by Robert Gandt
Wu knew she was being circumspect. Even though the telephone transmissions were scrambled, they had to assume that others would monitor the conversation. It was a fact of life that Taiwan—including the military and the executive branches of government—was riddled with PRC spies. Just as the PRC was well-infested with Taiwanese operatives.
He knew exactly what she meant. She was referring to an operation against a base on the mainland called Chouzhou. And a stealth jet called Black Star. It would commence in eight hours, and yes, the Americans were definitely involved.
<>
Smartass broad, thought Bass.
It was the third time in a single conversation that she had corrected his imperfect Chinese. As if someone had appointed this Mai-ling chick to be his cultural supervisor. His nanny.
“Where did you say you went to undergrad school?”
“University of California,” she said. “You may have heard of it.”
“Which campus?”
“San Diego. Where’d you go?”
“UCLA. You probably never heard of it.
“I made it a point never to go there.”
“I guess you learned all that California flake talk in San Diego?”
“Actually, I learned it from some Air Force ROTC guys. They weren’t very bright.”
Bass just shook his head. They had gone back and forth like this for most of the time he had known her. She had a comeback for everything.
“How does a student from China get into a university in the U.S.? Some kind of foreign assistance program?”
“By merit, mostly. China sends a thousand or so of the best and brightest students every year for studies in the U.S. Many go on to obtain advanced degrees. I was one of them.”
“Are they all as modest and self-effacing as you?”
“Yes. They don’t wish to embarrass their American male counterparts who are not as gifted.”
“Then they go back to China to work on weapons to use against us.”
“Of course. America educates its enemies and sells them its secrets. It’s an old tradition.”
Bass just nodded. He suspected that she was right. It didn’t make sense, but a lot of things lately weren’t making sense. His own situation, for example. He still hadn’t figured out how he got into this mess.
“What will you do when this is over?” he asked. “Go to the United States?”
“I don’t know.” She seemed to drop some of the smartass posture, at least for the moment. “Maybe. Maybe not. It depends on what happens in the next few days.”
Bass supposed that she meant the operation in Chouzhou. If it turned out badly, none of them had a future. Not him, not her, not Maxwell. China would win, and everyone else lost.
She was making no secret of her crush on Maxwell. He wondered if they were already sleeping together. Well, why the hell not? Life was short. For them, possibly very short.
He heard the sound of boots on the wooden floor. He glanced up to see Colonel Chiu striding into the room. As usual, he wore sharply creased battle dress fatigues with black, spit-shined boots.
Chiu glanced around, a look of disapproval on his face. He said to Mai-ling, “So? You have nothing better to do than spend your time talking with gwai-los?” Gwai-lo meant “foreign devil,” but was loosely applied to include all outsiders.
“I was helping him with his Mandarin.”
“Why? So he can answer questions in Chinese when the PLA interrogates him?” Chiu’s face creased into a humorless smile.
Prick, thought Bass. He noticed that Mai-ling wasn’t giving Chiu any of the smartass treatment. Was she afraid of him?
Chiu glanced at his watch. “We have a briefing scheduled in ten minutes. I suggest you keep your thoughts directed on the mission.”
“Yes, Colonel,” said Mai-ling.
Bass just nodded.
<>
Something was happening.
Huang could sense it, like a change in the weather. In the executive bunker he had spotted General Wu skulking in and out of the President’s private office. Staff officers—colonels and commanders—scurried back and forth clutching documents to their chests. Plainclothes agents walked the passageway of the bunker, mumbling hushed instructions in their pocket radios.
Outside the executive office he encountered Peter Weng, the President’s administrative aide. He remembered Weng from the cabinet meetings. He was a prissy office type who followed Soong around like a pet poodle.
“Where is the President?” Huang demanded. “I need to speak to her.”
“She’s not in the office.”
“I can see that, you idiot. Where is she?”
Weng looked like he’d been slapped. “I’m not authorized to divulge the President’s whereabouts.”
“Authorized? Do you know who you’re speaking to? I’m the second-in-command of this government, and you are refusing to tell me the whereabouts of my only superior?”
“I—I’m not refusing, Premier. It’s just—well, the President made it clear that—”
“This country is at war, you insignificant pest. You are interfering with the conduct of my official duties. Mr. Weng, I may have you arrested for obstructing the war effort and abetting the enemy. Do you know the penalty for such conduct?”
Weng knew. His face went white. He glanced up and down the hallway for help from someone. Anyone.
Huang knew he had overplayed his hand, but it was producing the desired effect. “Speak up, damn you. Or shall I call the chief of security and have you put in shackles?”
“If you give me a few minutes, I’ll call her and have her get in touch with you.”
“I’m the Premier, you pimple-headed moron. I don’t require your permission to speak with the President. Where is she?”
Weng caved in. “She went to Chingchuankang.”
Huang made a deliberate effort not to register his surprise. Chingchuankang? That was a secret facility where they staged commando operations. Why is she there at this hour? It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening. Something was definitely going on. Something she had kept from him.
“Of course, I know she went to Chingchuankang. I mean, where is she at this very moment? Has she left the base yet?”
“I’m not sure, Premier. I will find out.”
“Do that. Be quick about it.”
A look of relief covered the young man’s face and he fled the area. Huang waited till he was gone, then he wheeled and went to the cubicle that served as his office in the underground bunker.
The rest was easy. Using his secure phone, he called the base commander at Chingchuankang. The commander, a colonel, was flattered by so much attention. First a visit by the President, then a personal call from the Premier. Yes, the President and her entourage were due to arrive in a pair of helicopters in not more than ten minutes.
Huang took a shot in the dark. “Of course, she expects to see the preparations for the commando raid?”
A pause, and Huang worried that the question may aroused suspicion.
After a moment the colonel said, “Yes, Premier, we will review the plan with her. She wishes to emphasize to Colonel Chiu Yusheng and the two Americans how critical the raid is to Taiwan’s survival.”
Huang felt a ripple of alarm run through him. Americans! A raid critical to Taiwan’s survival.
What was going on? Colonel Chiu Yusheng? He had heard of him. He was some kind of shadowy commando who was reputed to have carried out a number of audacious clandestine operations.
A dozen questions rushed to his mind, but he held them back. The base commander would be alerted if he realized that Huang had no real knowledge of an upcoming commando raid. Anyway, he had other sources.
“Thank you, Colonel. You are performing a valuable service.”
“I am honored, Premier. Should I tell the President you wish to speak with her?”
“No, that isn’t necessary. It’s best not to distract her from her task at Chingchuankang. Our business
can wait until she returns.”
“Yes, Premier.”
After he hung up, Huang sat alone in his office pondering this news. What sort of commando operation would merit a personal visit from the President? Why were Americans involved? There were two of them, the colonel said. Who were they? What sort of raid would be critical to Taiwan’s survival?
He called Feng Pao, his aide in the central office of the Yuan. “Get me a brief on an officer based at Chingchuankang. A Colonel named Chiu Yusheng. Everything about him. I need the information immediately.”
“Yes, Premier. Right away.”
<>
Colonel Chiu was in the middle of his briefing, barking instructions to his squad leaders, giving directions to the helicopter pilots, stopping to growl orders to the two Americans and Chen Mai-ling. “Here,” he said, rapping a spot on the model Chouzhou base with his long pointer. “Helicopter One discharges First Platoon, who will secure the forward flight line. Helicopter Two then lands here—” another rap of the pointer, “—with Second Platoon and the pilots who—”
He stopped in mid-sentence and gaped at something behind them. A noisy commotion burst from the back of the briefing room. Every head swiveled to follow Chiu’s gaze.
Someone barked a command in Chinese. All the commandos jumped to their feet. Chiu slammed his heels together, bringing himself to rigid attention.
“What’s going on?” Maxwell asked Bass.
“Something about the President. I think she’s here on the base.”
So she was. Escorted by half a dozen troops in full battle gear, Charlotte Soong and her party swept into the cavernous room.
Maxwell and Bass rose to their feet, and Mai-ling stood with them. The President of the Republic of China went directly to Colonel Chiu. Maxwell watched her shake the colonel’s hand, exchange a few words with him, then gaze around the room. For a minute she studied the model of the Chouzhou base, asking questions of Chiu. Then she looked across the room at the Americans.
Maxwell knew little about her, only that Madame Soong had succeeded President Li after the shoot-down of the Airbus. He had presumed that she was a Chinese dowager, stout and formidable, whose authority was mostly ceremonial.
This was no dowager. Madame Soong was tall, with a slim waist and a long, graceful neck. Her hips swayed like a fashion model’s as she walked toward them, taking strong, purposeful strides. She carried a flowered umbrella over her left arm.
“Holy shit,” said Bass in a low voice. “That’s the President?”
“Try not to be a pig,” whispered Mai-ling.
Colonel Chiu was at the visitor’s side. “Madame President, meet Commander Maxwell, of the United States Navy. And this is Major Bass, from the United States Air Force. They are the pilots who will accompany the mission to Chouzhou.”
Mai-ling made a show of clearing her throat. She glowered at Chiu.
“Oh, yes,” said Chiu. “And this is—”
“Chen Mai-ling.” Mai-ling brought her heels together and bowed her head. “Formerly of the People’s Liberation Army.” She ignored the menacing look from Chiu.
Charlotte Soong shook hands around, bestowing a gracious smile on each. “I came here to personally thank each of you. The Republic of China will forever be in your debt for what you are doing for us.” She turned to Bass. “You are already a hero in Taiwan, Major.”
“I am?”
“You trained many of our excellent young fighter pilots. And then you led them into combat over the Strait.”
“Well, I, uh, I’m not supposed to. . .”
“Now you have volunteered for the raid on Chouzhou. You are a hero of the greatest magnitude, Major.”
Bass mumbled thanks, his face reddening. Mai-ling was peering at him curiously.
Charlotte Soong turned her attention to Maxwell. “Commander Maxwell, may I ask you something?”
“Yes, of course, Madame President.”
“I know you have a brilliant career in the U.S. Navy. Why have you volunteered for this mission?”
He felt her keen gaze on him, waiting for an answer. “I have some knowledge of the stealth fighter that no one else out here has. That made me the best candidate for the job.”
A lame answer, he knew.
She shook her head. “No, it’s more than that. I know something about you. I know that you were a test pilot and an astronaut, and that you have been decorated for bravery in several conflicts. You are a man who does not retreat from danger.”
Maxwell didn’t know what to say. Flattery embarrassed him, especially from a head of state, and a good-looking one at that. He looked over at Bass, then said, “We will do our best to accomplish the mission, Madame President.”
She regarded him with interest for another moment. “Yes, I am sure you will.”
She then chatted with Mai-ling. They spoke in Chinese, Mai-ling nodding her head, smiling, eagerly answering the President’s questions. Madame Soong said something that gave them both a good laugh. Maxwell watched them, realizing that he had not seen Mai-ling this cheery or animated.
Colonel Chiu stood apart, listening to the two women, wearing a sour expression. He scowled, shuffled his feet, then made a show of studying his watch.
Finally Madame Soong said, “Our time is up. I must return to Taipei.”
She shook hands again, wished them all success, then followed her escorts back to the darkened ramp outside where her helicopter waited.
“Wow,” said Bass. “What did you think?”
“Impressive,” Maxwell said. In his military career he had served under several good leaders and a few bad ones. Charlotte Soong, he had a gut feeling, was a good one.
Mai-ling was still staring at the door where Madame Soong had exited the room. A look of pure enchantment covered her face. “I think she’s fantastic.”
Colonel Chiu broke the spell. “It doesn’t matter what you think. Quit wasting time and get to work.”
CHAPTER 14 — FORTUNE TELLER
Chingchuankang Air Base, Taiwan
1945, Sunday, 14 September
He had been in his room only a few minutes.
A rap sounded on the door, and
Colonel Chiu appeared in the doorway. “This came for you on the high-priority net. From the Reagan, I presume.”He handed the message to Maxwell, then didn’t leave. Maxwell unfolded the print-out. While Chiu watched him, he sat on the wooden chair and read the message.
1205 UTC/16 SEP
TO: CDR S. MAXWELL
FROM: COMAIRWINGTHREE
HOPE YOU’RE ENJOYING YOUR HOLIDAY. THE SQUADRON RUNNING SMOOTHLY IN YOUR ABSENCE. BISHOP ADVISES HE AND ALL THE MONKS SEND THEIR BLESSINGS.
KICK SOME ASS FOR THE GIPPER.
LOVE AND KISSES,
BATTLEAXE
It was typical Boyce, who liked to call himself BATTLEAXE in cryptic communications. His standing orders were that Maxwell was not to proceed with the operation unless he got a final go ahead.
Well, here was the go ahead. Boyce’s message reported that the President—the Bishop—and the chain of command—the monks—all the way down to the strike group command had given their go ahead for the raid on Chouzhou.
Maxwell had to smile at the part about kicking ass for the Gipper—the nickname for the Reagan. More of Boyce’s personal embellishment.
He put down the printed message. Well, here we go. Until the message arrived, he had nursed this secret expectation that at the last minute someone—CINCPAC, the joint chiefs, the National Security Council—would call it off. Too risky. Too interventional. Too explosive.
Too damned crazy.
No more. Crazy or not, it was a go.
He was aware of the presence of Chiu, still watching him.
“You have received a personal message,” said Chiu. “I presume that it pertains to your planned mission. As the commander of the operation, I must ask if you have received instructions that will affect my conduct of the mission.”
Maxwell looked a
gain at the message. “Yes, Colonel. We have received an additional task.”
Chiu gave him a wary look. “An additional task?”
Maxwell held up the printed message. “We have to kick some ass for the Gipper.”
<>
“What are you thinking, Sam?”
Maxwell stopped walking and looked at her. The darkness outside the briefing building was almost total. Blackness covered the mountains around Chingchuankang. No exterior lights were showing on the base. No stars, no moon, no flashes of exploding warheads or incoming missiles broke the curtain of darkness.
“What did you call me?”
Mai-ling seemed startled by his tone. “I’m. . . sorry. I saw your name stenciled on your bag. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right. It’s just that no one has called me Sam for a long time. No one except my father and. . .”
“Your wife?”
“No wife.”
“Girl friend, then?”
“No girl friend either.” Not any more.
The walk in the darkness had been her idea. To get some fresh air, she said, and he had agreed. They went as far as the flight line, where they could see the sandbagged sentry post.
“But you’ve been married.”
“She died five years ago.”
“I’m very sorry. Did she call you ‘Sam?’”
Maxwell hesitated, not comfortable with this conversation. Yes, that’s what Debbie called me. And Claire. The women I loved called me Sam. “Yes,” he heard himself say.
“It’s a nice name, Sam. How did you become Brick?”
“A Navy thing. Instead of using our proper names, they give us call signs.”
“An odd custom. Why Brick?”
Another flash of memory, this one back to his flight training days. One afternoon at Kingsville, the squadron skipper asked his instructor, Devo Davis, how his student was doing. Maxwell? No problems, sir. He’s solid as a brick. The skipper nodded and scribbled something in his notepad, and that was it. Solid-as-a-brick Maxwell had a permanent call sign.
He didn’t tell her the story. Instead, he pointed to his forehead. “Describes how I think. You know, like a brick.”
