The Mandarin Code

by Steve Lewis

It was working. The People’s Daily had become almost as strident as the Global Times, renowned for its anti-Western tirades. Chinese nationalist spirit was stirring. Anti-US and Japan sentiment was bubbling nicely.

  Online attacks against the US President had already been trending on China’s own version of Twitter, Weibo. And now Earle Jackson had made a fatal error.

  Jiang could not believe that Jackson had declared Japan the ‘rightful owner’ of the disputed islands. It was likely that this was a slip of the tongue because it was not the official position of the United States. But words were missiles in diplomacy and Jiang had already ordered CCTV’s general channel to run that grab on a continuous loop. It would be used to whip up public outrage.

  Just as astoundingly, Jackson had telegraphed his next move. A worthy general did not do that. Jiang assumed the B-52s would make their pass over the islands at night. That gave him all day to urge his comrades into action.

  All of China was watching. After today all of the world would be watching. He picked up the red phone. A female voice answered within two rings.

  ‘I need to see the President. This morning. For at least fifteen minutes.’

  Three hours later, Jiang was led into the Hall of the Purple Light within the Zhongnanhai complex – the real seat of Chinese power. As always he marvelled at the stately architecture, and relished the rich history of the compound that had hosted many communist leaders since Mao.

  Here, the past intersected with the future. An official led him into a splendid room of Qing dynasty furnishings. Their beauty papered over a dark stain on Chinese history. It was the last remnant of the Qing who fought and lost the 1894 Sino—Japanese war, signing the unequal Treaty of Shimonoseki that ceded control of Taiwan to the Japanese. That had led to the annexation of the Diaoyu Islands.

  The Middle Kingdom must never allow itself to be pushed around by inferior countries.

  President Meng was concluding a meeting with several senior financial advisers, and Jiang waited patiently before being ushered into his suite.

  ‘Mr President, you have seen for yourself that the United States is determined to try to stifle our legitimate territorial claim over the Diaoyu Islands. Now they threaten to send war planes into our airspace.

  ‘Nothing we have done comes close to such provocative action. We cannot back down. We cannot display weakness. Our people need to see that our resolve is firm.’

  The President clasped his hands. He had trained Jiang well, but the next steps were the most dangerous of all.

  ‘Comrade Jiang, I know that you are anxious to see China rise, as I am. But we must not overreach. We cannot be seen to be the aggressors. Our response must be proportional to the affront.’

  Jiang signalled to an assistant, standing by the doorway, to join them. He placed two folders on the table.

  ‘Mr President, I have a proposal for you to consider.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Western Pacific Ocean

  Emanuel ‘Manny’ Sanchez pushed forward on the throttle and felt the surge of power as eight Pratt & Whitney TF33 engines spat into action.

  Four hundred and fifty thousand pounds of aviation muscle lumbered down the runway on the mission signed off by President Jackson just two nights earlier. It was time to demonstrate support for one of the United States’ most trusted friends.

  It was late February and the easterlies were prevailing over the Pacific island of Guam, one of America’s largest non-mainland military bases. Three hours to the north, a small outcrop of rocky islands had become the touchstone in an increasingly fraught political dance.

  The US and China were at each other’s throats, neither willing to cede ground as the battle between capitalism and communism reached fever pitch for the first time since the demise of the Soviet Union. A visit to Beijing by the former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger had failed to pacify the Chinese who believed they – not the Japanese – had a rightful claim to these resource-rich grounds. Several well-credentialled analysts in Washington were suggesting a new Cold War might be developing.

  Sanchez was wearing his ‘sanitised’ flight suit, the one with the badges of his beloved 69th Bomb Squadron hidden away, a precaution against identification if he was shot down. Two and a half years ago, Sanchez had taken a break from flying to complete his staff tour at COMTHIRDFLT in San Diego, responding to his wife’s request following the birth of their son, Emanuel Jnr. But the role of Air Training Exchange Officer had failed to quench his need for high-stakes flying action. He’d sought a return transfer to the 69th within a year.

  Now, back in the B-52, he felt for the reassuring grip of his 9 millimetre, and turned to the sky.

  It was pushing 2200 hours and the B-52 would climb east out of Andersen Air Force Base before turning north-west. Major Sanchez felt every crack in the 11,200-foot runway as the BUFF cranked towards 155 knots.

  ‘Tommy. You ready, brother? Black hole ahead.’ Manny Sanchez spoke with the larrikin ease of an experienced pilot who lived by the motto: Work Hard, Play Harder. He and his co-pilot, Tom Danville, had flown many times out of Andersen but those first few moments when the island’s visual markers gave way to the black of the Pacific could still be disorienting.

  ‘Yeah, Manny. Let’s do this.’

  The two pilots were joined in the cramped cockpit by Sam Meserve, the E-Dub. The electronic warfare officer was the butt of many jokes as the crew used humour to alleviate the tension of long flights to dangerous places. Meserve served another useful purpose – he was the in-house cook.

  Tonight’s mission was scheduled for just under seven hours. Two B-52 bombers would fly, unarmed, to the disputed islands where they would engage in a simulated weapons drop over the largest, Uotsuri Jima. They would then return to Guam, arriving at a scheduled 0500.

  Sanchez listened as radio navigator Jim McCowan chatted with the step desk, taking in the latest weather forecast. Fine and light winds. The radio crackled as air-traffic control issued final instructions. ‘ICER One Two. Climb and maintain nine block 10,000.’

  Sanchez lifted the proud veteran of the skies from the tarmac, muttering a silent prayer as a single bead of sweat tracked down his back.

  Huan Tun-jen impatiently paced the bridge of the Changchun. The newly minted ship of the People’s Liberation Army Navy should have been further out in the East China Sea by now.

  But the Luyang Class II Type 052C destroyer, commissioned just a month earlier, had been hampered by problems with its Ukrainian-made gas turbines. The engines should have been propelling the Changchun along at nearly 30 knots.

  Instead, it was cruising at a modest 22. Huan was battling to contain his frustration. This mission was critical.

  Twelve hours earlier, Ding Haichun, the political commissar of the PLAN’s East China Sea Fleet, had rung with strict instructions. The Changchun would sail from its base at Zhoushan City where mechanics had been working around the clock. The engines should have been fixed. But time had run out and Huan was commander of a vessel whose speed was no better than China’s outdated cruisers.

  Not that he was anticipating conflict on the ocean itself. This mission would rely on the vessel’s Active Phased Array Radar system and its ability to track enemy targets to a distance of 150 kilometres.

  Manny Sanchez scanned his instrument panel, the steam gauges that had barely changed since the late ’50s. He liked to explain to novices that BUFF, the affectionate name used by B-52 crews, stood for Big Ugly Fat Fucker, laughing at the comic crudity of an airframe that would be ninety-four years old at its scheduled retirement in 2046.

  A flip-down computer screen gave him a read-out on their position, the GPS-aided moving map offering a picture of the globe. It also told him the last known positions of Chinese airframes, something he sensed would come in handy.

  The FENCE check was perfect. The BUFF was flying at M.84, just over 600 mph. They were at FL28, the legal limit for an airframe that is non-reduced vertical separation minimum (RVSM) cer
tified.

  They were two hours out of Guam. Flying conditions were good and Sanchez would shortly declare ‘due regard’ with Tokyo Centre, allowing the plane to climb to 34,000 feet.

  They would maintain contact with Tokyo. Up to a point.

  Flying ‘due regard’ meant that Sanchez and his crew, and the other B-52 flying one mile behind and one thousand feet above, could do whatever was necessary to accomplish the mission.

  The lead radar technician on the Changchun picked up the first blips of the American planes at 0032. He jotted down their position before relaying the information up the chain of command.

  Huan was told three minutes later. The aircraft were approaching the largest of the Diaoyu Islands and the radar nav had placed them at 25°46´N 123°31´E.

  Despite the public declaration by President Jackson, Huan was still mildly surprised by America’s blatant disregard for Chinese sovereignty. The Changchun was positioned fifty kilometres west of the Diaoyus, now sailing at 19 knots. The commander knew his instructions to the letter.

  He checked his watch. In fifteen minutes, he would issue the first warning. Then he would log the position of the two enemy planes with the mainland.

  ‘Sam, I’m looking forward to that chicken.’

  Manny Sanchez appreciated good food and he liked to give the E-Dub a lift when he could. Staying positive was good for morale, but he knew the food would have to wait until the B-52 was heading home to Guam.

  The two bombers were closing on the Senkaku Islands, their mission running smooth as silk. In a quarter-hour, they would begin the simulated mission over Uotsuri Jima. Thirty minutes of training exercises, then the return to Andersen. The mood was quiet and serious.

  They were flying FL34, the thinner air allowing the planes to nudge up to M.88. Sanchez wanted to slow the BUFF in a few minutes, though, once they began their bombing exercises.

  Just then, the E-Dub patched in. ‘We’ve got early warning radar, Manny. Chinese.’

  Sanchez wasn’t surprised and he wasn’t fazed.

  The BUFF would maintain its position despite China’s attempt to knock them off course. He had his orders. They weren’t carrying munitions, they were in international airspace, the communists could go to hell.

  Huan took the call from the mainland at 0049. The aircraft had ignored the early warning signals, as he’d expected. Such arrogance.

  He placed the Changchun on a full war footing and waited for further instructions on the red phone.

  Just over 140 miles away, two of China’s fourth-generation fighter jets, Shenyang J-11s, raced down the Ningbo runway. It would take them just fourteen minutes to intercept the enemy, to show the Americans that the world’s most populous nation would no longer be pushed around by an arrogant imperial power.

  ‘Motherfuckers!’ Sanchez couldn’t believe the Chinese fighter would make such a reckless move.

  The two jets had appeared on the radar eight minutes ago, maintaining a discreet distance on either side of his plane, and out of visual sight. But he had been warned about Chinese aerial cowboys and one of the jets had broken formation to fly across the BUFF’s airzone.

  It was pure intimidation. Dangerous and irresponsible.

  ‘He’s flashing his wings.’ Sanchez radioed through to the B-52 accompanying him, barking instructions to abort the training mission.

  It was time to apply the speed brake, taking the BUFF over the falls. He dropped power and pushed the yoke forward. He applied the brake and buckled in for the rollercoaster ride that would take them almost into negative Gs.

  The BUFF would descend 4000 feet in a blink. And then?

  Sanchez called back to Andersen. He was pulling out of the mission. He’d follow instructions and fly an oval-shaped racetrack for a few minutes, then turn for the safety of home.

  He wouldn’t risk a dogfight with an enemy who was clearly dosed.

  ‘Time to leave. Tommy, let’s bring this plane around. Nice and slow.’

  Flying thirty thousand feet above the East China Sea, being pursued by a reckless daredevil from the PLA Air Force – that really wasn’t in the training manual.

  Manny Sanchez briefly closed his eyes, conjuring up an image of a laughing, trusting, loving three-year-old boy. Then, for the first time in a long while, the pilot reached for the cross around his neck and offered a silent prayer to the heavens.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Canberra

  Martin Toohey massaged his temples, trying to fend off the stress that was building in this early hour.

  Christ! Is this how wars start?

  For once, the screaming headline on news.com.au matched the gravity of the story, and Martin Toohey’s apprehension grew with every word.

  SECONDS FROM WAR: US, CHINA IN MID-AIR STOUSH

  China and the United States came within moments of disaster last night in a high-stakes game of brinkmanship over the disputed Senkaku Islands.

  Chinese warplanes confronted two unarmed B-52 bombers, a move that military experts said put the two powers one mistake from war.

  Pentagon officials claim a ‘reckless’ act by one of the Chinese fighter planes forced the B-52 pilot to take emergency evasive action to avoid collision.

  The Prime Minister flicked through the daily briefings on his desk. It was 6.20am and the leader’s office was pulsing with the energy of forty staff.

  In his office next door, George Papadakis looked more worry-worn than usual as he leafed through the same high-level briefings that had been prepared by the Office of National Assessments. They offered ominous warnings that the US–China standoff could be the flashpoint for a regional confrontation.

  He glanced up at a monitor on his office wall to note that Toohey had arrived and was hard at work. Papadakis had a special camera trained on the PM’s desk. Not even the Australian Federal Police were given access to it. He bundled up his papers, grabbed his coffee mug and walked the short distance to greet his friend.

  ‘One mistake now and this will go completely pear-shaped,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, it isn’t good.’ Toohey still had his head buried in the briefs. He looked up and took off the reading glasses he wore in private, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I gave the Canadian Prime Minister a call last night before this latest bloody escapade and he thinks Earle Jackson is the most dangerous President in our lifetime. The Tea Party has him by the balls and he’s an ugly mix of stubborn and stupid.’

  ‘And the Five Eyes intel is starting to paint a pretty chilling picture of this new Chinese leadership.’ Papadakis pointed the PM to a file in his papers marked ‘Analysis of the Standing Committee’. ‘The President relies heavily on the head of his Propaganda Department, Jiang Xiu. He turns out to be an ultra nationalist.’

  Toohey pulled out the brief and read its four pages. ‘Gee . . . we’ve managed to bug the leadership’s phones.’

  ‘Well, not us specifically, but the Americans have been pretty successful at getting a fix on the President – what he’s contemplating and plotting.’

  ‘Question is, where does that leave us? I don’t want to get drawn into a pissing competition with the two biggest dicks on the planet.’

  ‘But we might not have much choice in this, Martin. The Americans will expect us to roll in behind them.’

  ‘Mate, we can’t afford that. We have to try and keep this dispute at arm’s length. Just say enough to keep the Yanks happy and not so much that we piss off the Chinese.’

  Papadakis rolled his eyes. ‘That will take a level of skill that we haven’t yet displayed.’

  ‘Well, we’d better get this right. Our future actually does depend on it. We’ll keep our position non-committal for as long as we possibly can. I intend to nurse this gas-hub deal to the other side of the election. Even if it evaporates the day after it.’

  ‘And if we can’t manage that? If conflict breaks out?’

  Toohey leapt from his seat with a ferocity that startled Papadakis.

>   ‘Then, George, I will be a leader during a national security crisis. I will use fear to make the Australian people think twice before they change government. I’ll win this election fair and square . . . or I’ll use every dirty trick in the book. Just like my fucking opponents always do.’

  Papadakis was shocked and disturbed. For all his faults Toohey usually kept his cool. Now even that was breaking down.

  A knock on the door interrupted a tense silence. ‘Prime Minister, the Greens leader is here to see you, for her scheduled 7am meeting.’

  Toohey groaned.

  ‘From the absurd to the absolute fucking ridiculous.’

  Kiirsty Stanford-Long was in her early thirties, a political vixen who’d schemed her way to the helm of the Senate’s balance-of-power party. She was statuesque and shiny and had one of the Parliament’s sharpest tongues. In another life, Toohey might have found her alluring.

  But he despised Stanford-Long’s holier-than-thou approach to politics, so typical of this party of wowsers, environmental flat-earthers and do-gooders. Meetings with her always reminded Toohey of Whitlam’s barb to the Victorian Left: ‘You are pure in the way that eunuchs are pure.’

  ‘Prime Minister.’ Stanford-Long offered her hand. ‘Thanks for seeing me, I know you have a very busy schedule.’

  ‘Well Kiirsty, nothing is more important to me than the Mental Justice Bill and I hope that we can rely on your support. The numbers will be tight and this is the kind of initiative that this country needs.’

  ‘Martin, I’m delighted by the bill and the Greens have always supported legislation that seeks to improve the lives of Australians. Of course we support it, but I think that we have a historic opportunity here for more sweeping reform.

  ‘As you know, Prime Minister, one of the biggest contributing factors to depression is the abuse of alcohol. The Mental Health Commission’s latest report was quite explicit on the link between excessive drinking and the growing number of people seeking help.’

  Toohey could feel it coming: a Greens boondoggle that would, no doubt, nail him to the cross of a dog of a policy.