by Mike Maden
Feng understood that the general and his cronies were as greedy as the capitalists they derided, and leveraged it to his advantage. Admiral Ji, on the other hand, was a notable exception—utterly incorruptible. And like most true patriots, Ji was deeply resented by pragmatists like General Chen. No matter. Today’s deal cemented the uncomfortable alliance between the three of them, the last piece of Feng’s elaborate puzzle.
The general laughed. “Those American bastards will run like scalded dogs when the Wu-14 smashes one of their carriers!”
Feng nodded outwardly, but he didn’t share the general’s enthusiasm for war. Wars were inherently unpredictable, and unpredictability was bad for business. Better never to fight them, if possible.
“I thought the supreme art of war was to subdue the enemy without fighting,” Feng said, quoting China’s most famous military strategist, Sun Tzu.
“The Americans don’t believe the Wu-14 is fully operational. We may have to use it against them to prove it works.” The general sneered. “It would serve them right.”
“They don’t believe the Wu-14 works because their hypersonic program is a failure.” Feng resented the arrogant Americans as much as General Chen did.
“They forget that we invented the rocket!” Chen’s eyes bulged. “Maybe it’s time we showed them we know how to use them, too.”
“I hope it never comes to that,” Feng said. An actual shooting war with the Americans would be a disaster. Everything Feng hoped to accomplish wouldn’t require one. Just the threat of a fully operational Wu-14 would be enough to knock the Americans back on their heels.
“Merely a conjecture,” Chen said.
“Admiral Ji is waiting for my phone call. Is there any reason I shouldn’t make it?”
The old general smiled, but not from happiness. His obsequious grin was a practiced defense against apex predators like Feng, spots on a lizard hiding in the shadow of a falcon.
“The transfer of the Wu-14 to Admiral Ji and the PLAN has caused great concern among many of my colleagues in the Second Artillery Corps. They fear President Sun may transfer all of our missiles to PLAN control. But then again, they fear many other things about President Sun, as you well know.”
“As well they should,” Feng said. He was sympathetic to the military’s plight and was, in fact, their staunch defender. President Sun’s New Direction policy had embarked on a program to slash China’s defense budget and cut its conventional forces in half, all in the name of economic development. In reality, President Sun and the Party feared a military coup, and rightly so. Having abandoned Communist ideology in favor of capitalist development, the Party resorted to jingoistic nationalism and expansive military budgets to bolster its credibility, but in so doing created a dangerous new political force among the nationalistic officer corps, Admiral Ji chief among them.
The Party also feared a popular uprising from below, fueled by decades of corrosive political corruption and gross income inequality. The New Direction promised sweeping anticorruption reforms to restore legitimacy in the eyes of the people.
But Sun’s New Direction created enormous anxieties among the corrupt political elites who stood to lose under his anticorruption reforms, and seething resentments within the military ranks who viewed the impending defense cuts as treasonous. Vice Chairman Feng exploited those same anxieties and resentments to build a powerful coalition he believed would soon push Sun aside and win him the presidency. China was dancing on the knife’s edge, and Feng was planning on picking up the pieces whichever way they fell.
“My colleagues in the Second Artillery Corps are fully prepared to cooperate with our comrades in the navy,” General Chen said. But there was hesitation in his voice.
Feng checked his watch, annoyed. “It’s time.” He motioned to the massive doors of the oversize hangar. The two men began the long walk toward them. “Is there something else that concerns you?”
The general cleared his throat. “This so-called New Direction is naive, and dangerous for the army and the country. I’m a patriot. I support Admiral Ji’s plan to secure the East China Sea and all that that entails. I trust that my support is seen as worthwhile.”
Over the years, Feng found that the only thing his Communist comrades hated more than Western imperialism was personal poverty. The higher their party rank, the greater their greed. Or was it the other way around?
“There is no limit I put on the value of patriotism,” Feng said. “Or loyalty.”
General Chen smiled broadly. “Thank you.”
The massive hangar doors slid open. Eight-wheeled troop carriers slowed to a stop next to a DF-21 missile carrier rig painted in green camouflage. The DF-21 was already in its tube, and the tube was secured flat against the trailer that was somewhat longer than an American eighteen-wheeler, which it resembled slightly. Dozens of sailors dressed in blue digital camouflage leaped out of the troop carriers, greeted by green digital SAC soldiers still securing the missile carrier and its support vehicles.
“You see? Interservice cooperation. The future of China is assured,” Feng said, smiling. “The Wu-14 must be secured in its container for immediate transport.” Once both were located at Ningbo, the Wu-14 warhead would be attached to the DF-21 missile.
“It shall be done immediately.” General Chen shouted orders. SAC officers and troops thundered into the hangar toward the Wu-14.
“And the launch codes?” Feng asked. The last piece of the puzzle. Everything Feng had planned hinged on the launch codes.
“Yes. The codes.”
General Chen reached into his shirt pocket for a thumb drive, but hesitated. The Wu-14 was an object of great power, and in the general’s mind, that should mean great reward. Greater than even what Feng was promising.
But Feng’s narrowing eyes bore into him. General Chen knew of other powerful men who’d crossed Feng and mysteriously disappeared. The vice chairman was a generous friend, but an even more dangerous enemy. And he could well be the next president of China. The old general fished the thumb drive out his pocket and handed it to Feng.
“Thank you, general. Your cooperation is essential to our success and the future of China. Your service won’t be forgotten.”
General Chen nodded. “I’m grateful.”
Both men stared at the missile launcher, the other half of the combat system Feng hoped would never be used.
“You’re certain DF-21 is perfectly reliable?” Feng asked. He’d read all of the reports and seen the test results. But if the missile failed to launch, the Wu-14 was useless. He wanted one last assurance.
The general nodded vigorously. “I’d bet my life on it.”
You already have, you fool, Feng thought.
And the lives of millions more, too.
FOUR
THE KAWANA HOTEL’S FUJI GOLF COURSE
SHIZUOKA PREFECTURE, JAPAN
3 MAY 2017
The tee box on the fifteenth hole was a golfer’s dream. Hugging Japan’s rugged Pacific coast along the Izu Peninsula, the Kawana’s Fuji course was long known as the Japanese version of Pebble Beach, but the fifteenth hole held a particular allure for avid, well-heeled golfers. It was postcard perfect in its beauty, perhaps the most picturesque hole of its kind in the world and one of the most treacherous.
The tee box stood high on a hill overlooking the untamed Pacific Ocean crashing into the rocks below on the left. A lush manicured fairway nestled between majestic twisted pines beckoned like the Sirens, while a steep, unforgiving precipice stood a short distance away between the tee and the fairway below.
The course designer, Charles H. Alison, knew his business. The least hesitation or distraction in the tee shot here inevitably led to disaster. The serenity of the surrounding landscape demanded equal poise within. More than any other hole on the course, the fifteenth required both intense concentration and uninhibited flow. Golf was Z
en, a game not so much of skill as self-mastery. Many Asians believed that Tiger Woods’s successes were due to his mastery of Buddhism and the lack thereof his undoing. The Japanese who could still afford to play the game on courses like this one—corporate executives, movie stars, yakuza bosses, and senior politicians—were crazy about it.
The titanium driver rang like a gunshot. The white Titleist golf ball lofted high and true toward the cliff edge, then arced effortlessly in a right-hand fade, landing finally in the center of the fairway.
Prime Minister Hiroshi Ito laughed. The gusting Pacific breeze tousled his famously wild silver hair, which complemented his sky-blue shirt and black slacks. He was sixty years old but still rakishly handsome. He was often compared to the Hollywood actor Richard Gere, but his avid passion for golf earned him the nickname the Obama of Japan.
“That kind of drive puts a lot of pressure on me, Margaret. My gender and my nation demand I rise to the occasion.”
Former American president Margaret Myers snatched up her tee with a satisfied smile. She hit from the same tee box as the men. “What pressure? Just don’t think about the wide blue Pacific on your left or the cavernous gully in front of you or the impossibly tall pines and you’ll be fine.”
It was a cool day in the high sixties, no rain. Perfect golf weather save for the coastal winds. Mt. Fuji, a prominent feature of the course, loomed in the distance, but unfortunately it was shrouded in cloud cover today. Myers wore a black Nike long-sleeve polo shirt and a matching golf skort and shoes, very subdued. She still had the toned arms and shapely runner’s legs to carry off the ensemble smartly. She was more than fifty but looked a decade younger. Heads turned when she entered a room—men and women both. Having been a public figure for several years, she was never sure if she drew attention because of her fame or her good looks. Modest to a fault, she always assumed it was the former.
The one thing she didn’t want to do today, however, was draw attention to herself, another reason to wear black. To help keep this meeting secret, Prime Minister Ito’s security team also stayed two holes ahead and behind them, clearing away the other players on the course at all times. President Lane asked Myers to pay her old friend a visit off the record and, as far as she knew, neither the American nor the local press had gotten wind of their private tête-à-tête.
“Seems to me, Hiroshi, that you were always the better . . . putter.”
Ito laughed.
Myers and Ito first met in Colorado. They discovered a mutual passion for Kentucky bourbon and golf, which her late husband had also shared. The future prime minister was serving as a trade representative at the Japanese consulate in Denver when he helped arrange Myers’s first business deal in Japan, just a year before her husband was killed by a drunk driver. Her husband’s needless death at the hands of a repeat offender thrust Myers into state politics with a personal mission to stiffen the lax DUI laws. But even after she was elected governor, she and Ito played together as often as her schedule allowed until Ito returned to Japan and ran for office himself. They managed to remain in regular contact over the years. Ito airmailed a hundred orchids from his private greenhouse the day after her son’s murder two years ago. Her favorite flower. He remembered.
Ito stepped up to his ball and laid the custom-fitted EPON driver head next to it. His fingers tightened on the grip, then loosened, then tightened again.
“Bah! You’re in my head!” Ito laughed again, stepping away from the ball.
Myers didn’t say a word. She just kept smiling.
“You’re more Japanese than I am, I think,” he said with an impish grin. “You never attack your foe straight on.”
“You know I’m not your enemy. We’ve been friends too long.”
Ito pointed a gloved finger at Myers. “You see? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. No self-respecting politician ever comes out and talks about politics directly. Maybe you should run for president of Japan.”
“But Japan doesn’t have a president,” Myers said, playing along.
“But if it ever did, I’d be the first to endorse you. After all, you were a magnificent American president. Don’t you agree, Katsu?”
Katsu Tanaka stood silent as a statue by the golf cart, his fingers laced precisely around the grip of his driver. His thick, well-groomed hair was perfectly kept in place. Wide shoulders and thick arms stretched the red polo shirt neatly tucked into his creased slacks, the collar buttoned up to the throat, hiding an old tracheotomy scar.
President Lane wanted Myers to meet with Ito, but Ito needed her to meet Tanaka, his most powerful political ally and a member of his cabinet. Tanaka was not only a member of Japan’s House of Representatives but also the parliamentary senior vice minister of foreign affairs. Whatever Myers and Lane had in mind, Ito knew Tanaka would eventually play a key role.
“Madame President was one of the most interesting presidents the Americans have ever had.” Tanaka allowed himself the slightest smile. “You’re even more popular since leaving office than when you were in it, despite your low profile. Perhaps your popularity is because your reforms proved to be the correct ones?” Tanaka’s English was Oxford accented owing to a study-abroad program he had participated in during his university days.
“The budget freeze was the most important reform I put in place. Congress still has yet to pass a true balanced-budget amendment, but neither presidents Greyhill nor Lane nor Congress has dared undo it.”
“Amending constitutions is a difficult task, but sometimes necessary, especially when they are horribly outdated, don’t you agree?”
Tanaka seemed pleased with himself. Myers had been briefed about him. In addition to his elected office, he also led the study group that wrote proposed legislation to change the Japanese Constitution to permit remilitarization of its purely defensive forces and change the strategic mission of the JSDF. Article 9, like the rest of the Japanese Constitution, had been imposed upon Japan by the United States after the war and technically forbade the Japanese from ever going to war to settle disputes or even maintain a navy, army, or air force. Recent “reinterpretations” of Article 9 loosened up some of the restrictions, but Ito and Tanaka were determined to rescind Article 9 altogether.
“It depends on the amendment, of course,” Myers said. “The balanced-budget amendment remains a popular idea with the people, but the lobbyists are still too strong to allow the Congress to act.”
“Of course, your ‘no new boots on the ground’ reform was also very popular. It seems isolationism is the majority sentiment in America these days. I wonder if your country will someday add its own Article 9 to your Constitution?” Tanaka grinned beneath his aviators. “After all, Article 9 is an American idea.”
“Mr. Tanaka, I assure you, the United States does not want to impose its will on you in these matters.”
“But it already has.”
“President Lane only wants to offer his assurances and advice. We don’t want the current tensions to escalate into a full-blown war with the Chinese, and neither do you. But aggressively expanding your conventional fighting capabilities is more likely to lead to war than prevent it.”
“And so you would suggest we simply give in to Chinese demands? Let them make their false claims on the Senkakus?” Tanaka was referring to the leaked drone video of the Chinese stele ceremony. It made national news. Myers had seen it privately but was stunned to also see it on airport television screens after she landed. The Japanese public was livid.
“Chinese expansion must be contained. But President Lane believes there might be a third way.”
“And if he’s wrong?”
“Katsu! Didn’t I just say that a good politician doesn’t come right out and speak his mind? Please, no more politics. It will ruin our golf game.” Ito shook his head, feigning disgust, but he and Tanaka were close political allies and friends. The two of them had forged a strong prodef
ense coalition that helped their party regain control of both houses of the Diet. Until recently, the majority of the Japanese population opposed remilitarization, but recent Chinese aggression had dramatically changed the political climate.
Tanaka laughed. “That’s why you’re the prime minister and I’m only a lowly legislator. I was never good at subtleties. Forgive me, Madame President.”
“What’s there to forgive? We’re all friends here. You both know I’m also friends with President Lane, and not to be too subtle about it, he wants you to know that he stands committed to honoring our mutual-defense treaties and that we will stand with you in the face of any aggression.”
“That’s very reassuring,” Ito said. “President Lane said the same thing to me in our phone call last month. It would be helpful if he would make that announcement publicly or at least on Chinese national television.” He laughed at his own joke as he addressed the ball again.
His grip tightened. The club turned. The ball cracked against the metal face and rocketed toward the fairway. It landed a yard behind Myers’s tee shot.
“The wind must have caught it,” Myers said. She found that male egos were more fragile on the golf course than just about anywhere else, especially when playing against women golfers. Good manners normally required that Ito and Tanaka allow their esteemed guest to win the round, but Myers and Ito had long since killed that custom on the fairways and putting greens in Colorado.
“The ocean winds around here are very problematic. But the truth is, I just missed the shot.” Ito laughed. “Or perhaps I should have let you hit the ball for me instead?” He pointed at his ball in the fairway. “But at least it’s safe, isn’t it? That’s the important thing.” The prime minister picked up his tee.
“Yes, it is. That’s why your plan to build a larger, more powerful navy isn’t in your best interest.”
