by Robert Gandt
Get a grip, Maxwell. You knew all this when you took the job.
True. Nobody was kidding him when, as a young nugget naval aviator, he checked into his first squadron and found himself flung into the war with Iraq. He knew what he was getting into.
That was a decade and a half ago, and not a hell of a lot had changed. Not the loneliness, not the danger.
He looked again at the photograph. He remembered that day. It was one of those spring afternoons that sparkled like a field of jewels. He’d picked her up on his old Harley.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Somewhere romantic.” That was all he’d tell her.
They went for a ride along the Potomac, then stopped at a riverside restaurant. They’d had their picture taken by the waiter.
The couple in the photo smiled back at him. In the background was the water, a riverboat, a sky dotted with puffs of cumulus.
He lay the photograph face down on the desk. He was tired. Too much had happened that he couldn’t control. He could feel a gaping hole in his heart where the presence of Claire Phillips used to be.
All he knew was that he missed his girl and his home country and afternoon rides along the Potomac. He missed living a normal life. Hell, sometimes he even missed the old Harley.
<>
He slept for five hours. That was enough. He was back aboard the Reagan, and he had a strike fighter squadron to command.
Walking down the passageway to the ready room, he wondered what he’d find. He’d been gone—how long? Only three days? It seemed like a month.
He opened the door to the ready room—and nearly ran into the banner draped over the entrance.
Cheers and applause spilled out of the room. Across the banner was the message: SIERRA HOTEL, SKIPPER. WELCOME HOME.
Sierra Hotel was phonetic code for “Shit Hot.” It was the highest unofficial accolade a fighter pilot could receive.
They were all there, almost every officer in the squadron. Bullet Alexander stood in the front row, wearing a grin that looked like a piano keyboard. Next to him was Sticks Stickney, applauding with the rest of them. CAG Boyce was gnawing a cigar, flashing a thumbs up.
Maxwell was too stunned to speak.
Boyce grabbed his arm and dragged him into the room. A linen-covered table was set up in the front of the room with a large cake and a coffee urn from the wardroom. “If we were ashore,” said Boyce, “we’d be having a proper celebration with booze for all the troops.” He glanced at Stickney. “On his tab, of course.”
Maxwell accepted handshakes and back claps and high fives from the assembled airmen. He felt as if he were dreaming. A few hours ago he had thought he might spend the rest of his life as a prisoner in China. Or be killed in the Black Star. Or be adrift in the South China Sea.
Instead, he was where he belonged—aboard USS Reagan, in the ready room of his own squadron. Somewhere in the depths of the ship, under a shroud and guarded by marines, was the Black Star. It would soon be on its way to the place of its conception—Groom Lake.
Boyce steered him toward the back of the ready room, away from the tumult around the coffee urn and the cake, now being devoured by the pilots.
“The good news is that I put you in for a decoration,” said Boyce.
“What’s the bad news?”
“You won’t get it. What you did never happened. CincPac says that we will all erase our memories about invisible Chinese airplanes.”
“I don’t want a medal. I just want to get back to running my squadron.”
“That might take a while. They want you back in the states for extensive debriefing.
Maxwell groaned. “CAG, my squadron needs—”
Boyce held his hands up. “It’s not me who’s calling the shots. Those orders come all way from the top of the mountain. I’m just the messenger.”
Damn it, thought Maxwell. Just when he thought he was returning to his real job. He glanced toward the front of the room. Bullet Alexander was talking to some of the junior officers, gesturing with his hands in the way fighter pilots were prone to do.
“How about Bullet?” he said, nodding toward the XO. “Did Manson give him a hard time?”
Boyce let out a snort. “Take a look at this.”
He walked over to the big cork board mounted on the bulkhead next to the LSO’s carrier landing records. Thumb tacked to the board was a grainy black-and-white photograph.
Maxwell peered at the photo. It was an enlarged shot taken from a HUD video tape. Superimposed in the reticules of the gunfight were the twin canted vertical stabilizers of an F/A-18 Hornet. It was a classic rear-quarter gun kill.
Then he saw the handwritten message at the bottom of the photo.
For Craze,
A little memento, so you won’t forget.
Fondly, Bullet
“He scheduled himself for a one-vee-one against Manson,” said Boyce. “Of course, everyone in the air wing wanted to watch, positive that Manson was going to carve him a new bunghole. Well, as soon as they merged, Bullet was all over Manson like a cheap suit. Craze hasn’t shown his face in the ready room since. Look over there. All the JOs think Bullet Alexander walks on water.”
Maxwell glanced up at the front of the room. It was true. The junior pilots were clustered around Bullet Alexander, hanging on his every word.
He smiled, remembering the way it had been when he was new to the squadron. They’d given him the same reception. The carpetbagger treatment.
It wasn’t fair, but that was the way the system worked. They wouldn’t let up until you’d proved yourself. They’d wouldn’t quit until you’d gone out there and kicked some ass.
CHAPTER 26 — ARMISTICE
Taipei, Taiwan
1645, Tuesday, 16 September
Something was different.
As she walked down the underground passageway to the cabinet room, Charlotte Soong tried to put her finger on it. What was it? Something had changed.
With her was General Wu, carrying a stack of briefs. She carried only the umbrella, hooked as usual over her right arm.
Not until they reached the big double door, held open by a staff officer, did it come to her. “Do you hear it, General?”
He looked perplexed. “Hear what, Madame President?”
“The silence. Taipei is quiet. No explosions, no bombs, no sirens.”
She smiled at the realization. Not since noon had any missiles or bombs rained down on Taiwan. Nor, for that matter, had any weapons been launched against the mainland of China.
The stillness lay over Taipei like a soft blanket.
The ministers rose in unison as she entered the chamber. In a spontaneous gesture, they broke into applause. All except Franklin Huang, who wore his standard sullen expression of disapproval.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” She took her place at the head of the massive teak conference table. She hung the umbrella in its usual place over the arm of her chair. “Please be seated.”
The ministers already knew, at least in principle, about the armistice. In the briefs that General Wu placed before her on the table were the transcripts of the discussions with the President of the United States, who had brokered the agreement. These she intended to read to the ministers, then she would explain how the President had extracted the necessary concessions from Beijing.
Looking at the faces around the table, Charlotte knew that not all would be pleased with her handling of the armistice. Least of all, the Premier, Franklin Huang. But Huang would not approve of anything she did.
“As most of you know, the terms of the armistice were verbally agreed to by the President of the PRC and myself. A formal treaty will be signed by our emissaries in two days time in Hong Kong.” She nodded to Ma Wang, the Foreign Minister. “That, Minister Ma, will be your task.”
“That is a violation of the constitution,” declared Franklin Huang. “Any such treaty must be approved by the legislative Yuan. And if anyone is be a signatory to the armistice, it
should be me, the Premier and head of the Yuan.”
“I have consulted our supreme court justices,” said Charlotte. “They assure me that in the case of war, no such approval is required. And it is entirely the President’s prerogative who is designated as my emissary. In this instance, I have my own reasons for assigning Foreign Minister Ma.”
“May I ask what those reasons might be?” Huang demanded.
“No.” She didn’t bother looking up from the brief. “You’ll learn in due time.”
Huang looked as if he were about to choke.
She ignored him and went on. “This cabinet should know that a very special operation—and certain special heroics—were required to create the conditions for the armistice.”
“Are you referring to Operation Raven Swoop, Madame President?” asked Ma Wang. “The effort to remove the invisible fighter aircraft that was plaguing us?”
“I am. Unfortunately, much of the story must remain secret. But I can tell you this much. The PLA’s ability to use their secret weapon was neutralized by our special operations forces—with, uh, some outside help.”
At this, several ministers nodded. They were guessing, she assumed, about the United States’ role in Operation Raven Swoop.
“These are the basic terms of the armistice.” She picked up the top sheet from the stack. “All units of the PLA and of the Taiwanese Self Defense Forces will cease hostile actions. No military aircraft will be flown over the other country’s land mass, including the island group of Qemoy and Matsu. All naval vessels, submarines included, will withdraw from the other country’s territorial waters.
“In a mostly carefully worded statement, the People’s Republic of China acknowledges the right of Taiwan to govern itself. For our part, we will forego any public declarations of independence from the PRC.
“You mean a return to the status quo?” asked Feng Wei-shan, the Minister of Finance. “You have renounced President Li’s declaration of independence?”
Charlotte nodded. “That was the President of the United States’s stipulation. The PRC, for its part, is to publicly declare that Taiwan will not be forced to join the communist republic of mainland China. The door will remain open for Taiwan at a future date, and only after a democratic vote, to become a province of the People’s Republic of China. It will be our choice and not theirs.”
She watched the reaction around the table. As she expected, the hard-liners like Feng and Lo were not pleased. None, however, wanted a continuation of the debilitating war with the PRC. Each minister knew in his heart that Taiwan would not survive a protracted war with China.
Charlotte was pleased with the outcome. She had achieved the best of all possibilities. Taiwan would continue to prosper as a free country without the threat of a military take-over by China. She knew that if she did nothing else in her tenure as President, she would be remembered for this accomplishment.
“Perhaps you could elaborate on some of the circumstances of this armistice,” Minister Feng said. “Has China acknowledged starting the war by murdering President Li?”
Charlotte and General Wu exchanged a silent glance. “No,” she said. “In fact, the President of the PRC denies any connection with the shoot down of President Li’s jet.”
“That’s a lie, of course,” said Feng. “We are certain that the Airbus was shot down by China’s secret stealth jet.”
“Yes, Minister, we have convincing evidence to that effect. What the President of the PRC means is, he didn’t issue the order. In fact, if he is to be believed, he was as surprised as we were when it happened.”
Feng scoffed at this. “That is ridiculous. You don’t believe him, of course.”
“In fact, I do.”
Around the long table she saw only open mouths, astonished stares.
Feng asked the question on all their minds. “Who, then?”
Charlotte nodded to General Wu, who was standing at a projector across the room. He flicked the switch, and an image flashed onto the wall-length white screen.
It was blurry, taken through a high-powered telephoto lens, but the faces were recognizable. Two men stood on the terrace of a country lodge.
Around the table, a collective sucking-in of breath took place.
“The man in the foreground, for those of you aren’t familiar with him, is General Tsin Shouyi, chief of staff of the PLA. The other some of you know.”
They did. A murmur swept over the room.
“His name is Robert Liu, and he is the senior aide to the Premier of Taiwan.”
By now all the eyes in the cabinet room were trained on Franklin Huang.
Huang slapped his hand down on the table. “Preposterous,” he said in a derisive voice. “Just another pitiful attempt by our temporary President to discredit me. I have no idea how or when that photo was taken, or for what reason. If Robert Liu is guilty of collaborating, then we will deal with him.”
“We have already dealt with him. And he is cooperating fully. He readily admits that he was acting as your emissary in his meeting with General Tsin. That photo was taken exactly two days before President Li’s flight to Kuala Lumpur, which was the subject of their meeting.” She turned her gaze directly on Franklin Huang. “Is that not true, Premier?”
“Nonsense! If Robert Liu is a spy, which has not been proven, he would try to implicate whoever he could, especially a senior statesman. His word means nothing. You have no proof.”
Charlotte nodded again to General Wu, who pushed the play button on a digital recorder. The distinctive, high-pitched voice of Franklin Huang crackled over the two speakers on the wall.
“. . . plane will depart Kuala Lumpur at 2:30 this afternoon. The route of flight will be via the commercial airway, along the Vietnamese coast, then over the South China Sea.”
“The type of aircraft?” asked another voice, speaking in a heavy Mandarin dialect.
“An Airbus A-300. His radio designation will be ‘Dynasty One.’ There is a problem, General. Li has requested that the United States Navy provide fighter escort for his aircraft.
After a moment’s silence, “That is not a problem. The problem is the woman. . . ”
“Soong.”
“Yes, Soong. . . if she does not relinquish the office to you.”
“She will relinquish the office.. If she refuses, she will be removed. The silly woman has no interest or ability to be—”
At this Huang leaped to his feet. “Stop this charade!” He pointed a finger at Charlotte Soong. “This woman has produced a falsified recording in order to discredit me. It’s absurd.”
“Is it? Then why did you inform President Li only an hour before his departure that you would not accompany him on the flight.”
“Because I. . . I was ill.”
“And during your illness you made the call to General Tsin, which we have just heard. It was recorded by the monitoring device implanted in your satellite telephone that we recovered only yesterday.”
“You are such a fool,” said Huang. “Do you really think that the chief of staff of the PLA would carry out such a plan without the knowledge of his own superiors in Beijing?”
“I’m glad you mentioned that, Franklin,” said Charlotte. “It may interest you to know that we transmitted a copy of this tape to the President of the PRC.” She held up a printed message. “This came from one of our operatives in Beijing this afternoon. General Tsin was removed from his quarters this afternoon by armed troops. He has vanished, and we have an unverified report that he has already been tried and executed.”
A silence fell over the room. Huang’s chest was heaving. He stared at Charlotte Soong as if he were seeing her for the first time.
“You conniving bitch! We should have killed you with the same bullets that removed your husband.”
Charlotte Soong felt a jolt like an electric shock passing through her. “My husband? It was you who. . .”
“Kenneth Soong was a pathetic weakling. An insignificant politician who would have dr
agged the country into the sewer.”
Charlotte felt as if she were awakening from a drugged sleep. It was Huang. He was the one who killed Kenneth.
Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Huang was yelling incoherently. “You and your useless husband—you have ruined this country . . .”
She was dimly aware that he had a gun, though she hadn’t noticed where it came from. Beneath his jacket? Or was it in his briefcase? He seemed to have come unhinged. He was waving the pistol, looking for a target. Each of the ministers was diving for cover beneath the table.
“Traitors!” Huang yelled. “Every one of you! I’ll kill all of you!”
General Wu was unarmed. He was edging his way toward the raving man when Huang noticed him. He aimed the pistol and shot Wu through the forehead.
The general spun around and toppled over two chairs as he crashed to the floor.
The loud report of the pistol crystallized Charlotte’s thoughts. She knew what she had to do.
Charlotte lifted the umbrella from around the arm of the chair. Years ago, Kenneth had gotten it for her. He insisted that she carry it, even though he refused to have such a thing himself. All these years she had hauled it around out of respect for Kenneth’s memory. She had never actually used it, even in practice. She often wondered if she could bring herself to do it.
With her right thumb she slid the safety off. She aimed the shaft of the umbrella—a nine millimeter gun barrel—and fired. The sharp crack of the shot and the recoil of the umbrella-barrel shocked her.
Franklin Huang stared at her in disbelief. He looked down at the red-stained hole in the front of his shirt.
He lifted the pistol.
She fired again. The bullet hit him in the chest.
The pistol slipped from his hand. Clutching his chest, he toppled backwards into the chair behind him.
Charlotte lay the umbrella on the table.
One by one the heads of the cabinet ministers were reappearing from beneath the long conference table. They peered around the room, taking in the carnage.
