Just before Dixit was able to reply, Bloodworth said: ‘Chinese missile launch on Taiwan. Three, four – no, five launches from the Huangshan 52 base. They would be the DF-15s.’
Military Headquarters, Western Hills, China
Local time: 1000 Tuesday 8 May 2007
GMT: 0200 Tuesday 8 May 2007
‘Three minutes to impact,’ said Leung. ‘The enemy’s Patriot missiles have been activated. Four enemy air-defence missiles launched.’ He turned to President Tao. ‘We have fired sufficient missiles to ensure that we have at least two hits.’
Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Square, Taipei, Taiwan
Local time: 1000 Tuesday 8 May 2007
GMT: 0200 Tuesday 8 May 2007
The air-raid sirens began as columns of school-children filed through into Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Square. The palace at the head of the square, with its white walls and blue Chinese-style roof, housed a bronze statue of Chiang Kai-Shek. Although defeated by Mao Zedong, he had created this defiant island state which was now admired by Western democracies and Asian economic tigers alike. Soldiers stood solemnly on guard unaffected by the commotion going on around them. Even when the siren sounded, they did not look up. On either side of the square were the National Theatre and National Concert Hall and the square itself was used by thousands on special occasions. They gathered in 1992 for the first direct elections to the legislature, in 1996 for the first presidential elections and now, as Taiwan was about to declare independence, it was only fitting that the occasion be marked in Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Square. School-children, unprepared and unrehearsed, some clutching lunch boxes, stood in pairs, holding hands nervously, while their teachers worried about how to arrange them. Officials handed out the red and blue Taiwanese flag for them to wave and a band started up with a ceremonial regiment from the army. To hold everyone’s attention were huge screens strung up so they could see one from wherever they were, showing proceedings in the nearby Parliament buildings, where the Legislative Yuan was debating the vote on independence.
A decade earlier, the National Assembly voted by an overwhelming majority of 261 to 8 to eliminate Taiwan’s status as a province of China. By doing so, the Assembly was taking another tentative step towards complete independence. As a province, Taiwan accepted that it was part of mainland China. It appointed a governor and had its own provincial assembly, and the decision to end the facade meant severing yet another link of its bothersome relationship with the mainland.
The sirens did not create great consternation in the square. They were a regular element of city life in Taipei, as were the anti-aircraft batteries on the roofs of tall buildings. It was only when the children saw the streak of a missile flaming skywards and pointed excitedly that the teachers recognized something was wrong. Police from the cordon ran in and began the fruitless task of herding the children towards an air-raid shelter, and by the time the third Patriot missile had been fired, they were running in terror, but still with discipline, in pairs, holding hands, as they had been taught to since they were in kindergarten. Then Taiwanese fighter planes screamed overhead, so loud that people put their hands to their ears, and stopped dead in their tracks to watch, hoping that they alone would save them from the danger in the skies.
As soon as the planes had gone, a shrill electronic screeching came from the big screens around the square. The pictures juddered and you could see panic break out in the Parliament, that second-long expression on faces, the first instinctive movement of escape, before the screens went to black. Then the square shook. The troops broke formation and ran towards the rumbling noise of the explosion. Dust and then smoke rose up into view. Teachers and children screamed together, their lunch boxes falling to the ground, some losing their sandals, running, but not sure where, and then their sounds drowned out by more fighter planes flying low and loud over the centre of the city.
Two Chinese missiles scored a direct hit on the Parliament building, killing dozens of deputies and stopping the debate before the vote on independence had been taken. For President Tao, it was a constitutional master stroke. He had struck a civilian target at the heart of Taipei, as his military commanders had wanted. The dead were legitimate targets, and the law which would have embarrassed his presidency more than anything else remained off the statute books.
Military Headquarters, Western Hills, China
Local time: 1030 Tuesday 8 May 2007
GMT: 0230 Tuesday 8 May 2007
‘We have successfully taken Pei-kan,’ said Leung. ‘Heavy shelling has been going for twenty minutes from Kinmen. We are exchanging fire. Taiwanese aircraft have attacked our base at Shantou, but our air defences are holding up well. The new Sector Operations Centres are taking individual control of their areas of defence through the integrated national defence system. Each sector is bringing in its own over the horizon and missile early-warning data and is directing our planes in the air. It is working far better than we expected.’
‘Prime Minister Wada of Japan is on the line,’ said an assistant to President Tao, who seemed hesitant before finally saying he would not take the call. It was the fifth time the Japanese Prime Minister had tried to talk directly to the Chinese president.
‘Detection of Indian missiles being prepared for launch.’
All eyes looked up at the real-time screen, blurred but showing the distinctive shape from a satellite photograph of an Indian missile out of cover on a mobile launcher.
‘The Agni,’ said Leung. ‘Where is it?’
‘Eastern air command, Shillong.’ The coordinates were given. ‘From Tezu. Target range: Lanzhou, Xian, Chengdu, Chonqing, Wuhan, Guangzhou.’
‘Take it out,’ said Leung, without consulting President Tao, who nodded, knowing that power was slipping away and events were overtaking him. Leung dictated the order: ‘Xining. Second Artillery. Unit 80306. Datong, Delingha and Da Qaidam launch bases. Range approximately 1,600 kilometres. Use the DF-21, low 200 kilometre trajectory to counter anti-missile defence system.’
Foreign Ministry, Beijing, China
Local time: 1045 Tuesday 8 May 2007
GMT: 0245 Tuesday 8 May 2007
By coincidence, Jamie Song was meeting Reece Overhalt when Japanese Ambassador Kazuo Nishimura insisted on an audience in a remarkably obstinate and un-Japanese manner. Overhalt and Nishimura had spoken barely an hour earlier, when Overhalt heard of Japan’s plans to move in on the Taiwan Straits, and was now in the middle of relaying it to Jamie Song.
Song asked Nishimura in. The two television sets were both on with the volume low, but audible, showing BBC World and CNN, the pictures lagging behind events by only a few minutes. On the screen was the damaged facade of the Parliament building. Members staggering out, their clothes torn, some bleeding, and emergency vehicles arriving inside the complex.
‘Foreign Minister, I insist you urge your President to speak to Prime Minister Wada. It is a great insult for him to ignore my Prime Minister’s calls.’
Jamie Song shrugged. It was only mid-morning but he was sharing a malt whisky with Reece Overhalt. He offered a glass to Nishimura, who refused. ‘Ambassador, the decisions are being made at our military headquarters in the Western Hills. In peacetime China, the tapestry of trade, diplomacy, commerce, politics and the military rumble along jostling for position with each other in the big picture. But in wartime, every voice is dampened except for that of the military. We are now in wartime. I imagine that the man in control of China is not President Tao, but General Leung. This might last just the morning, or it might last for ever. I have no idea.’
Song hadn’t bothered to offer Nishimura a seat. The ambassador sat down uninvited. ‘Prime Minister Wada has made a decision to send Japanese forces to the Straits of Taiwan.’
‘So Reece was saying. Personally, I think it is a mistake.’
‘But your actions have been intolerable. They cannot be accepted in modern Asia.’
‘I don’t think so. Our territory was invaded by Indian troops, our o
il supplies threatened by Indian warships, our naval base attacked by British forces, and Taiwan has chosen this very moment to make a declaration of independence. Tell me, Ambassador, what would you do in our situation? Just let it all happen? Give Tibet to India? Hand over our naval bases to the British? Let India control shipping in the Indian Ocean? Welcome Taiwan’s separation from the Motherland?’
‘There are channels. The United Nations.’
‘What we call closing the door after the horse has bolted,’ growled Overhalt.
‘If you continue, you will become isolated by the international community,’ said Nishimura. ‘As I said, your actions are unacceptable.’
Jamie Song stood up. He was unshaven, his eyes were bloodshot and he clearly had not slept properly for several days. ‘Get out!’ he shouted. ‘What right has Japan to tell us that our actions are unacceptable? What right have you to dictate levels of morality to me after slaughtering Chinese people and other Asians with impunity!’ Song moved so quickly towards Nishimura that Reece Overhalt was also on his feet, ready to intervene. Song stopped half a metre away from the Japanese Ambassador and gripped his arm. ‘Don’t threaten China. Don’t try to humiliate her. Don’t boast about Indian–Japanese solidarity. Your country carried out the most horrendous atrocities and then rose up to try to claim the mantle of Asian power again. It will not happen. China will not let it happen. We will see this through to the end, believe me, and whatever decisions are being made now in the Western Hills, I, as a Chinese citizen, will support them without hesitation.’
When Nishimura had scuttled away, Song sank back down into his chair, looking at the television scenes of devastation from Taipei.
‘Jamie, what do you think Leung will do?’ asked Overhalt softly.
‘Remember what Mao said? “The Chinese people will never be slaves again.” We’ll see it through, Reece. Even if it means the destruction of China.’
BBC Television Centre, London
Local time: 0330 Tuesday 8 May 2007
Robin Sutcliffe, the head of BBC Newsgathering, was woken at home. Fifteen minutes later a car was waiting to take him to work. He had packed an overnight bag. The call had come from the BBC’s Chief Political Adviser, who herself was woken up by a call from the Home Office. The Home Office was reacting on advice passed through John Stopping’s Joint Intelligence Committee, which had cleared the decision to alert the BBC with the Prime Minister.
Sutcliffe walked straight over to the horseshoe desk of banked television and computer screens on the first floor newsroom, the nerve centre of his department. He told the News Organizer and the Foreign Duty Editor to help arrange a core team to move immediately to Wood Norton, a manor house and country estate in the Cotswolds owned by BBC Resources and used mainly for hosting conferences.
Two correspondents who were working overnight in the Foreign Affairs Unit and for BBC News 24 were seconded, together with editors from Radio News bulletins and World Service Television. Sutcliffe insisted that the presenters, two each for radio and television, came from mainstream news, and not from the more controversial current affairs programmes such as Newsnight or the 5 Live chat shows. Luckily a long-serving presenter from the Today programme had just walked into the building. Radio Four’s morning bulletin newsreader was also there. The television presenters were taken from News 24 and World Service. Attempts were made to bring in a senior Nine O’Clock News presenter, but he did not arrive in time.
Sutcliffe was grateful for the BBC’s shambolic but effective policy of retaining experienced staff. The faces and voices assigned to break news in times of crisis were more or less interchangeable. Sutcliffe telephoned the News Editor, who was his direct deputy, and asked him to come into Television Centre because he was opening up Wood Norton.
The Home Office had explained that a Chinese nuclear strike on a civilian population centre in India could not be ruled out in the next twenty-four hours. It was hoped the conflict could be contained. But the Home Secretary thought Wood Norton should be made ready just in case Television Centre in Wood Lane and Bush House in the Aldwych had to be closed down.
The Wood Norton bunker was hewn into a hillside close to the manor house. It was built at the beginning of the Cold War in the 1950s, and while other Cold War facilities in Britain were mothballed or sold off the BBC retained its ultimate crisis headquarters. As broadcasting equipment modernized and BBC studios were re-equipped, so was Wood Norton. It had been installed with the latest BBC computer network and digital video and audio links. It had the ability to take satellite picture feeds from and conduct live interviews with anywhere in the world.
Sutcliffe’s core team was dropped off by coach at the manor house. Even though it was the middle of the night, there was still activity because the manor was hosting a special visit for fans of the radio serial The Archers, which was set in the area. The guests were breakfasting early to catch the Cotswold dawn. Sutcliffe led the team down a winding, woodland path. The massive metal door had already been opened by the caretaker, who had switched on the air conditioning and cleared away some of the mustiness. It reminded the older members of staff of the old Broadcasting House, drab but efficient, decorated with tough, institutional carpets and gloss grey paint on the walls.
The bunker was built on two floors, with a newsroom of about 180 square metres, off which ran two radio studios and one which had been converted to television. The camera backdrop was the BBC logo and the Union flag. Suggestions that there be a picture of the Houses of Parliament or another national symbol were rejected on the grounds that it might give a false impression. The BBC had to make it clear that it was not on the air from the banks of the River Thames. A second television studio had been set up in the newsroom itself, along the lines of the designs for News 24 and World at Television Centre.
On the lower level was a canteen, a dormitory which could sleep sixty staff, and at the far end a decontamination centre for those who might be affected by nuclear fallout. As they entered, each person was given an NBC suit, with syringes for the antidote to a chemical weapons attack, Fullers powder to decontaminate their own suit and a monitor to measure radio activity. For the first half-hour there was a cacophony of sound around the newsrooms as computer links were set up, the satellite desk was briefed, and the most senior correspondents in the field were told confidentially that they might suddenly be on air not to Television Centre, but to Wood Norton. The team had not been trained specifically for this situation, but once in, they settled down to their jobs as if they were back in London.
‘At 0700, we will begin running dummy programming alongside the output from London,’ Sutcliffe told the first bunker editorial meeting. ‘Television and radio will have one channel each, BBC 1 and Radio 4. We will package material here and until we actually take over the presenters will substitute reporters here for the lives they would do with correspondents in the field. If we suddenly have to stop transmissions from Television Centre, it is imperative that the switch is unflustered, calm and without panic. Those few seconds will do everything to guide the national mood. At some stage, if war does break out, the government may take over editorial control. It is written in the charter. It is the law. Don’t let’s have any complaints about it. We hope to get a relief team down within twenty-four hours. Until then, we’re on our own.’
The Situation Room, The White House, Washington, DC
Local time: 0100 Tuesday 8 May 2007
GMT: 0600 Tuesday 8 May 2007
‘Yes, Mr President, Jamie Song told me personally that they would see it through to the end, even if it meant the destruction of China,’ said Reece Overhalt on the secure line from the Embassy in Beijing. ‘He quoted from Mao about never being slaves again.’
‘Will President Tao take my call, for God’s sake?’
‘He’s not in control, sir. The military is running China for the foreseeable future. As a personal friend, Song has promised me unrestricted access to his office unless we actually get as far as breaking
off relations. If you look at it as the spectrum of Chinese politics, Song is at one end, our end, Leung is at the other, and President Tao is somewhere in the middle. Tao is at least in the bunker and I suspect he is keeping in touch with Song. So use me as the conduit and I’m pretty sure Song will get the message through.’
‘Chinese missile launch,’ Tom Bloodworth spoke in a precise, and relaxed manner, like an airline pilot addressing passengers about the flight path. ‘Three missiles from separate launch sites in Xining area.’
‘The Chinese have launched,’ said Hastings to Overhalt. ‘A base at Xining.’
‘That’s the site suspected of being used for India,’ said Overhalt. ‘The DF-21 site.’
‘Second tranche launch,’ said Bloodworth. ‘Kunming area in Yunnan. Waiting for precise identification.’
No one spoke. They knew Bloodworth would have the details within seconds.
‘Chuxiong, as I thought. Brigade headquarters from Unit 80303. DF-21s again. The Chinese have five ballistic missiles in the air. Xining launch is flying at low trajectory, 95 miles. Chuxiong, waiting for reading. Seem to be heading for 220 miles altitude.’
‘Mr President,’ said Overhalt, ‘I’ll stay on the line.’
‘Less than four minutes to first impact,’ said Bloodworth. ‘Target area appears to be Tezu on the far eastern tip. This is a pre-emptive strike. Tezu was the base for the Indian missile launch which we stopped a few minutes ago.’
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