Violent Peace: The War With China: Aftermath of Armageddon

by David Poyer

  The Russian. He was Moscow’s representative? She’d met him once before, in a café in Zurich, where he’d introduced himself as Dick. He was tall, even seated, and his hair shone so blond it was nearly white. He looked to be about her age, or a little older. His blue suit bore the blue-white-and-red pin of the Federation on one lapel.

  His real name, she knew now—of course she’d researched him, after Zurich—was Rostislav Pyzhianov. He’d occupied much the same position she did, but in the Russian ministry of defense. These days, apparently, he was the special representative of the president of the Russian Federation on central Asian issues, and apparently, for China now as well.

  They nodded warily over the place settings. “Am I still calling you ‘Dick’?” she asked.

  “Let’s make it Rostek. Good to meet you again, Blair.”

  “I wish I could say the same. Is it true you have Zhang Zurong in custody?”

  Pyzhianov smiled. “Not ‘in custody.’ He’s visiting us. As a friend. Yes.”

  “Are you going to recognize his government?”

  He shrugged. “We have for many years. Will you give us a reason to stop?”

  “I see you’re not sitting with our Allied delegation. Despite wanting to be treated like an ally.”

  “Russia’s true interests may lie in other areas,” he agreed gravely.

  “Last time we met, your ‘interest’ was two trillion dollars.”

  Pyzhianov shrugged. “It’s actually closer to three. But that’s what is owed us. Our country made major investments in China during the war. Extended significant credits. If its repayment can’t be guaranteed, then we must seek restitution in some other form.”

  “What ‘form’ might that be?”

  But he waved the question off, and applied himself to a dripping slab of the roast pork. And not too much later, people began getting up, heading to the long polished table, surrounded by too-soft armchairs, where the last three sessions of wrangling, lengthy statements, protestations of innocence, and veiled threats had been exchanged.

  Her hip hurt already, and the session hadn’t even started. Maybe, she thought grimly, the diplomats really did earn all their little luxuries, one way or another …

  * * *

  ONCE again the formerly warring powers faced each other across the ancient lacquered surface, as if across a battlefield. Yeah, which this in fact was. Negotiation was wearying, sometimes boring, sometimes infuriating; but it was as real as any military engagement, and the results, good or bad, would be as long-lasting.

  General Pei. Marshal Chagatai. Admiral Lin. And the guy who in some ways seemed the least in control: the premier, Chen. Over the course of the days, primed and instructed by Salyers, Blair had noted who was inclined to bluster, who refused to budge, who could be reasoned with, who seemed to lead and who to follow. As, no doubt, they’d been doing with the American delegation.

  She couldn’t help wondering where she ranked on that scale.

  A technician, one of the men who’d scanned the room for bugs that morning, pushed a small device to the head of the table. One of Archipelago’s instantaneous digital translators. Ayala sat to the side, looking displaced but hopeful. Maybe he thought the device would fail.

  “Good morning. The first topic for discussion today,” Yangerhans opened, “is the shape and magnitude of China’s postwar armed forces. We’ll treat residual nuclear forces first, based on the disclosures General Pei submitted to our staff on our arrival.

  “I’ll start by reminding everyone that these are preliminary discussions, to place options before the heads of state conference, now scheduled in Singapore in two weeks. Nothing will be set in stone here. Meanwhile, the armistice holds.”

  Immediately, Chen leaned forward to tap the table. “If we are to discuss China’s nuclear capabilities, we must also consider those of the United States. If our armaments are to be reduced, it is only fair it be matched. A mutual reduction.”

  “Who exactly lost this fuckin’ war?” Ammermann muttered, beside her. But not so loudly the Chinese couldn’t pretend not to have heard.

  “China is not the only possible opponent the United States faces,” General Naar said. The Air Force officer had been silent for most of the diplomatic discussion but seemed ready to take point now. “We have worldwide responsibilities, from defending our allies in eastern Europe, to the Horn of Africa, to resuming antipirate and humanitarian activities throughout the Pacific. China no longer has a navy, or really an air force. And for at least the foreseeable future, you won’t need one.”

  “Look at it as an advantage,” Ammermann put in. “Y’all can concentrate on reconstruction. Which we are not going to fund.”

  Chen said, “Let us leave that for the moment, and address our requirements. China must remain a P5 state. A nuclear weapons state. This is not a point for negotiation. It may be possible to reduce the number of warheads—”

  “We’ve already reduced the number of your warheads.” Ammermann grinned. “Want to go for a second round on that?”

  “Adam.” Yangerhans’s tone held a mild reproach. “Let’s keep it civil. The premier has a point he wants to make. And we ought to hear it.”

  “But what about this,” Naar put in. “China promised no first use. Since 1964. Not to be the first to use nuclear weapons at any time, or under any circumstances. That was your policy when the war started. Yet you struck first, at the Roosevelt battle group. An unprovoked attack. You say you need a residual capability. I have to ask—why should we trust you with one again?”

  Chen blotted his forehead with a sparkling white handkerchief. “That was President Zhang’s decision,” he muttered. “That was not decided by us. That was not a Party decision.”

  “Zhang was the Party chairman,” Blair pointed out. “How can you say that wasn’t the Party’s doing?”

  The premier waggled his head like a cornered bull. He said stubbornly, “Asia is a field of highly complex security dynamics. We must be able to defend ourselves. Against India. Japan. Against—” He cut his gaze sideways, and Blair caught its direction—toward Pyzhianov. “Against other enemies, as well,” he finished, rather lamely.

  Admiral Lin lifted an eyebrow. “Unless the United States is willing to defend us? Extend the nuclear umbrella to China?”

  Ammermann snorted, and Blair glanced at him. “Not a chance,” he muttered. So that was the White House turning thumbs-down.

  Yangerhans made a note on his pad, long horsey face imperturbable, as one of the aides passed out single sheets. English at the top of the page, a Chinese translation beneath. “General Naar has formulated a compromise. A suggestion, for discussion. You’ve disclosed a hundred and eighty remaining operational warheads. We propose you renounce any first-strike capability once more. Only this time, not just in words, but in force structure.

  “That means dismantling and rendering unusable any remaining ICBMs, specifically any and all MIRVed missiles, whether siloed or road-transportable. Discontinue development and testing of any hypersonic or boost-glide weapons. And do not replace the ballistic missile submarines the US and Indian navies destroyed in the opening days of the war.”

  The faces opposite had gone rigid. After a few seconds, Chen said tightly, “What then do we retain?”

  Yangerhans said, “China will remain a P5 + 1 power. You simply return to the same minimal-deterrence posture you maintained before Premier Zhang assumed the leadership.

  “In outline: A central strategic force of no more than one hundred single-warhead IRBMs, limited in range to five thousand kilometers, for regional deterrence missions. Add to that fifty gravity bombs, and thirty warheads in reserve. This matches India’s current posture and exceeds those of Pakistan and Japan.”

  Naar added, “Minister? Let me point out, this does not require you to dismantle any warheads you admitted to having. It assures you a credible, survivable, and deliverable second-strike capability against any regional threat. You may deploy any form or quanti
ty of antimissile defense you wish. Such a limitation to be in effect for a term of twenty years.”

  The Chinese sat as immobile and expressionless as the terra-cotta warriors of Emperor Qin. Finally General Pei murmured, “This is not acceptable. Not for a great power like China.”

  Ammermann stirred in his chair. “Premier Chen. You present yourself as speaking for the provisional government. I think that’s a fair offer. What do you think? Have we finally got a deal here?”

  Chen slipped his eyeglasses off and fiddled with them. Rubbed the lenses with a scrap of tissue from his pocket. He started to speak, then glanced at Marshal Chagatai. He carefully fitted his glasses back on, and muttered, at last, “No. We do not agree.”

  “Obviously this requires further consideration.” Yangerhans nodded, laying the sheet aside. “But I will warn you, there are elements in Washington who want China stripped of all nuclear capabilities whatsoever. Bear in mind, it would be far better if we could submit this to the heads of state as acceptable to China’s provisional government. Much better for the stability, and continued existence, of that government, to be seen as party to a compromise, rather than having an agreement imposed on it by victors. I hope you see my point.”

  Again, none of the Chinese reacted.

  Yangerhans sighed, and turned a page in his briefing book. “Then, we proceed to conventional forces. Your navy and air force have already been reduced to acceptable levels for regional self-defense. So the remaining question is that of land forces.” He glanced at his watch. “But first, let’s take a short break.”

  * * *

  BLAIR visited the ladies’ room, a tiny cubicle far down a shadowed, musty corridor. She doubted the empress dowager had ever used this room, but the toilets might have dated from around her era. The massive porcelain thrones, with cisterns high above eye level, were trademarked with the logos of long-vanished English companies.

  She washed her hands, checked her mascara, and brushed her hair. Sighed, looking at herself in the mirror. No, the years were not kind to women, and unlike men, they were judged far more on their appearances, even now.

  Well, at least, aside from her hip and ear, she still had all her moving parts. She could still ride, though she hardly had time anymore. Maybe when she got back to Maryland, she’d take a weekend off.

  But first they had to nail down a peace. Or what might pass for one for a few years. She suspected no one back at that table expected it to last forever. Even temporarily humbled, China was too massive, too populous, her people too industrious, to fade into obscurity.

  But all the lives and treasure had to have bought the Allies something.

  * * *

  THE conventional-force talks went no better. Their hosts seemed to have lost interest in the discussions. They sat immobile, barely reacting except for brief denials or terse rejections, as Yangerhans sketched possible force structures.

  Most of his proposals involved large reductions in the land and internal security forces. “You’ve mobilized far more men and women than you need for homeland defense,” the mission leader pointed out. “You’ll need that labor for postwar reconstruction. If you have to keep them on the payroll, transfer them to reserves, at least. Let them return home, with the opportunity to begin a peaceful and productive life. Start businesses. Look for other careers, pursue education. It might be possible for us to underwrite some of those costs, since they don’t directly strengthen your armed forces.”

  Blair looked around for the senator—he’d be the one to introduce any aid packages on the Hill—but he still hadn’t rejoined them after the break. Should she worry? Bankey Talmadge was an old man, and not in the best of health. What if he just hadn’t woken up? She crooked a finger at Chaldroniere, and after a whispered exchange sent the DS agent to check on the senator.

  When she tuned back to the discussion, Yangerhans was proposing the disbanding of all internal forces and domestic surveillance operations of the Ministry of State Security. The infamous Black Battalions had crushed dissent in Hong Kong, Taiwan, Tibet, and Xinjiang. Even before the war, they’d run a massive gulag system—the internment camps—rivaling that of the USSR at its most ruthless, and a system of digital surveillance and online “social credit” programs that made George Orwell’s dystopia in 1984 look laid-back and genial. When he finished there was silence once more around the table.

  At last Marshal Chagatai held up a palm. He spoke in Chinese, but the digital translator seemed to be mimicking his gravelly tones. “This is not acceptable. Stability forces are internal matters. Not subject to negotiation. We are facing serious uprisings in the far west and south. For the same reason, it is impossible to close the reeducation camps. We are of course repatriating all prisoners of war, as rapidly as the conditions of our transport system allow. In any case, what will remain are not concentration camps, as you seem to believe. They are only for de-extremization and reeducation. The residents are happy, well fed, and gaining advantageous new skills.”

  Blair exchanged a glance with Shira; the State rep, too, seemed to find it difficult to keep a straight face. Salyers said mildly, “Nevertheless, Marshal, they must be closed. It is possible your far west may become independent. That hinges on the decisions of the heads of state meeting.”

  The marshal huffed. “Impossible! Xinjiang is historically Chinese.”

  “Only since 1949.”

  Chagatai all but rolled his eyes. “You confuse the date of the People’s Republic with the history of China. The Western Region has been Chinese since the days of the Han Dynasty. Over two thousand years. It is Chinese. Thoroughly Chinese.”

  “You forget the Uighur Khanate,” Salyers said, but with a smile.

  Chen smiled back at her, but much less pleasantly. “You know some of our history. But not all. The Tang withdrawal was only temporary. As the marshal says, it will remain Chinese.”

  “If it’s so damn Chinese, why is it in armed revolt?” Blair asked him. Ammermann stifled a chuckle; Provanzano smiled silkily.

  “The province is restive, that is true. But those who resist are terrorists. Bandits. Enemies of all law-abiding people.” Chen eyed Provanzano balefully. “And as you know, they are being encouraged by your American intelligence. Sit there, Anthony, and tell me you have not supplied and armed them, from the beginning.”

  “Not at all true,” Provanzano said evenly. “This is an indigenous uprising, caused solely by your oppression. They only want their liberty. If they had it, perhaps they would not be so determined to leave.”

  Blair reached for the water carafe. The atmosphere had definitely chilled today, in contrast to the collegial tone of the opening sessions. Obviously the Chinese were going to stonewall any attempt to disarm them, or weaken their iron grip on their minorities. Both would be stumbling blocks to any peace agreement.

  And the Allies’ ability to impose change was limited. China could not be physically occupied and forcibly disarmed, as Japan, Germany, and Iraq had been. But the victors couldn’t leave a hardened, resentful Party in charge either. Or the war would have been fought for nothing.

  They were sitting in silence when there was a commotion outside the doors. A shout from the guards, then countermanded orders. She twisted in her seat to look.

  Talmadge lumbered in, bulling his way across the hall. Her heart sank. Just from his uneven, lurching gait, she judged he was half seas under. His noon scotch, followed, no doubt, by a few chasers. She looked away as the senator lunged into his overstuffed chair, nearly upsetting it. The Chinese looked away pointedly.

  “Sorry, bit late,” Talmadge mumbled. He skated a paper fluttering across the table toward Chen. “Here’s what I got. See what y’all think.”

  The premier looked astonished, then offended, but after a moment picked it up. Gingerly, with the tips of his fingers, as if it were a shred of carrion. After a short study he looked up, frowning. “What is this, Senator?”

  “An outline of your new government,” Talmadge rumbled. �
��Based it on Sun Yat-Sen’s 1912 constitution. You still honor Sun, right? Strong central government. Weak federal system. Five branches: legislative, executive, judicial, civil service, and inspector general. Headed by a president. Oh, and I wrote up a bill of rights. Just to backstop everything.”

  The paper trembled in Chen’s hands. “You wrote this up? Senator?”

  “No, you did. Minister.” Talmadge lifted one haunch slightly, then settled back with a sigh. “It’s the Chen constitution. Laid out with the advice of the senior sitting member of the United States Senate, though. You’ll need to call a convention to ratify it. But it’ll give you a framework to start out with.”

  Blair closed her eyes, breathless, unsure yet whether this was low comedy or the birth of a new China. The four men opposite gazed on stonefaced. Finally the premier murmured, gaze fixed on the paper again, “And where is the Party’s role in this … Chen constitution?”

  “The Communist Party leads the people in the transition to democracy. Over a five-year implementation period. After that, it competes with the others on a level field. Don’t worry, everyone still has offices and retirements. Ever’body gets taken care of. Nobody left out in the cold.” Talmadge reached for the water carafe, and barely managed to fill his glass without knocking it over. Muttering an aside to Blair, “I did tell you, Missy, constitutional law, Georgetown? Yeah, I thought so.”

  Heads together, the Chinese studied the document. Finally General Pei murmured, “And … prosecution? For war crimes? Senior officials must be protected. Guaranteed.”

  Talmadge waved fat fingers. “Well, to be frank, that’s up to the heads of state. But committin’ to democracy will make y’all look a hell of a lot better to ’em, that’s for damn sure.”

  Admiral Lin murmured, “This will require time to study.”