by Jeff Edwards
It might not have been the death blow. Perhaps the missile hits had already done that job. But to Monk, it felt like the killing shot. The sight had all the brutal majesty of the stone that felled Goliath, or a stake pounded through the heart of some mythical monster.
For the first time since Poker’s death, Monk felt himself begin to smile.
“Okay, assholes,” he said quietly. “Now we’re even.”
CHAPTER 55
WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY; 02 DECEMBER
5:08 PM EST
The telephone on President Wainwright’s desk buzzed. He lifted the receiver.
“Mr. President, you have Premiere Xiao on the line. Your translator is patched in and standing by.”
“Thank you, Margie,” the president said. “Put me through.”
There was a brief silence, and then the light on the phone blinked from amber to green.
The president resisted the urge to clear his throat. He’d been mentally rehearsing this call for an hour, and he still hadn’t figured out how to say what needed to be said.
Everything was riding on this call. If it went well, maybe he could get China and India to back away from each other before this thing escalated out of control. If it didn’t go well…
He heard Xiao’s ancient voice, speaking in Mandarin. A couple of seconds later, the State Department translator repeated the Chinese leader’s words in English. “Good morning, President Wainright. I assume you are calling to apologize for the attack on our aircraft carrier.”
The president felt an instant surge of annoyance. They were three seconds into the call, and already the accusations were starting to come out. At least a half dozen responses popped into his head, none of which would help to calm the waters. He needed something firm, but not accusatory.
“The loss of the Liaoning was unfortunate,” he said. “And so was the attack on the USS Midway, which—you may recall—occurred two days before the incident with the Liaoning.”
Another pause before the State Department translator relayed Xiao’s words. “We made no move against your USS Midway until after you destroyed a satellite that was the sovereign property of the People’s Republic.”
The president’s annoyance ratcheted up another notch. So much for his hopes of a calm diplomatic dialogue. Fine. If Xiao wanted to play tit-for-tat, he’d discover that Dalton Wainright’s years in the Senate had given him certain skills in the shame-and-blame game. And then, maybe after they had bludgeoned each other senseless with blunt rhetoric for a while, they might actually get around to having a productive discussion.
“Premiere Xiao,” he said, “your people are apparently not giving you accurate information. I did not authorize the downing of your satellite until two days after your warplanes carried out an unprovoked attack against a pair of American aircraft on defensive patrol. Your planes shot first, killing one of our pilots, and destroying an F/A-18 jet. American naval forces in the region had done nothing to justify such an act of aggression.”
“You sided with our enemies—”
“We did not side with your enemies,” the president snapped. “I ordered USS Midway into the Bay of Bengal as a stabilizing force. I had hoped that our ships and aircraft could serve as a buffer between Chinese and Indian forces in the region. To give both of your countries a chance to cool off, and seek more peaceful solutions.”
The Premier’s translated words came a few seconds later. “Mr. President, I find it strange that you speak of peace. You have just destroyed every ship and aircraft in the Liaoning battle group. You did not damage our ships and planes. You eradicated them. You have struck directly at my country’s vital strategic assets. You have dealt a serious blow to China’s international military deterrence. Now, you wish to cast yourself as a peacemaker?”
Dalton felt his fingers tighten on the telephone receiver. He struggled to keep his voice even. “How this happened is no longer important,” he said. “What matters now, is what we do next. Do we continue down the road that we’re on? Or do we work together to find a solution to this crisis?”
“You cannot have it both ways,” Xiao said through the translator. “Your country’s John Adams spoke of holding the sword in one hand, and the olive branch in the other. But we both know, President Wainright, that you are no John Adams. And if we are to speak frankly, you are not even his lesser son, John Quincy Adams.”
The words did not just sting. They burned like acid. Because they were true.
If they had come from a different man, they might not have wounded so deeply. Coming from some middleweight bureaucrat, Dalton could have written them off as ill-spirited bluster. But Xiao Qishan was not a middleweight bureaucrat. He was old now, and in the waning days of his political career, but what an extraordinary career it had been.
Xiao had done more to drag China into the twenty-first century than any other man, living or dead. He had earned his place in history. He would be remembered as a great leader. A forward-thinking man of action and results.
Dalton Wainright had no illusions about his own place in history. He was not a great leader. In the future, when he was remembered at all, he would appear as a footnote to the careers of greater men. He knew that, and the knowledge was not pleasant.
Still, he struggled to keep the anger and hurt out of his voice. “I am no John Adams,” he said into the phone. “As you have so graciously pointed out, I am not even John Quincy Adams. I am a small man, sitting in a chair that is too large for me. But make no mistake, Premier Xiao, I am sitting in this chair. I don’t pretend to lead my country with wisdom and greatness, but I do lead it.”
His fingers were painfully tight around the handset of the phone. “For all of my shortcomings, I intend to discharge my duties. I will not accept threats to the security of my country. And I will not accept unprovoked attacks against allies of the United States of America.”
The translation of Premiere Xiao’s response came a few seconds later. “Are you suggesting that China is not an ally of the United States?”
“That is entirely up to you,” the president said. “But if you want to be treated as our ally, it’s about time that you begin to act like our ally.”
There was a long delay before Xiao’s words came back through the translator. “Is that the sound of your saber rattling, Mr. President? What are you suggesting? Are you hoping to intimidate me with veiled hints?”
Dalton’s fist came down on the polished timbers of the Resolute desk. “Goddamn it! I’m not hinting at anything. I’m not suggesting anything. I am outright saying it. The People’s Republic of China is dangerously close to being at war with the United States of America. Is that clear enough for you, Premier Xiao? War.”
He could hear his voice rising, assuming a strength and assurance that he had not felt since taking the oath of office. He waited for the translator to repeat his words in Mandarin, and then he continued before the Chinese leader could respond.
“There will be no more skirmishes,” the president said. “There will be no more diplomatic intimidation. If Chinese forces throw so much as a snowball toward any US person or asset, military or otherwise, we will answer with war. If you continue to press your attacks against the Republic of India, we stand by our allies, and we will bring the fight to your door. So you need to decide right now… Are you prepared to go to war against the United States?”
There was a long silence, and Dalton could hear his pulse hammering in his ears.
Then, Xiao’s aged voice spilled a torrent of Mandarin. “I will not be spoken to this way! You will not—”
President Wainright hung up the phone, slamming the receiver back into its cradle without waiting for the rest of the translation.
He took several deep, slow breaths. When he thought his heart rate was a bit closer to normal, he lifted the receiver and punched the number for the Situation Room Duty Officer.
“This is the president,” he said. “Round up the Secretary
of Defense, and get the National Military Command Center on line. I want the full battle staff in the Situation Room in half an hour.”
He lowered the receiver again, and then glanced at the nineteenth-century John and Thomas Seymour clock near the east door. A little over an hour left before India launched the attack against the Three Gorges Dam, and then this thing was really going to get ugly.
CHAPTER 56
GREAT HALL OF THE PEOPLE
TIANANMEN SQUARE
BEIJING, CHINA
WEDNESDAY; 03 DECEMBER
6:31 AM
TIME ZONE +8 ‘HOTEL’
First Vice Premier Lu Shi pushed his chair back from the conference table and got to his feet. “The loss of the Liaoning cannot go unpunished. We will crush them!”
Jia Bangguo raised a hand. “We will crush who, Comrade Lu? The Americans? Are you saying that we will crush the United States?”
“The Americans have gone too far,” Lu Shi said. “They have crippled a major strategic asset, and damaged the credibility of our naval forces. We must show the world that China does not kowtow to any foreign power. We do not back down from India. We do not back down from America. We do not back down from anyone. And any nation that challenges the People’s Republic does so at its own peril.”
Ma Yong, Party Secretary of the Leading Group for Financial and Economic Affairs, nodded toward Lu Shi. “Comrade Vice Premier, I know very little of military affairs, and I know even less about the intricacies of international strategic deterrence. But I do know that the United States and India collectively consume more than thirty-five percent of our manufactured trade goods. America is by-far our best customer, and India is also one of our largest trading partners. Have you considered what will happen to our national economy when a third of our export market suddenly evaporates?”
Lu glared at him. “Comrade Ma, you know that I have always considered you a wise counselor. But you are overestimating the resolve of your adversaries. America is an undisciplined consumer culture, and India is not much better. They cannot live without their toys. If the average American is forced to choose between his political convictions and his iPhone, he will take the iPhone every time.”
Ma Yong started to speak, but Lu Shi cut him off. “If you examine the true nature of your customers, you will see that there is no real danger of economic reprisals. There will certainly be a few economic sanctions—boycotts of Chinese trade goods, perhaps some short-lived tariffs—to demonstrate America’s financial independence and the strength of American character. But any such measures will be short in duration, and they will not significantly impact the flow of our manufactured goods. Because, regardless of their misguided pride, American resolve is weak, and their economy is inextricably tied to ours. If they attempt to cut financial ties with China, they will be cutting their own throats.”
“Perhaps you are right about that,” said Party Secretary Wei Jintao. “But you are talking about fighting two tigers at the same time.”
“Yes,” Lu Shi said. “But both tigers have more whiskers than teeth. These are not real tigers. They are make-believe tigers. They will growl and thrash their tails, but India is no match for us, and we will pull America’s fangs before they can do much in the way of biting.”
Ma Yong raised an eyebrow. “How do you propose to accomplish this? How exactly will we pull the fangs of the United States?”
“Unrestricted cyber warfare,” Lu Shi said. “We have been probing strategic elements of their critical infrastructure for years, and their cyber defenses are not capable of withstanding a determined assault. We will take down their national power grids. We will infect their computer networks with military-grade viruses, interrupt their cellular telephone communications, disrupt their air traffic control systems, and paralyze their commercial banking architecture. Within forty-eight hours, the average American won’t be able to buy a slice of bread or a liter of water. Bank accounts will be frozen. Planes will be grounded. Telephones will be useless. And the vaunted U.S. military will have its hands full quelling riots, and trying to keep the peace within its own borders.”
“An ambitious undertaking,” said Jia Bangguo. “But what if your plans for hobbling America are not as successful as you hope? What if you have overestimated the effectiveness of your proposed cyber attacks? Or if you have underestimated the resilience of the Americans?”
“I’m not wrong,” Lu Shi said.
“Possibly,” Jia said. “But before we commit ourselves to such drastic measures, we must consider all possibilities. So I ask again, what happens if you are wrong?”
Lu Shi’s voice rose to a shout. “I am NOT wrong!”
He turned hard eyes on every face gathered around the table. “Look at yourselves,” he sneered. “You are supposed to be leaders. You are supposed to be men. But you sit around whining like a gaggle of old women. Where is your heart? Where is your spirit?”
His gaze was an open challenge to every man at the long table. “This will happen,” he said. “It will happen. And when it does, I will remember everyone who opposed me. I have the complete backing of Premiere Xiao on this—”
“No!” said a voice from the far end of the room.
Every head turned toward the newcomer. The wizened form of Xiao Qishan stood in the doorway, flanked by two young and hard-looking PLA officers.
“You do not have my backing,” Xiao said. He began to hobble toward his chair.
“I don’t understand,” Lu said. “You were going to speak to the American president. You were going to—”
“I have spoken to the president,” Xiao said. The old leader was wheezing slightly, as though the act of walking to his chair had used up a significant fraction of his strength reserves. “I am no longer in favor or following your plan.”
The expression on Lu Shi’s face was one of utter shock. “But Comrade Premiere, you know that President Wainright is weak. We can do this. It is our time to do this.”
Xiao lowered himself carefully into his chair and shook his head. “Wainright is stronger than you think he is. In fact, I suspect that he’s stronger than he thinks he is.”
Xiao was wracked by a series of painful coughs, and when he spoke again, his voice was even feebler than usual. “We will not move against the Americans. I have already called the Indian President. We will cease all hostilities with India, and make immediate efforts to normalize diplomatic relations.”
He gave his Vice Premiere a long and patient look. “Comrade Lu, the time for anger is past. Now is the time for healing, and moving forward.”
All color drained from Lu Shi’s face. “You’re too weak for this job, old man. You no longer have the courage to make the hard decisions. It’s time for you to retire, and totter off somewhere to die quietly. You’re finished here.”
The old Premier gave him a thin smile. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You will be retiring today, my friend. Not me.”
He motioned to the pair of PLA officers, and they closed in rapidly on Lu Shi. Before Lu had time to react each man had a firm grip on one of his arms. They began to lead him firmly from the room.
“The Americans are weak!” Lu shouted over his shoulder. “The Indians are weak! We can crush them…”
“Perhaps,” Premier Xiao said softly. “But let’s see if we can live with them instead.”
CHAPTER 57
THREE GORGES DAM
SANDOUPING, CHINA
WEDNESDAY; 03 DECEMBER
7:29 AM
TIME ZONE +8 ‘HOTEL’
The reservoir extended nearly 700 kilometers upstream from the catchment wall, more than 39 billion cubic meters of water held in check by a concrete edifice that was half as tall as America’s landmark Empire State Building.
The wall’s internal reinforcements included 463,000 metric tons of steel, enough to fabricate 63 copies of the Eiffel Tower. The entire structure had been designed to withstand accidents, massive seasonal over-flooding, and earthquakes of 7.0 on the Richter s
cale. But the architects and engineers hadn’t known about the Next Generation Penetrator warhead that the Indians called Rudrasya khaḍgaḥ, the Sword of Shiva, and they certainly hadn’t known that regional turmoil might push their neighbors to actually utilize such a weapon.
The 370 on-site personnel knew nothing of the Indian plan to destroy the dam. The workers went about their daily routines, maintaining and operating the thirty-two house-sized hydroelectric turbines, and the power distribution plant in its adjacent underground facility.
The inhabitants of the Yangtze River basin were beginning to stir under the first rays of the morning sun. The cities of Wuhan, Nanjing, and Shanghai were gearing up for another busy day of buying, selling, making, and consuming.
Not one person within the footprint of pending destruction knew that India’s 48 hour deadline was only a minute away. Not one of the potential victims knew about the seven cruise missiles targeted on the dam, or the meticulous care with which the impact sites had been selected.
The final 60 seconds ticked away, one after another. Forty seconds. Twenty seconds. Ten.
And then, the deadline expired, and the appointed moment arrived.
No missiles fell from the sky. No warheads pierced the hardened concrete of the catchment wall. Downstream from the dam, the brown waters of the Yangtze River continued their slow rolling journey to the sea.
The cataclysm had been averted by a phone call, an act of reason, and the extension of a human hand in the age-old gesture of peace.
The hour of doom had come and gone. And 400 million Chinese citizens went about their morning business, unaware that death had brushed past them in the clear early sunlight.
EPILOGUE
FORT SAM HOUSTON NATIONAL CEMETERY
SAN ANTONIO, TX
TUESDAY; 11 FEBRUARY
1:45 PM EST
Kat Silva walked down the long row of grave markers until she came to a headstone that was visibly newer than most of the others. The marble was crisply white, and brilliantly clean, having only been exposed to the elements for a few weeks. The inscription read: SAMUEL HARLAND BOWIE, Capt. USN, followed by the dates of birth and death.