“Nothing at the air bases, so that means the PLA is being supplied by rail,” Kamigami said. Zou translated.
The old man rattled off some numbers. “I got it,” Kamigami said before Zou could translate. “Perhaps ten boxcars earmarked for the PLA.”
“Is this important?” Zou asked.
“I estimate,” Kamigami said, “that over fifty thousand PLA troops have come into the area around Canton within the last week. It doesn’t track. We’re seeing too many troops for the supplies coming in.”
Zou had to translate. “What does this mean?” he asked. “This is an army that lives on the local economy.”
A torrent of words gushed from the old man when he heard the answer. He had lived through that before. “He says the farmers will suffer greatly,” Zou translated.
“I got most of it,” Kamigami said. He thought for a few moments. He had come to like Zou and the Chinese he had met: Still, he wanted to return home and see his daughter, the last of his family. But I owe Zou for getting me out of jail, he reasoned. “I want to see what it’s like in the countryside,” he finally said.
Zou fell silent. He had spent too much time with Kamigami and needed to return to his headquarters in Nanning. Still, he was learning much and needed to gauge for himself conditions in the countryside. “I’ll go with you,” he said.
Friday, January 19
Washington, D.C.
The two Secret Service agents were warmed up and ready to go when the national security advisor came out of the White House. Like them, he was bundled up for an early morning run. “You two ready to do some serious running today?” he called.
“You better believe it, Mr. Carroll,” Wayne Adams, the taller of the pair, answered.
A boyish grin spread over Carroll’s face, making him look younger than the two agents, who were in their early thirties. “That’s what Chuck said last night,” Carroll said, going through his stretching exercises.
“Not fair,” Chuck Stanford complained. “So I cramped up.”
“At least it didn’t hurt your elbow,” Carroll said. He liked to drink beer with the people he ran with and they had dispatched a few the night before. Stanford was still suffering from a hangover.
The two agents jogged in place, ready for the challenge. They were the only two currently assigned to Washington who were up to the drill. There were three other agents who would run with the national security advisor when Chuck Stanford and Wayne Adams weren’t available, but they couldn’t match Carroll’s pace. “Is this going to be another marathon?” Stanford asked.
“Not enough time today,” Carroll answered. He checked his shoelaces and headed for the East Gate of the White House.
“Thanks for small favors,” Stanford mumbled. The two agents fell in beside him. Outside the gate, the two backups were waiting on their mountain bikes with the heavy artillery safely hidden away in the saddlebags. A helicopter hovered over the Potomac and copied the message that William Gibbons Carroll was out and running. Like a well-oiled machine, the various units checked in, ready to guard and protect the president’s assistant for national security affairs, as he took his daily run.
Carroll turned right when they reached the Mall and headed for the Potomac River, letting Adams set the pace. They looped behind the Lincoln Memorial and circled the Tidal Basin before turning eastward. The two agents ran in silence, keying off Carroll, not anxious to break his silence. Carroll was working a problem and when he had a solution, he would start talking and running much faster. Until that happened, the agents kept a constant scan going, looking for anything unusual.
They had run about three miles and were approaching the Air and Space Museum when Carroll stopped dead in his tracks. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. Pieces of the puzzle were coming together and the shadowy movements going on inside China were making sense. “Maybe,” he said under his breath, “you’re not so inscrutable.”
Then he smiled, pleased with himself. “Do you think our bikers have been getting their money’s worth this morning?” He turned and looked at the two Secret Service agents on the mountain bikes.
“Why am I certain they’re about to?” Adams asked, breathing easily.
“Oh, no,” Stanford groaned, knowing what was coming next.
“Right,” Carroll laughed. “It’s hurtin’ time.” He erupted like a sprinter at the sound of the starter’s gun. “Gentlemen, we’ve got a race.” The two Secret Service agents hurt all the way back. “Enjoyed it,” Carroll told them when they reached the East Gate of the White House. “Sorry it’s too early for a brewski.” He disappeared through the gate.
“Thanks for small favors,” Stanford puffed.
“You know who Carroll is?” Adams asked.
“Yeah. The guy who’s gonna give us a heart attack.”
Before he headed for the showers in the basement, Carroll told Margaret, his secretary, to set up a meeting with Finlay in an hour and have Mazie Kamigami in his office soonest. Mazie was waiting for him when he came back. “Thanks for coming over so quickly,” he said, settling into his chair.
“Margaret said it was urgent,” Mazie said, still panting from the run from her office in the Executive Office Building across the street. The word had. gotten out that Carroll liked hustle.
“Mazie, how serious is the problem in China? Are we looking at a civil war or something a lot bigger?”
Mazie thought for a few moments, organizing her words. It was a question she was paid to answer. “Bigger,” she answered. “Much bigger.”
“That isn’t the answer I wanted,” Carroll grouched.
Then don’t ask the question, Mazie said to herself. But Carroll was waiting for an explanation. “The problem is Kang Xun,” she began.
“Isn’t Kang Xun the general who fancies himself the new Mao Zedong of China?” Carroll asked.
“Indeed he does,” Mazie replied. “Kang Xun is the son of Kang Sheng and he’s every bit as bloody.” Carroll nodded. He was one of the few westerners who had studied the career of Kang Sheng and how he had created China’s secret police for Mao Zedong. Kang Sheng had created a system that systematically tortured and terrorized millions while he exterminated hundreds of thousands of his fellow Chinese.
“General Kang Xun,” Mazie continued, “thinks and acts more like his father than Mao. He has a simple solution to most problems—slaughter the enemy. He learned that from his father. He has stated repeatedly that China is destined to rule Asia and Japan is the enemy.”
“That could be an economic policy statement,” Carroll said.
Mazie shook her head. “It doesn’t read that way in the original. It loses something in translation.”
“Like Mein Kampf,” Carroll added. “Hitler gave us fair warning.”
“And like Hitler,” Mazie continued, “Kang is exploiting internal problems. A drought has decimated the wheat and sorghum crops in northern China. Combine the drought with the massive overpopulation of the rural areas and you’ve got severe food shortages. That has led to riots.”
“How does the PLA get involved in all this?”
How to explain the strange mixture called the People’s Liberation Army? Mazie thought. She didn’t have enough time and decided to keep it simple. “The PLA is controlled mostly by hard-liners led by Kang and they blame the central government for the current mess. Kang is the hardliners’ favorite son because he’s in command of Guangzhou Military Region next to Hong Kong.
“To appease Kang and the hard-liners, the central government has agreed to split control of the country. The PLA under Kang controls China south of the Yangtze River and the central government controls the northern half. Supposedly, this is being done in the name of ‘emergency measures.’ But it is a power struggle for control of China in every sense of the word.”
Carroll was like a bulldog that kept worrying a bone. “Last week you made a convincing case for the PLA going after the Fourth Dragon. Finny thinks you’re way out in left field on this one and cla
ims time has proven you’re wrong.”
Mazie knew that she was in trouble with James Finlay, Carroll’s chief of staff, and didn’t answer at first. There were four emerging economic powers on the rim of Asia that, combined, could challenge the economic might of Japan. The first three dragons, Korea, Taiwan, and Singapore, were safe in their nests. It was the Fourth Dragon, Hong Kong, that was in danger.
“The British,” she said, carefully choosing her words, “lower the Union Jack for the last time on July first, 1997, and the colony reverts to the Chinese. The people are getting out now, while they can, and they’re taking their money and skills with them. We’re seeing a mass exodus from Hong Kong.”
“And since Kang is the commander of the military region next to Hong Kong, you think he will …”
“Seal off and then take over Hong Kong early to save its wealth.”
“So, it’s a combination of the ‘Berlin Wall’ and ‘nationalize the Suez Canal early’ schemes,” Carroll said.
“For Kang,” Mazie said, “southern China and Hong Kong are only stepping-stones to power. Next, he’ll take over the central government in Beijing. Then he’ll go after two of the other little dragons—probably Taiwan and Singapore. That will give him the industrial and military base he needs to take over Korea. Japan is next.”
“Which,” Carroll said, “is the crux of the problem. At that point, war would be inevitable. We need to stop him now, while we still can.” He fell silent, considering how much he should tell Mazie. “Tell me about the Pearl River basin.”
“It’s the heart of southern China. Agriculturally, it is very productive. The people there are mostly Zhuang, not Han Chinese. The Zhuang are a fairly large minority, maybe twenty million. Racially, they are Mongoloid and get along well with their neighbors. They’ve been well integrated.”
“But not totally?”
Mazie shook her head. “That’s the reason the Chinese government didn’t make the Pearl River basin a province. They call it the Guangxi Autonomous Region. Most Americans think China is a monolithic culture. It’s not.”
“When was the last time the Zhuang tried to declare their independence?” Carroll asked.
Astonishment and wonder crashed over Mazie like a full-blown thunderstorm. She knew what Carroll was thinking. It was all she could do to name the year. “Nineteen-sixteen.”
“Tell me about Zou Rong,” Carroll said.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “You’re going for the Soviet Option.”
“In this case,” Carroll said, his voice icy cold, “call it the China Option. If China is going to threaten its neighbors, we’re going to help it come apart.”
James Finlay, Carroll’s chief of staff, was in his office in the Executive Office Building closeted with Wentworth Hazelton when he heard that Mazie was with the national security advisor. “Damn it,” Finlay sputtered, “I control access to Carroll. How in the hell did the Frump get in there without me knowing?”
“She seems to be a loose cannon,” Hazelton said.
Finlay didn’t like Hazelton’s answer because it was the truth. He liked even less the implication that he was not in control of his staff. Normally, Finlay would have cut a junior staffer down to the janitorial level for being so observant, but that was a luxury he couldn’t afford with Hazelton. The kid’s mother had intimated that she would be most appreciative of any boost he gave to Wentworth’s career. Since she had the money and influence to help any career in the rarefied atmosphere of Washington politics, he had decided to sponsor Hazelton.
“Went,” Finlay said, “this is a fine opportunity to demonstrate what you can do. When we go in there, keep Carroll’s attention focused on the importance of the Middle East. Other than Japan, the Far East is a sideshow.”
Hazelton looked at his shoes. Rumor had it that Finlay wanted Carroll to make a horrendous mistake. “Kamigami does make a strong case, sir.”
“That’s for me to decide,” Finlay snapped. He was still smarting from the staff meeting at which Mazie Kamigami had upstaged him at the last minute and was determined to give her a lesson in corporate loyalty. He wanted to fire her. But it amazed him how Carroll hung on every word the dumpy little woman said, not that she ever said much. He checked his watch and stood up. It was time for the meeting. “Just give it your best shot,” he said. He stood and marched over to Carroll’s office in the White House.
He’s a fast learner, Carroll thought as he listened to Hazelton summarize the situation in North Africa and the Middle East. The analysis presented by the young man was cutting and concise. “Very good,” Carroll said when Hazelton had finished. Even Mazie was nodding in agreement. “Here’s my problem,” Carroll continued, “we have two potential hot spots either of which could flare in the near future. I can tell you from personal experience the president does not like surprises. But he likes idle speculation even less. So what do I tell him?”
This was the opportunity Finlay had been waiting for. “I don’t think there’s a choice,” he said. “A serious disruption in the flow of Middle Eastern oil to Europe and Japan means economic disaster for our two most important trading partners. The Middle East must remain our number-one concern. Compared to the situation there, China is an insignificant sideshow worth a few well-timed press releases.”
Carroll looked at Mazie. “Your thoughts, please.”
“Mr. Finlay is right,” Mazie said. “The Middle East must remain our top priority. But any disruption in the flow of oil will boomerang. The oil-producing countries need petrodollars to stay afloat and meet the rising levels of expectation of their own people. Shut off the money and the Arab masses may decide it’s time for new leaders. Problems in the Middle East will not last long.”
“As usual,” Finlay snorted, “Miss Kamigami doesn’t grasp the big picture. Before that could happen, the economy of Europe would be in a shambles and that means serious problems here. The president does not need to get sidetracked and drawn into an Asian cesspool when the Middle East is coming apart.”
No sign of emotion flickered across Mazie’s face. “We cannot disengage or ignore events in China because Europe is having problems. We’re talking about over one billion people, one-fourth of the world’s population. Millions can die—”
“Of what?” Hazelton interrupted.
“War,” she answered.
“You’re not paid to be melodramatic,” Finlay snorted. Carroll turned to Haze1ton. “Went, your thoughts.”
The young man shot a furtive glance at Finlay and stared at his shoes. He understood Mazie’s argument for a coherent and active China policy. Another glance at Finlay and he decided to hedge his answer. “The Far East is outside my area of expertise.” Silence.
“Well then,” Finlay said. “I think it’s obvious where we need to concentrate. China can go on a back burner.”
“Mazie, Went,” Carroll said, “would you please excuse us?” The two stood and left while Carroll’s fingers drummed a tattoo on his desk. “Finny,” he began, “I agree we must give the Middle East top priority. But”—Carroll stressed the word—”we cannot ignore developments in China.”
Finlay snorted. “I don’t believe all the bullshit Kamigami has been pushing about Kang what’s-his-name.”
Carroll stood and walked to his window. Outside, a winter’s day played out in stark beauty. In front of him was a world at peace. Was it like this when Hitler first came to power? he thought. How many mad, vicious men like Kang had taken the stage to be casually dismissed by the world? How many countries had been devastated, how many people sacrificed because no one believed a man could be so evil? “Finny, we can’t afford another Hitler. Mazie has put all the pieces together and is giving us fair warning.”
“You make her sound like a Cassandra,” Finlay protested. “She’s not a prophet.”
“She’s a first-class intellect,” Carroll told him. “No one can match her track record when it comes to predicting trouble. Use her.”
Finlay nodded.
He understood his boss and knew that he had received firm marching orders. “I’ll start working the problem.” The meeting was at an end and he left, now determined to get rid of the woman.
Saturday, January 20
Cannon Range, Missouri
The range control officer at Cannon Range noted the time off range in his log when the four F-16s departed to the south. Absolutely shitty scores, he thought, making another notation in his log. The veteran fighter pilot had a commanding view from the top of the sixty-foot control tower abeam the run-in to the strafe target, and the F-16s had not impressed him.
Automatically, he scanned the quadrant to the northwest with his binoculars, looking for the next flight thai was scheduled on the bomb range. The Warthogs should do better, he thought. He dropped his binoculars against his chest when he saw four specks on the horizon and picked up the microphone. John Leonard’s voice crackled over the UHF radio. “Cannon Range, Toga flight three minutes out.”
“Toga flight,” the range controller transmitted. “You’re cleared onto the range. Altimeter, two-niner eight-four.”
John Leonard repeated the altimeter setting back as he dialed the setting into the barometric scale on his altimeter. “Cannon, do you have our numbers and events?”
“Rog, Toga,” the range controller replied. Then a grin cracked the corners of his mouth. “Check this out,” he told his assistant. “They’re flyin’ fingertip tryin’ to impress the home folks.” Normally, Warthogs. entered the range in a route formation. But Leonard had them in a fingertip with his wingman, Toga Two, on his immediate left. Toga Three, Skeeter Ashton, was welded to his right wing. Ashton’s wingman, Toga Four, was on her right wing.
“Echelon right,” Leonard transmitted. Ashton and her wingman slipped in unison further to the right, opening a space for Toga Two. Toga Two slid smoothly underneath Leonard and pulled into the open space. Ashton closed up onto his right wing and Leonard had to admit that the young flight lead had done it smoothly.
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