The Mandarin Code

by Steve Lewis

  Ryan started fiddling with the model’s cannon as his tone softened.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have something that will turn out to be a story. You always do. But if you came here hoping that I’d be able to confirm this . . . extraordinary tale . . . you’re out of luck. It’s all news to me.’

  The parliamentary bells started to ring. The Senate was dividing. Ryan glanced at his watch.

  ‘Listen mate, I have to go, but look, I have a real story for you, one ready to print. I know you hate leaving here empty handed.’

  He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheet of A4 paper. Dunkley could only make out the words ‘UMR Polling’.

  ‘Harry, you can’t have this or look at it. But I’ll tell you what’s on it. Usual rules, no reference to government sources – but you can report the ALP has been road-testing Catriona Bailey in marginal seats. Twice in the last fortnight. One in Sydney’s west, the other in Brissie. A nice coincidence with her return to Parliament, don’t you think? And, my friend, the Foreign Minister is rockin’ in the suburbs.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Canberra

  Martin Toohey could feel the noose tightening around his neck.

  Within hours of his showdown with the Chinese Ambassador, Sinopec released a statement saying the Northern Territory gas hub had been shelved ‘for the foreseeable future’, citing finance problems.

  It was another lie, but one Toohey would be forced to mimic to cover the crumbling relationship with Australia’s largest trading partner.

  The immediate problem was summed up in an AAP wire story. With the gas deal off, the rivers of gold to fund Toohey’s ambitious social program had evaporated.

  TOOHEY’S MULTIBILLION-DOLLAR BLACK HOLE

  Chinese energy giant Sinopec has scuttled plans to build a gas hub off the Northern Territory, sabotaging the Toohey Government’s hopes of using the project’s cash to fund mental health reform.

  The landmark legislation scraped through the Lower House last week, with the stunning return of Foreign Minister Catriona Bailey tipping the balance in the government’s favour.

  Sinopec’s decision is the latest disaster for Prime Minister Martin Toohey, with Ms Bailey’s return reigniting leadership speculation.

  One Labor MP described the Sinopec bombshell as ‘the sound of the coffin lid being dropped on Toohey’s carcass’.

  The PM turned as he heard the sound of the door opening behind him.

  ‘It’s bad,’ Papadakis said as he entered. ‘I’ve been taking soundings with Caucus and the vultures are circling. I’ve got the secretary in the Environment Minister’s office across the hall from Bailey’s suite keeping watch. There’s a traffic jam of suckholes down there. I’ve asked Brendan Ryan to start counting our numbers.’

  ‘Does he have any idea how they stand?’

  ‘It’s close. If the Right holds we might hang on but you know better than me that nobody really controls the numbers in leadership ballots. There’s no block votes, just alliances of convenience. A cross-factional group is working with Bailey. Apparently they call themselves the Cardinals.’

  The PM rolled his eyes. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. You couldn’t make this shit up. These people read too much Dan Brown. If only they put their vivid imaginations to good use.’

  Toohey turned back to his computer and flicked through some of the dozens of articles that had been written about Bailey’s ‘miraculous’ return. From the moment she’d glided into the chamber, Toohey knew her gravitational pull would suck all the light from his mental health reforms. But her reception had staggered him. News stories on her rare recovery, heroism, selflessness and courage had plastered the papers, the airwaves and online.

  One pointy head at The Guardian had even dubbed Bailey ‘Mother Courage’, dredging up the title of the 1930s play by Bertolt Brecht. Whatever she was called, Bailey and her plotters were a real and present danger.

  ‘If she wants it, she’s gonna have to blast me out.’ Toohey thumped the desk. ‘I’m not getting spooked into calling a ballot based on plotting and whispering. They’ll need signatures to force a Caucus vote. Let’s see which mother has the courage to put their name to that.’

  Papadakis nodded. ‘Anything else, PM?’

  ‘Yep. Tell Brendan to get down here so we can go through the numbers. I’m not making any calls or that will leak too. And when we’re done with that, there’s the minor matter of World War Three brewing on our doorstep. We might want to discuss that at some point. I’m afraid the Yanks are about to do something that we’ll all regret.’

  There was a knock at the door and Eleanor Todd opened it a fraction.

  ‘PM, you got a minute?’

  ‘Yep, George and I were just finishing.’

  Todd pushed the door open and leaned on the frame.

  ‘PM, I thought I should let you know. The Financial Review’s been in touch with Standard and Poors. They’re threatening to review our AAA credit rating if we push ahead with the mental health reform.’

  ‘It would be easier spinning for Big Tobacco. Brooks is now so toxic she should come with her own health warning.’

  Justin Greenwich ended the call to his girlfriend and scrolled forlornly through dozens of messages.

  We’re rooted.

  Greenwich was a Liberal careerist who had risen from the ruck of Victorian state politics to make it to the big arena of Canberra. He’d arrived just as the Howard Government fell and had been the media minder for three opposition leaders in six years.

  It was the job almost universally acknowledged to be the most thankless in politics. He saw his role as the whipping girl’s underpaid understudy. Years of ritual flogging at the hands of the media had hardened his hide. But he had never seen anything like this.

  The decision to deviously revoke Catriona Bailey’s pair would have been hard to spin on any day.

  But to do it and then lose the vote . . . Gandhi couldn’t survive that.

  Liberal Party focus group testing showed it had cemented the community’s many concerns about Brooks. ‘Deceitful, heartless bitch’ pretty much captured the mood of the mob.

  Brooks had even been canned by radio shock jocks and the Right’s online cheerleaders. All agreed that she should have been an unbackable favourite at September’s election, but instead she was a drag on the Coalition’s strong polling.

  Let’s face it, we were dead when the bondage video came out.

  Greenwich picked up a media release he intended to get framed, to commemorate the moment when the Opposition leader hit the point of no return.

  SEX PARTY BACKS BROOKS

  The Australian Sex Party will campaign for the re-election of Emily Brooks in her Queensland seat of Moncrieff.

  Sex Party leader Robbie Swan said the party would direct preferences to the Opposition leader in her Gold Coast electorate. Local sex workers would person every booth and hand out how-to-vote cards.

  ‘She has done more to make bondage mainstream than Fifty Shades of Grey,’ Mr Swan said. ‘That should be rewarded.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Yokosuka

  ‘Sir, it’s PACOM. Line Five. Admiral Holland’s office.’

  Frank W Vinson looked up from his dinner, placed his cutlery on the table and rose to take the call.

  The one-star admiral wiped his mouth with a white napkin, embellished with ‘FWV’, and turned to his two dining companions. ‘Gentlemen, ’scuse me. You keep eating though, that beef is good.’

  The naval veteran was commander of Carrier Strike Group 5, an eight-ship flotilla whose flagship was the USS George Washington, one of ten nuclear-powered aircraft carriers that sailed under the Stars and Stripes.

  The carrier was a floating colossus, measuring three football fields bow to stern, and twenty stories high. Two fourth-generation nuclear reactors could keep it steaming for eighteen years without refuelling.

  More than 5000 crew crowded inside. In the heat of combat, its four steam-dri
ven catapults could sling one of its seventy-five planes into the air every twenty seconds. Each was a deadly war machine.

  In blue water the George Washington was a giant hub radiating deadly spokes. Its Super Hornets prowled the sky, guided missile cruisers Shiloh and Antietam defended the sea, and destroyers Curtis Wilbur and Fitzgerald the water beneath. Two nuclear-powered attack submarines, the Tucson and City of Corpus Christi, lurked ahead and the oiler USNS Tippecanoe tagged behind, carrying jet fuel and other supplies.

  Vinson commanded an armada that combined more military muscle than most nations could muster. Moored in Japan, it was the only forward-based US carrier strike group, projecting American power to China’s doorstep. When it sailed, it sent an unmistakable message: we rule the waves.

  It was 7.10pm in Yokosuka, which made it just after midnight in Hawaii. Something was biting.

  Vinson opened his office door, flicked on the light and manoeuvred around a narrow space to his desk. He sat in his leather swivel chair and pushed a button on his phone.

  ‘Sir, how are you? It must be early in Honolulu. This must be serious.’

  Admiral Holland’s appointment as Commander of the Pacific Command was a popular choice; he was a former aircraft carrier leader who’d been awarded the Distinguished Service Medal.

  ‘Frank, you sound chirpy, or maybe I’m just damn tired. But you’re right, this isn’t a personal chat. I’ve already talked with PACFLEET and the Seventh Fleet Commander, but wanted to speak directly to you.’

  Vinson had been expecting a call, but not from the man who commanded all US forces over half the world’s surface. But he was ready: his group had been ‘working up’ to put to sea for days. They could sail within eight hours.

  ‘Sir, what’s my mission?’

  ‘The President has ordered you to sail into the Taiwan Strait. He is determined to reassert America’s right of free passage through international waters. I want you on the move by midday tomorrow.’

  It was an extraordinary command. And it was high risk. Sending one of America’s nuclear-powered warships into the disputed waters was akin to throwing a flaming rock at a swarm of angry wasps.

  ‘Aubrey, that is quite a move. What are my rules of engagement?’

  There was a slight pause before Holland spoke. ‘You are to do what it takes to sail from one end of the strait to the other, north to south, and return to port.’

  ‘What is my posture, sir?’

  ‘Condition Zebra. I want you battle ready. Combat aircraft flying, electronic warfare systems up on all vessels.’

  It was an extremely aggressive way to enter the strait. The Chinese electronic eyes would see a strike group ready for war.

  ‘And if there’s an incident? Do I escalate, or de-escalate?’

  ‘You do what you have to to complete your mission.’

  Vinson was disturbed. The strike group was the safest, and most formidable, on the open sea. He would be placing his crews in harm’s way in contained waters, within reach of all the PLA’s weapons.

  If the group got into a fight they would face an overwhelming force with nowhere to retreat. But there were larger strategic considerations. Any miscalculation by either side could quickly spiral out of control. An accident could be misinterpreted and spark a regional war. Or worse.

  ‘Sir, you know better than anyone that there are no protocols covering an incident at sea between the US and China.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Frank. If something happens I can’t pick up the phone and tell Admiral Leng Sha that we have no intention of picking a fight.’

  ‘So all they can do is read our body language through their radar.’ Vinson wanted his reservations underlined. ‘And it will be screaming that we have kicked open the doors on the toughest bar in town armed with a broken bottle.’

  ‘Believe me, I understand all your concerns.’ Holland sounded weary. ‘And they are reasonable. But I have my orders and you have yours.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Frank. Detailed orders and rules of engagement will be sent through asap, usual channels. Your trip will be announced by the Secretary of Defence on Good Morning America. Now, m’boy, I’m going to get some shut-eye.’

  Vinson sat back and exhaled. It had been four years since America had sailed one of its carrier groups through the Taiwan Strait. That had nearly ended in disaster.

  The USS Kittyhawk had been shadowed by a Chinese attack submarine and destroyer, triggering a twenty-eight-hour stand-off.

  This would be very different: a deliberate, public swagger through China’s front door designed to show the world that there was only one superpower.

  That really was taunting the dragon.

  The admiral lifted a framed photo on his desk. His wife, Judy, still gorgeous despite the years, flanked by their extended family. The commander’s diaspora. He loved this clan, and they loved him back.

  He pulled a pad from the desk drawer and started making notes. He would follow his orders to the letter, even if the thinking behind this decision was hard to fathom.

  Beijing

  The outdoor broadcast vans from China Central Television had arrived early. A crowd of several hundred Chinese was already gathered on Liangmaqiao Road outside the Japanese embassy. They carried nationalist flags and chanted anti-Nippon slogans in the freezing Beijing morning. They were mainly young, enraged – and sanctioned by the State.

  Ambassador Ito Sanetomi gazed down at the growing mob. Six months earlier, more than a thousand marauding Chinese had demonstrated outside these same walls against Japan’s rightful claim to the Senkaku Islands. He recognised several faces as three vans of Chinese riot police arrived.

  ‘Asumi, I want all embassy staff to the central meeting room in ten minutes, please.’

  The ambassador was taking no chances. Last September’s protests had triggered a wave of violence against Japanese consulates throughout China, incited by inflammatory banners that declared ‘For the Respect of the Motherland, we must go to War with Japan’. A Toyota van had been torched – a pointless reprisal.

  Now that the United States had decided to sail the George Washington through the Taiwan Strait, he would take no chances. All staff except for emergency personnel had been ordered to leave.

  A crash drew his eyes to a mob who’d separated from the main crowd and were trying to scale an embassy fence. They were being forced back by riot squad officers. The defence was holding, for now.

  But the ambassador knew this mob – and crowds like it throughout China – would only grow and become more aggressive. Sanetomi was anticipating a recall to Japan. He’d received a cable to say that he should expect such a directive if the situation worsened.

  He’d ordered his wife to pack and prepare their two children. As he looked out at the violence below, he longed to breathe the peaceful air of his beloved Tokyo.

  Jiang Xiu carefully studied the material in front of him, erasing several words that he found distasteful. He blanched at one sentence that was excessive, but otherwise he was pleased with the work.

  China’s Central Propaganda Department was in full swing and Jiang was barking instructions to a team of senior editors who’d gathered in his Beijing office.

  ‘I want this out through the 50 Cent Party. Now!’ The communist giant was mounting a public relations offensive against the West and Jiang needed every piece of his propaganda arsenal primed and ready to roll. The 50 Cent Party was an informal network of bloggers paid a pittance to echo the party line.

  ‘Ming! Ming!’ he shouted at the editor of China Daily. ‘When will this be online? Why the delay? Come on, let’s move.’

  Jiang studied the latest briefing from the CDP’s Bureau of Media Statistics. It was sobering. The United States and Japan were winning the international propaganda war – he was starting well behind and at a big disadvantage. He did not expect to be able to quickly overcome the inbuilt jealousy and antipathy towards China in the international media. But here in the homel
and he commanded the headlines and he could not afford to lose, even for a moment, the people’s support. What had Mao said? ‘Politics is war without bloodshed.’

  This war would be fought – initially at least – through the internet, in newspapers and on television screens. He must not fail.

  A woman entered his office, placing a mock-up of the China Daily front page on his desk. She smiled, seeking his approval. Mao had once said that women hold up half the sky. Yes, but they were not the ones to lead armies into battle. He ignored her, grabbing the galley proof.

  The headline was striking: CHINA AND DPRK IN NUCLEAR PACT.

  Yes, that is good.

  The article outlined plans by China to assist North Korea with its peaceful nuclear expansion. An official spokesman for the Foreign Ministry outlined how the cooperative deal was designed to help North Korea generate the next phase of its nuclear power industry.

  ‘All of this has been done within the framework of UN and Chinese laws,’ the spokesman said.

  The article went on to say that China was opposed to proliferation – but Jiang knew this line would be ignored as the West absorbed the story’s tenor.

  The Middle Kingdom would meet acts of aggression by its enemies with unflinching resolve.

  ‘Xiu!’ He turned to a familiar voice, that of Bo Gangmei, a long-time friend who, like Jiang, had worked hard to earn promotion through the party hierarchy. Two months ago, Bo had been appointed editorial supervisor at Xinhua, the official Chinese news agency. His appointment had been strictly on merit, but this had not stopped a range of underground and dissident outlets from reporting his friendship with China’s chief propaganda officer.

  Jiang had told him to ignore the jibes. They were fuelled by petty jealousy and, besides, several of the critical ringleaders had been jailed.

  Bo had been working on a top-secret project. Jiang pulled out a chair for his friend, eager to examine the details before they were released to the world.