international territory. Every care has been taken to avoid casualties, whether civilian or military, on the Chinese side, and I have confidence that our soldiers have achieved this aim. I ask now that the Chinese government...”

  At the edge of his field of vision, something caught Joe Benton’s eye. He tried to keep looking at the camera, but couldn’t avoid glancing aside for an instant. A man in uniform, someone Benton didn’t recognize, had come into the room and a conversation was going on between him and Jodie Ames. A very agitated conversation.

  “I ask that the Chinese government withdraw its forces from their positions threatening Taiwan in compliance with the terms of the Manila Understanding . . .”

  He looked again. Jodie Ames was frantically whirling one hand, telling him to finish up, while trying physically to hold back the uniformed man with the other.

  “I ask that they withdraw their forces from Taiwan,” said Benton, cutting to the key messages of his statement and trying to maintain the same steady, measured tone despite what was happening beyond the camera, “and sign up to the Carbon Plan that the United States has proposed. There is a peaceful way forward for all of us. God bless America. God bless China.”

  He looked up. The uniformed man was already coming around the desk. “Cut it!” yelled Jodie. “Cut the feed!”

  The soldier got to him and grabbed his elbow.

  “Come with me, sir, please!”

  “What is this?”

  “Now, sir!” The soldier was literally dragging him up from behind the desk. Another half dozen uniformed men poured in through the door from the Rose Garden. The president was being hustled out. He looked for Heather. She was surrounded by soldiers as well. His mind raced. What was going on? Why were these soldiers coming for him?

  He was outside now. A helicopter stood on the lawn with its rotors turning. He tried to stop, pulling back against the two marines who were propelling him toward it.

  “What’s the hell’s going on here?” he shouted. “Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Rivers, sir!” snapped the man who had first come into the office. “Duty officer, Alpha Unit!”

  Alpha Unit, thought Benton. Alpha Unit. .. That was the unit tasked with ensuring his safety if the United States came under attack.

  He looked for Heather.

  “Sir! Please keep moving, sir! We’ve got to get you airborne!”

  ~ * ~

  The strike had hit the San Francisco Bay area. Joe Benton didn’t find this out until he was aboard Air Force One. He sought Heather’s eyes.

  The Bay area. Stanford. Amy.

  But there was no time for that, not for the president. Already on board were Alan Ball, Admiral Enderlich and a half dozen cabinet members. The secretary of state was supposed to be with the presidential group in an Alpha event, but he wasn’t on the plane when the president arrived and the rules were clear: the plane took off as soon as the president was aboard. The engines were already running.

  Enderlich grabbed the briefcase with the nuclear codes from Benton’s military aide, and he and another senior officer took the president and Alan Ball straight into a room off the communications hub, which doubled as a situation room. As the plane was taking off, they began to give him the details as they
knew them. A device had exploded over the Bay area at 2:28 p.m. eastern time. The center of the strike zone appeared to be two miles west of Palo Alto. Satellite pictures were obscured by the dust storm the detonation had raised and seismic records were still being analyzed. It was too soon to know the size of the device or the extent of the damage.

  “Two twenty-eight?” said the president, struggling to get his head clear. “How does that. . . ?”