by Mark Henshaw
“Were you trying to embarrass the game masters?” Kyra asked.
“Ask him,” Cooke said, nodding her head at Burke.
“I might have suggested that tactic,” Jonathan said. “Hoping that we never lose a carrier is poor strategy.”
“Wait,” Kyra said. “The two of you—”
“First time we met,” Cooke confirmed. “Jon here was an observer, sitting in with the red team. At least he was supposed to just be observing.”
“Observing is boring,” Jonathan said. “I don’t handle boredom well.”
“I can believe that,” Kyra said. “What would it take to replace a lost carrier?”
“Five years and thirteen billion dollars, minimum,” Jonathan told her. “And a dead president liked by the Navy to name it after.”
“Cute,” Kyra replied. “So how are the Chinese going to kill a carrier?”
“Shashoujian,” Jonathan said, pronouncing each syllable slowly.
“What?” Both women asked the question at the same time.
“Shashoujian,” he said again. “The closest English translation is ‘assassin’s mace.’ In Chinese lore, it’s a small weapon that a soldier in ancient times could hide in his robes to mortally strike an enemy to end a fight before it started. It’s also an umbrella label for a series of PLA weapons projects, most of which haven’t produced anything. The technologies have been pretty exotic—laser guns, high-power microwaves, real Star Wars–type stuff. Some of it sounds more like propaganda than serious weapons research.”
Kyra studied Jonathan’s face. “You already have a link,” she realized.
Jonathan held out the State cable. “The people listed as being in Tian’s office are all members of the Nine Nine Eight State Security Project Leading Group, which is one of the groups overseeing Assassin’s Mace research. And there’s no record of any other committee with the same membership.”
“You memorize the membership rolls of foreign committees?” Cooke asked, slightly stunned.
“Would it impress you if I said yes?” he asked.
“Frighten more than impress,” the CIA director told him.
Kyra stared at him until a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gave away the game. “You ran a search on their names as a group,” she said, accusing.
Jonathan looked sideways at the young woman. “You have no sense of humor whatsoever.”
Gotcha. “When did the Chinese start the program?” she asked.
“Nineteen ninety-five. Taiwanese President Lee Teng-hui took some not-so-subtle shots in public at the Chinese government during a visit to the US that the Chinese opposed. Jiang Zemin took it badly and the PLA made some threatening moves,” Jonathan said. “Bill Clinton sent the Nimitz into the Taiwan Strait to calm everyone down. Jiang asked his military advisors what they could do about it and the short answer they gave him was ‘nothing.’ Jiang pounded the table and ordered the PLA to develop ‘an assassin’s mace to use against the Americans.’”
“Nice bit of history, but that doesn’t help me,” Cooke said.
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “I just gave you a logically defensible bit of strategic warning that the Chinese might have a carrier killer.”
“Strategic warning gets me into the Oval Office,” Cooke said. “Tactical warning keeps me from getting thrown out. Telling the president that the Chinese have a black program targeting our carriers isn’t exactly going to rock his world. But telling him exactly what it is will get his attention.”
“The curse of genius is that people begin to expect it on demand,” Jonathan deadpanned. “I can tell you what it’s not. There are five major classes of strategic weapons that can hit a carrier at sea. Submarines, ships, missiles, aircraft, and weapons of mass destruction. It won’t be a submarine or a ship because the PLA Navy is still buying last-generation Kilos and Sovremennys from the Russians. The Russians built the one carrier they do have, and the PLA Navy is still trying to figure out how to use the thing. It won’t be a weapon of mass destruction because the Chinese aren’t stupid enough to set off a nuke that close to their own coastline, and carriers are hardened against biological and chemical weapons. That leaves missiles and aircraft.”
“Missiles worked for you in that war game,” Kyra noted.
“They did,” Jonathan agreed. “The Dongfeng missile can hit a carrier from nine hundred miles away in theory, but the tracking systems are iffy. The Chinese bought Shkvals from the Russians a few years back. It’s a rocket-propelled torpedo that creates a layer of air bubbles from the nose and skin to eliminate drag and friction in the water. Top speed is around two hundred knots but the warhead is small to keep the speed up, maybe too small to do serious damage to a carrier. And the PLA would still also have to get close enough to use it. The maximum range is about maybe seven miles.”
“One of their subs snuck up on the Kitty Hawk about ten years ago,” Kyra observed.
“True. You know recent military history. Your usefulness just went up,” Jonathan said. Cooke raised an eyebrow. The Red Cell analyst had just offered one of his higher compliments.
“What about planes?” Cooke asked.
Jonathan stood and moved to the National Geographic map of the Chinese coast he had pinned to the wall. “The PLA has two air bases directly across the Strait and nine more in range. That’s a few hundred planes, but they’ve only got maybe a hundred fifty modern types, Su-27s and -30s.”
“I’d bet money the PLA wouldn’t mind sacrificing a few hundred old planes if it meant winning the Battle of the Taiwan Strait,” Kyra observed.
“Given the money that the PLA has spent on exotic technologies, I would hope that the Assassin’s Mace is something more interesting than just sending out cheap cannon fodder. But we can’t disprove anything yet,” Jonathan replied. He turned to Cooke. “If you want something more defensible than my impeccable logic, we’ll need to do some actual research.”
“Take your time,” Cooke said.
“Meaning?” Jonathan asked.
“Meaning you get twenty-four hours,” Cooke said. “Less if the Taiwanese refuse to give up Tian’s men and the PLA gets rowdy again.”
“Any word on how that Taiwanese SWAT team is doing?” Kyra asked.
“Two dead,” Cooke said. “They assumed room temperature this morning. The third officer is still listed as critical.” Another page came out of the manila folder, this one from the Office of Medical Services. “Whatever was in that canister torched his lungs. He’s suffering from”—she had to read the language directly from the page—“‘severe inhalation injury with persistent postburn refractory hypoxemia.’ That means he’s got second- and third-degree chemical burns of the trachea and lungs. Oxygen can’t diffuse across the lung membranes into his bloodstream. The ‘refractory’ part means nothing that they’re trying is helping him. He’ll be intubated and paralyzed with drugs to keep him from fighting the doctors, but it’s just a question of when he’s going to die, not if.”
“What about that dead American?” Kyra asked.
“FBI is still trying to run down which Lockheed division he worked for. The company isn’t moving very fast. They’re not excited about the idea that one of their employees was committing espionage.” She checked her watch. “Tian’s going to give his speech in an hour. Start pulling your research together and then come back and join me.”
THE GREAT HALL OF THE PEOPLE
BEIJING
Cooke’s television couldn’t do justice to the Great Hall of the People. The camera, owned and operated by China Central Television, pulled back to a wide-angle shot and panned left to right, showing the breadth of the massive room that held thousands of seats. The People’s National Congress had three thousand delegates, and the Great Hall held them all with room to spare. The cavernous amphitheater was an engineering feat. It had been constructed in a mere ten months all by “volunteers,” though Cooke wondered whether the Chinese hadn’t played fast and loose with that term. Either way, Cooke had no
doubt that the construction workers had not been paid, but their work was exquisite. The massive chamber was arranged like an orchestra hall, with two elevated semicircular tiers stretching the hall’s full width for seating above the ground levels. There were no support columns under either balcony to block the view of the vast stage. An expansive red banner framed the Politburo and other senior party members seated on the wide dais, with ten towering Chinese flags lining the wall behind them. It was an image meant to convey the full grandeur of the state and it managed to do that quite well, even for those like Cooke who knew enough about the state to keep their awe in check.
The acoustics of the hall were remarkable given its size, but the room was quiet. Cooke watched as Tian stood from his seat and approached the podium in front. He looked the room over, his face fixed in a look of tranquility.
“It makes the Senate Chamber on Capitol Hill look like a high school auditorium. It’s like having a stadium devoted to politics,” Kyra said.
“Whoever invented the saying that politics is a blood sport was Chinese,” Cooke replied.
The president of the People’s Republic of China looked down at his text and began to speak in measured tones. Elsewhere in the hall, translators wearing headphones and sitting in closed booths looked down at their own portfolios and began to translate in sync with Tian as his Mandarin cadence came through their headphones. Central China Television had dedicated its CCTV 4 English-only international channel to the speech nominally for the benefit of Westerners living in the country.
Tian offered the pleasantries befitting a head of state addressing his country, speaking with a practiced manner, calm, not so different from the official manner he had used with Dunne in the office at Zhongnanhai. Most men would have been nervous speaking even to just the few thousand in the Great Hall, and Tian knew the real audience was far larger . . . though he was, in truth, talking to an audience of one. There were televisions in the White House.
Tian finally broached the true subject with a grave look. “It is with the greatest sorrow and reluctance that I have convened this special session of the National Congress of the Communist Party of China. Four days ago, the government of Taiwan arrested eight citizens of the People’s Republic of China on charges of espionage. I have been assured that these arrests were carried out with the full knowledge and approval of President Liang himself. We have requested assurances of the health and safety of those arrested, but we have been refused even that courtesy.”
CIA DIRECTOR’S OFFICE
“This is not how I wanted to start my morning,” Cooke said. “It would be nice if the president could convince Liang to declare the whole lot of them persona non grata and send them all back to Beijing.”
“Not likely,” Jonathan said. “The ‘One China’ policy keeps us from saying that Tian’s boys were even trespassing, much less committing espionage.”
“Keeps us on a short leash,” Kyra observed. “I bet Tian likes it that way.”
“That’s what happens when you base your foreign policy on a lie,” Jonathan said. “And the longer we stick to it, the more painful it’s going to be when we finally have to back out.”
“It’s better to keep the peace so China and Taiwan can work it out through diplomacy,” Cooke said.
“You’re assuming that they can work it out through diplomacy,” Jonathan told her.
BEIJING
Mitchell took a deep breath and regretted it. The Beijing smog was worse than the floating filth in his native Los Angeles air, and that was an impressive feat. The dusky sky of his first night in Beijing three years ago had appeared threatening until one of the embassy officers told him that the dark clouds on the horizon had nothing to do with rain.
Mitchell cleared his mind and cursed his lack of mental discipline. Detecting surveillance while in a car required total focus, though tonight he needed less than usual. He’d chosen to make his run during Tian’s speech officially because he hoped at least some of the MSS would be watching it instead of working the street. Unofficially he just couldn’t stand to listen to the Chinese head of state. But the surveillance team two cars back had done everything but tap his bumper, relieving him of the need to think too hard about where any unwanted guests might be. But it was night and they had to stay close or lose Mitchell to the tide of traffic. Vehicular surveillance in a crowded city—and few had as many residents as Beijing—was the most difficult kind to perform. Traffic patterns were uncontrollable. Keeping a single car close to the target without being seen was no small task, and moving other cars along parallel side streets was more complicated still.
“Almost there,” the driver, another case officer, said.
“Take the corner,” Mitchell said.
Mitchell’s driver pulled the car into the far right lane. He turned the corner and stopped short, forcing the cars behind to brake hard. Mitchell opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, then turned and said something meaningless to his driver, as though to thank him for the ride. The driver nodded, then pulled out into traffic—he would just drive home—and the chief of station walked in the opposite direction.
Vehicular surveillance was hard enough, but making the sudden shift from vehicle to foot pursuit was agony. The MSS officers could stay on the car, but there was no way the Chinese could have had prepositioned anyone to cover Mitchell’s dismount. The only men who could follow him would have to come from the cars, so their numbers would be limited. Mitchell had identified only two cars, the first of which ignored the light, turned the corner at the first available moment, and accelerated as much as traffic would allow.
That left the second. If there were other cars on the side streets, they could add to the count—maybe even providing enough manpower to establish a small surveillance bubble around him, given a minute or two. He refused to give it to them. The ground was going to open up and swallow Carl Mitchell whole before they would get the chance.
THE GREAT HALL OF THE PEOPLE
BEIJING
“Our requests for the prisoners’ release have gone unanswered. Taiwan’s government has refused even to allow our representatives to visit and assess whether our accused citizens are being well treated and have adequate legal representation. The charges are without merit, the arrests were without cause, the citizens detained are without guilt. Liang must personally account for the well-being and safe return of every one of our citizens.” Tian had been talking for two minutes and no one had made a sound. He wasn’t looking at the teleprompter or the papers on the podium. The president of the People’s Republic of China was orating from memory now.
“The members of the Politburo Standing Committee have discussed these recent events at length. Their resolution in the face of unwarranted and illegal political persecution of our citizens is unanimous and firm. There is no division of opinion among us or among the citizens of this great nation on this matter. It is a dangerous step that undermines cross-Strait relations for Liang to refuse us access to our people.”
Tian struck the podium with his open palm. “The arrest of innocent citizens of our nation was a fraud, a first step toward separation, a first step toward secession, a first step toward independence!”
CIA DIRECTOR’S OFFICE
“He just went off script,” Cooke said.
“Yes, he did,” Jonathan agreed. He scrubbed through the text Dunne had provided and finally tossed the transcript back onto the desk. “It’s not in the speech. He’s making this up.”
“Or Tian left it out of our copy on purpose,” Kyra said.
Cooke let out a racial slur that would have cost her a Senate confirmation.
BEIJING
Catch me if you can. Mitchell stood at the corner and looked up the street at the oncoming traffic. He had a free excuse to watch the second car that he’d culled from the river of automobiles and he used it. Two men crawled out as quickly as they could and started toward him. They were more than half a block away.
Only two. I can deal wit
h two. Especially at night. The night changed everything. The playing field was now skewed in Mitchell’s favor. The street was a riptide of bodies pushing against the two men—Beijing’s twelve million citizens working against their own government for a few minutes. It would buy Mitchell time, at least a bare few seconds at the right moment when the Chinese security services would have no eyes on him. That would be enough, but if the subways were on schedule tonight, he would earn far more time than that.
The light changed and Mitchell merged with the mob of citizens who began to march across the broad Jiaodaokou Dongdajie avenue. He walked no faster than the crowd. The two MSS officers didn’t reach the corner before the light changed again and Mitchell was on the other side of the street with a wall of moving cars between. The two men tried to step into the street, but a near miss with a car that didn’t bother to slow down changed their minds.
Shaking surveillance was not difficult but rarely done, because it would infuriate the watchers and earn retribution later. The skillful part was to make the watchers think that either bad luck or their own incompetence was to blame. The two men on the other side of the street couldn’t prove that Mitchell even knew they were there. All the chief of station had done was get out of a car and cross the street. Like a master musician, it was all in the timing.
The Beixinqiao subway station entrance was behind him. Mitchell didn’t stop to pay the fare. His ticket was in his pocket, courtesy of another of his officers who had “decided” to take a midday walk around the city. The two MSS officers wouldn’t bother with tickets, but Mitchell’s prepaid voucher kept the race on even terms. He was down the stairs and approaching the platform when the two finally crossed the street at a dead run. The trains were on time—something in which Communist governments always took pride—and Mitchell was aboard by the time his pursuers reached the top of the stairwell. They pushed their way down the stairs, knocking aside any number of commuters in their rush, and they arrived at the platform just in time to watch the train pull away. They would likely call their superiors to request coverage of all the stations down the line where Mitchell might exit, but the possible number of stops was large, and getting men into position at the closer ones before the train hit them in sequence would be impossible.