Razing Beijing: A Thriller

by Elston III, Sidney

  Joint Chiefs Chairperson Marcia Fuller announced a coalition of the U.S., Japanese and Australian navies was preparing a joint exercise in the Luzon Strait. She pointed out that all three were equipped with Arleigh Burke class guided missile destroyers.

  “It doesn’t matter who participates, our preparedness for conducting two protracted military campaigns no longer exists,” the Secretary of Defense expressed once more. “Especially if in one theatre we’re defending Taiwan against China, or south-central Asia against China, or Japan against both China and North Korea. However, if we allow China’s tactics to go unchecked we will surely lose valuable influence in the region. The net effect may be indistinguishable from having fought and lost.”

  Thomas Herman looked around the table. “Then why do anything?”

  General Marcia Fuller looked at the President. “Sir, we need to re-deploy elements of the Seventh Fleet from the Arabian Sea back through the Strait of Malacca—quickly.”

  Secretary Daley agreed. “We must establish that we have no intention of relinquishing stability in East Asia. We’ve already ordered Kitty Hawk to the region from Pearl. Carrier groups Vinson and Truman have put to sea from Charleston and Jacksonville, respectively, and pending your approval, they can arrive in the Western Pacific in sixteen days to fortify the Seventh.”

  “Sixteen days?” Denis looked as though he was going to slide out of his chair.

  “Neither can we walk away from Iran,” Daley said. “What we see it coming down to is this, Mr. President: both theatres threaten to spiral out of control. I think you know what that means.”

  The President stared silently at the floor. He was beginning to look and act overwhelmed, his elbows on the table and supporting his head in his hands.

  Fuller took a deep breath. “Sir, we can deliver the tactical nuclear weapons with the 509th and with Tomahawks.” Unlike the B-2s, the special cruise missiles were already in-theatre.

  Denis sat back against his chair. “Sounds like a recipe to put Iran’s oil reserves off-line for a thousand years.”

  “Of course, General Fuller should offer her view,” Lester Burns replied, “but I think it’s important to consider Mossad’s input with respect to the number of missiles which may be fitted with nuclear warheads. They put that number at possibly four. There’s no way of knowing whether any or all of these are sitting atop medium-range Shahabs or—”

  “ICBM’s purchased from North Korea,” Denis said, blinking. “What do we gain here? If I were sitting in Beijing, wouldn’t I just tighten my grip around those Spratly oil fields? I mean, we nuke Iran, China will see no going back from their seizure of the South China Sea.”

  Herman turned toward the Joint Chiefs Chairperson. “What’s our missile defense status?”

  Marcia Fuller donned her reading glasses, looked down and flipped through pages of notes. “SBIRS satellite constellation launches will be completed in three weeks. NORAD and the Space Defense Office currently estimate the probability of detecting and intercepting a launch through boost phase from west/central Iran at 65%, slightly lower over east/central Asia. The infrared satellite early warning of a missile launch is critical for existing Patriot theatre missile batteries poised across the Taiwan Strait, a bit less so for Aegis warships in the Gulf and Mediterranean.” Fuller removed her glasses. “Those numbers will marginally improve after Vandenberg’s next two Titan IV launches, assuming they come off on schedule. Congressional stop ’n go politics haven’t helped matters.

  “Regarding Iranian ICBM’s.” Fuller cleared her throat and folded her hands. “It should not be overlooked that a trans-arctic launch at the northeastern seaboard of the United States is also a risk.”

  “This is insanity.” President Denis pushed himself up from the table. “Walter, put together what you think we should do and schedule your diplomats for a meeting with me to go over it. Let’s move the carriers to the west Pacific—but you will not pull any of the Seventh Fleet back from the Arabian Sea.”

  “We’re hours beyond our formal declaration of war,” Secretary Daley reminded the President. “The appearance of our not—”

  Denis held up his hand. “Not until I hear something coherent on what China is really up to. Get on it, all of you.”

  117

  “PLEASE REMAIN ON THE LINE for the President’s national security advisor,” McBurney heard the woman say before placing him on hold.

  A full three minutes later McBurney cradled the satellite phone between his shoulder and ear, leaned against the bulkhead separating the cabin from the cockpit and plucked an issue of Time from its rack. To him, it seemed like ancient history. The jacket photograph showed the collapsed George Washington Bridge, the caption pronouncing, ‘New War or Old Provocation?’ McBurney quietly cursed the White House communications operator as he exchanged the magazine and flipped through various other periodicals. Today’s Chicago Tribune featured the stern face of the Israeli prime minister before a bank of microphones and the headline, Iran Mobilized; on the front page of the Washington Post was the same photograph he had seen all over the airport, black smoke roiling off the horizon of the South China Sea. It was this bleak state of affairs he had seen reflected in the numb stares of other travelers marooned in Toronto that morning.

  “Hello?”

  McBurney slid the newspaper into the rack. “This is McBurney.”

  “I’m told you’re finally due back into Dulles. I guess we’ve closed Reagan National indefinitely. Any way, I’m sure you know we’ve got a situation here...” Herman went on to explain his latest headache, that Atlantic fleet warships were unable to pass through the Panama Canal because of a malfunctioning lock.

  “You can’t be worried about aircraft carriers getting through the canal,” McBurney noted. “They usually round the Horn or—”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I need a primer from CIA about naval logistics. My point was going to be that the Chinese foreign minister was concerned enough to contact Secretary Laynas about it. I guess they’re afraid we’d conclude this was somehow intentional on their part. Well, the President isn’t convinced, so he’s decided to convene an emergency NSPG this morning at ten. He wants you to sit in.”

  Encrypted communications or not, McBurney thought it bad form to broadcast White House operations deemed critical for national security. He did recall that someone on Rotger’s embassy staff had been onto a scandal involving the Chinese industrialist whose corporation managed the Canal’s operations. Something else that we should have pursued. “We might have a line on that,” McBurney admitted.

  “Sam, I’d, umm, I’d like for you to head directly to my office after you land. We can keep our meeting strictly private. I need some straightforward answers from you.”

  What the arrogant bastard needed was to find out what CIA was going to say to his boss. He would love to know what might have happened to rattle the prick. “I don’t know if I’m the right guy for the planning group. Why not sit down with the Director? I’ve been out of the loop for a week.”

  “If the President says you’re the right guy, then you’re the right guy. What happened in Tokyo? I hear our contact—”

  “Let’s not discuss contacts over the airwaves, if you don’t mind. What if I told you these terrorist strikes may not be what you think, that Beijing may have had a hand in them?”

  “I’d say you’ve been out of the loop for a week. We caught two Iranian intelligence actors red-handed. You guys never give up, do you? A Chi-Com under every rock, isn’t that right?”

  “Wait a minute. You just finished telling me yourself even the President doesn’t believe—”

  “It’s not enough that he personally invited you, with your track record...let’s suffice it to say that we’ve already got enough warmongering here to go around.”

  McBurney heard the executive jet level off at its cruising altitude. “It pains me to say I don’t even know where your office is.”

  “I’m sending a limousine to pick you u
p at Dulles. I think the driver knows where to find the White House.”

  McBurney glanced at his watch, gripped the telephone and took a deep breath. “All right. Ten o’clock is going to be tight. I suppose maybe the limo’s not a bad...Tom?”

  “What, Sam?”

  “Tom? Dammit. Tom? Goddamn satellite.” McBurney snapped off the telephone. For a moment he envisioned Herman sitting in the Oval Office looking like a whipped dog, neck turning red, the world shifting in unexpected directions as he explained to Denis that a career spook had simply ignored him.

  McBurney poked his head into the cockpit. “Fellas, I need to ask you for a favor.” He explained what he meant.

  Russ Evans listened carefully. “Sure, we can do that. If you don’t mind being blown out of the sky.”

  McBurney realized the pilot was serious. “It’s that big a deal?”

  Evans tapped his finger on a flat panel displaying what McBurney recognized as the GPS track of their flight plan. “We’re a designated Special Flight. If we’re found squawking seven miles off the flight plan, then ATC contacts us. Ten miles off, they contact the Air National Guard—no exceptions.”

  “How do we get that changed?”

  “Not from up here. Why not just dial up a helo?”

  “I don’t think we can screw around wading through all the bullshit.” He glanced over his shoulder. Both Ross and Stuart were watching him closely.

  “Then maybe someone on the ground, someone with pull at the FAA?” Evans suggested. “You must have friends at the FBI.”

  Five minutes later, McBurney heard nothing but silence from Special Agent Peter Kosmalski on the other end of the line.

  “You there?” McBurney asked.

  “Richmond, you say?”

  “On a scale of ten, it’s eleven,” McBurney assured him.

  “Uh, this is a little mind-blowing. And this last flap is already drawing some big guns into the act. Number three guy under Dave Dolan is on his way down there. Want me to see if he can meet you at the airport?”

  “Which flap are you talking about?”

  “You remember Agent Hildebrandt? Sounds like he broke open that Thanatech espionage case.” Kosmalski explained what he knew of the suspect’s latest evasion of authorities outside Richmond, Virginia. “We actually do think he might’ve been involved in that abduction and rape case you called me about. That female lawyer thought her abductor was left-handed.”

  “So?”

  “We always thought the Rivergate murderer might’ve been a leftie, remember? There also seem to be some other similarities.”

  Dumbfounded, phone pressed to his ear, McBurney stared blankly into the cabin at Stuart. “What did...were Stuart’s two colleagues seriously injured?”

  “I don’t know all the details. If your plane has a fax machine, I’ll have someone send you our work-up on Paul Devinn. One busy bee, this guy. I guess this asshole might’ve fronted the vehicle used in the Woodbridge refinery attack. And although Hildebrandt seems a bit too coy about it, he claims he even has evidence that links Devinn to the GW Bridge. Listen, they’re rip-shit up here that this character is still on the loose.”

  Both pilots were asked to respond to a series of probing questions, all aimed at proving that no gun or explosive device was being used to threaten them.

  “I’ll see what I can do, Sam,” Kosmalski advised afterward.

  “Who should I look for to meet us at Byrd Field?” There seemed to McBurney an endless shifting of personnel assignments and promotions inside the Hoover Building.

  “Name’s Lance Lee. I guess he’s deputy assistant director, counter-terror.”

  “I guess I owe you one.”

  “That’s no shit.” The line went dead.

  McBurney turned off the satellite phone and stared out through the windscreen in front of the cockpit. Lance Lee, Lance Lee...of course. He thought too late to grille Kosmalski over how the Ahmadi evidence had finally surfaced—in front of the President. It sounded as though he would have the opportunity to pose the question directly to Lee.

  The co-pilot walked into the cabin a few minutes later, and handed McBurney the FBI information that Kosmalski had promised. Among the pages was an Ohio driver’s license photograph of Paul Devinn, a.k.a. Carl Smith. So this is Devinn... McBurney stared at the face for the very first time. He found it strangely familiar. Where have I seen that face before...?

  118

  AT THAT INSTANT on precisely the opposite side of the northern hemisphere—under cover of darkness and the approaching ten o’clock curfew—a tectonic shift along the fault of opposing power was occurring as it usually did in this part of the world, beyond the eye of public scrutiny. The Old Defense Building on Iron Lion Lane received a detachment of elite PLA Unit 8341 special security guards, as befitting the stature of tonight’s visitors, all seven of whom arrived by either limousine or subterranean tramway.

  Deng smiled as he greeted the arriving elites, increasingly convinced that tonight’s display of covert military prowess was ideally suited to this particular crowd. Rong’s arch rival, the finance minister, was not among them. He glanced at one of several clocks in the room; 13:46 ZULU, 9:46 P.M. Beijing local time—8:46 A.M. in the eastern United States. Exactly one hour and forty-five minutes to go. The precise periodicity of orbital mechanics left little room for uncertainty.

  Deng found himself reflecting on his sense of remorse, deeper than he had expected. Might there have been that other crop of leaders, those he had always counted on to seize this opportunity to the betterment of all China’s people? What months earlier he would have condemned as the ultimate act of betrayal, he now considered rescue from the hands of a power-mongering butcher. Was he committing treason, or perhaps something worse—a personal vendetta, masquerading as treason? Certainly his was the act of a desperate man—and one that he would come to regret? A stab of worry served to remind him that his wasn’t the only desperate act tonight. Okay, Peifu—any time now would be fine.

  Deng realized he was neglecting his guests. “Forgive me,” he said with a crooked grin. “I am a bit the distracted father awaiting the birth of his child. If you will, comrades, this way.” He led the entourage past Defense Ministry engineers seated before their various electronic displays, and over whose heads expectations for the upcoming event hung like a Damocles sword.

  “Here you see the object of a great gnashing of teeth—and yes,” Deng said, reading their thoughts, “no small drain on our coffers. Leave the Americans to their antiquated JSTAR military communications. Like everything else before you, proof that the Western hegemon is losing his grip.”

  Seemingly suspended in air—it was actually a two-meter diameter sphere constructed of syntactic foam—was the satellite tracking display. Deng explained for his captivated audience that three lasers mounted in the ceiling and three recessed beneath the floor projected the hologram of earth onto the sphere. He neglected to add it had taken Korzhakov months to convince him and others that this was no mere extravagance, but the next-generation theatre battlefield management. The Standing Committee marveled at the remarkable detail of mountain ranges in relief, iridescent nighttime swathes of population centers, rivers, barren deserts—all of it thanks to a United States space shuttle ground radar imaging survey, a revelation that triggered an undercurrent of laughter.

  “This is much more than simply a map.” China’s leaders were almost without exception degreed engineers, a fact which simplified Deng’s task of explaining the fully integrated weapon targeting system. He directed their attention to the small gold sphere currently hurtling eastward over the Atlantic Ocean toward the western coast of Africa. “Note the bright red circle cast beneath it onto the earth’s surface. This depicts the instantaneous range of Fourth Line’s satellite weapon. We track the device as well as evaluate the proximity of a given orbit to a potential target. A thorough evaluation of any adjustment to the orbit can be made before expending precious maneuvering fuel.”

&
nbsp; Beads of sweat rimming his forehead, Deng nodded to proceed with the presentation. The technician complied by advancing the rotation of ‘planet earth,’ represented by the spherical hologram. The bright gold sphere was now shown positioned on a vaporous white ring of light depicting its wavy, sinusoidal track over the ground. As the earth rotated the committee members could see that the weapon would pass nearly over their heads before streaking over Korea and Japan. As the globe rotated they were given a preview of the wavy path the satellite was programmed to take over the Pacific, northern California, the American Upper Midwest and, finally, near that nation’s capital—the animation paused briefly to allow the various members to study it. The technician returned the globe to live tracking mode. Instantly the gold sphere again depicted the satellite’s present location, hurtling eastward, soon to cross into darkness over Eastern Europe and the border of China’s western provinces beyond.

  The Chief of Public Security asked, “How often does the weapon repeat a pass?”

  “The satellite completes an orbit about every two hours,” said Deng. “Every two days or so—forty-nine hours and three seconds, to be exact—the weapon passes above the same point on the surface of the earth. That’s also the time it takes for the solar array to fully charge, or recharge, the capacitors.” Deng surveyed his guests. “That’s not mere coincidence.”

  “The satellite needs to be fully charged before each attack?”

  “Simulations run with less than full charge have been inconclusive. For maximum effectiveness, 100 percent charge will become the routine. As each orbit requires two hours, twenty-four orbits through the sunlit half of the globe allow it to fully recharge.”

  “We still have no knowledge as to the destination of the transported material?”

  Deng slowly shook his head in shared bafflement. “None whatsoever.”

  “And neither do the Americans?”

  “Especially the Americans, who arguably have more reason to care. Perhaps, comrade, the material is spread among the stars of Orion. Or perhaps...” Deng paused to consider a more thoughtful reply, but he only shook his head.