Third World War

by Unknown

  Kozlov had no idea what Ekatarina was playing. He had never been much good with music. Her boyfriend, his uniform neatly pressed and his boots polished, sat bewitched across the room, smoking. He was a confused young man from the army, an engineer whose bland practicality soothed Ekatarina. He had a military mind, yet tried to be an intellectual to impress her father, and Kozlov was not sure if he liked him; not sure if any father liked his daughter's first boyfriend. If Russia became like India, he would send them into the bunker together, so he could die knowing they would give him a grandchild.

  He glanced at the screens, where there was so much destruction, all looking so much the same, that the thought of a kicking baby in Ekatarina's womb made him feel good.

  'Get me Jim West, then,' he said softly.

  Yushchuk pressed a button. 'Actually, he's calling you right now.'

  Kozlov stood up and kicked the door to close it. He caught Ekatarina's eye and noticed fleeting disappointment. A note faltered before she found sanctuary in the music sheet. Through the gap, as the door closed, Kozlov blew a kiss and smiled at her.

  'Jim,' he said in English, giving the American President no time to initiate the conversation. 'The only useful thing you can do right now is make sure that Japan does nothing. If you have to make a statement, keep it bland. Do not respond; do not react; and do not threaten. I hope you understand perfectly what I am saying.'

  'We need to talk properly--'

  'No, Jim. We need to think properly. You chose to strike Pakistan. Nolan, with your blessing, struck North Korea. And this is what has happened. If Jamie Song has lost control in China, you are headed into a big war. And I have treaty obligations with China that would set Russia against the United States.'

  ****

  59*

  ****

  Tokyo, Japan*

  'The only disaster we are equipped to deal with is an earthquake,' said Kiyoko, as Prime Minister Sato's disguised limousine edged through the Tokyo traffic. Sato rested his hand on her elbow but looked away, out of the tinted glass on to the teeming streets. After the tests, he had felt not exhilarated as he had expected but exceedingly tired, and he wanted to sleep for a very long time.

  The later explosions over India and Pakistan had been picked up by satellites, even by passengers with video cameras on airliners not yet rerouted. Flaming red, encircled by grey and black and enveloped in the deep blue, stretched above the curve of the earth like a farewell banner.

  'Start the broadcasts,' he said. He felt the shift of Kiyoko's arm as she concentrated on her telephone. He slid his window down a little. Bland music played from speakers in the streets. Then it stopped and a calm voice said: 'This is an emergency. Please go home. Close your businesses, go home and await further instructions.'

  The pace on the street slowed. Heads tilted up to hear the message again. Confirmation was sought. The young found refuge in their mobile phones. The middle-aged, with families to protect, walked purposefully towards the nearest subway station. The elderly were reflective. A woman cried. A man dropped his walking stick and squatted on the cold pavement, his eyes looking far away. An old couple stopped, their faces worked over by the years, but their eyes as expressive as children's, while they heard the message for the third time. They embraced, clasped like statues, their age bringing a stillness to the street.

  This was the generation that would have remembered Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They had lived through the firebombing of Tokyo. They were not the ones who had set Sato on the path to free Japan from its ties with America. Sato saw now, so clearly, that anyone who had lived through a nuclear attack would not care who ran their lives as long as they were safe. But they were not his constituents.

  Kiyoko passed him the telephone. 'It is the White House,' she said gently.

  Sato shook his head. 'Park Ho will launch on us,' he said. 'Jim West will tell me to do nothing. But I cannot do nothing, so we have nothing to discuss.'

  They rode in silence. He looked up and saw they were at the corner of Hakumi-dori and Hibaya-dori, a junction dominated by the building from where General Douglas MacArthur ruled Japan after the Second World War. The driver turned north along Hibiya-dori into the Marunouchi district, the home turf of corporate Japan. What had happened to the glory days of the 1980s, when the names of Mitsui, Mitsubishi and Sony were the national flags of Japan's success? Since the seventeenth century Tokyo's commercial capital had been in the east of the city, but after the firebombing it had been rebuilt in Marunouchi, with wide streets and square, squat buildings.

  Where would they rebuild it after this, wondered Sato. Kiyoko touched him on the elbow. He turned to her. He loved her, yet she was a stranger to him. He had asked if she wanted to go to safety. She had refused, and although the mantle was with Yamada, she had chosen to be with him, and he was grateful. The telephone call was from Yamada, but Sato did not need to take it. Yamada had his orders: he was to see the war through until a Japanese victory - whatever the cost.

  Sato took in the sharp smells from outside, tobacco smoke and petrol fumes, then slid the window up. If he was doubtful, Kiyoko's eyes were cool and directly on him. There was an unmovable calmness in them.

  He touched her hand, and Kiyoko relayed the message back to Japan's Defence Minister.

  By trying to play God and change the shape of Japan, had Sato brought about its destruction? But if it had remained as it was now, entrapped by America, it would have become a slowly dying nation, bereft of ideas and a future.

  Kiyoko closed the telephone. She took his hand. 'Don't try to judge,' she said softly. 'It has happened.'

  Across the road, Sato saw the line of cypress trees and the wall that marked the boundary of the Imperial Palace. The moat was serene and flat, and he watched in it the orange reflection of the sky lighting up with a flash and the ripples gently spreading out.

  He had seen Delhi. He knew what would happen. Sato tasted something bitter in the back of his throat.

  ****

  60*

  ****

  Zamyn-uud, southern Mongolia*

  Wind whipped up the sand into such a swirl that it was impossible to see across the runway. Even guarded from the worst gusts by huddling behind the undercarriage of the Osprey, Lazaro Campbell had difficulty hearing the instructions from Kozerski in the White House.

  After the nuclear attack on Tokyo, China's airspace had been closed to foreign traffic. The temperature at the airstrip in the Mongolian border town of Zamyn-uud was fifteen below zero. Wind speeds fluctuated between nothing and sixty miles an hour, tearing the covers off the engine cowlings and forcing frozen sand into everything. Campbell's face carried a dozen tiny cuts and was now wrapped in a scarf, his eyes protected by goggles.

  'Tokyo's gone,' he heard Kozerski say in his earpiece. 'No one's picking up the phone in Beijing. The British and Japanese embassies--' A gust sent a roar around the plane. The pilot and engineer were in the cockpit with the engines running to keep out the sand.

  'John, hold. Just hold,' yelled Campbell. He ran against the wind. The sand hit him like driving rain. He reached a concrete hut, kicked open the door and fell inside to a sudden quiet. 'Right,' he said, catching his breath. 'Keep speaking. I got to the British and Japanese embassies.'

  'Have been torched,' said Kozerski. 'In the case of the British, an APC turned up with a flame-thrower and cannon. They aimed to kill and they succeeded.'

  Campbell squatted on the bare floor of the hut. He spotted a gas ring, a kettle, even an open sachet of instant coffee on a wooden table. Pierce had wanted him to go in from Seoul, but that was a 600-mile flight to Beijing, hitting Chinese airspace at Dalian. Campbell had vetoed the plan. Instead he had brought the Osprey into the Mongolian capital, Ulan Bator, in a C-130 transport plane, flying through Russian airspace. The Osprey then easily handled the 400 miles down to Zamyn-uud on the border. With extra fuel tanks, and a light load, with just Campbell, a navigator and a pilot, it could just make the round trip of 600 miles to Beijing.


  'And we think they haven't gone for our embassy because the Secretary of State is in there. Most important goddamn hostage I can ever remember.'

  'And my orders?' pressed Campbell, knowing the satellite line might cut out at any time.

  'You get her out, Lazaro. If we cut a deal on your way down, fine. If we don't, go to the embassy and lift her.'

  'Soon as we're airborne, the SU-27s will be scrambled and we'll be sliced into pieces.' The one thing Campbell hated was saying that a job would be dangerous or impossible. But unless he had missed something, that was exactly what would happen.

  'The President's on the line to Kozlov to get you safe passage. Soon as that's done, we want you in the air.'

  Campbell didn't ask why Kozlov was suddenly to be giving him protection over China. The satellite line was too fragile for irrelevant questions.

  Five minutes later, Kozerski called again with clearance. The Osprey's twin engines roared, sending the sand into a cloud around it. Campbell pushed shut the door and locked it. The sand and dust obscured everything, forcing the pilot to switch to instruments. The Osprey took off as a fixed-wing aircraft and that was how the pilot would keep it until they reach Beijing. Campbell checked his weapons: a Browning 9mm pistol; a Heckler and Koch MP5 semi-automatic; two shrapnel grenades, and two CS gas and two stun grenades.

  The screen in front of him, illuminated by a forward-looking infrared display, revealed the bleak, brown desert countryside below as clearly as if it was a bright day with a cloudless sky. Satellite pictures showed military vehicles in central Beijing, the ruins of the Japanese and British embassies, and the main thoroughfares around Tiananmen Square clogged with people.

  Up ahead, four Chinese air force SU-27 fighter aircraft fell into formation around the Osprey. They made no attempt at radio contact. Campbell heard the Osprey pilot notify the AWACs plane which acted as their control tower and was flying at 50,000 feet above the ground.

  Campbell called Kozerski. 'We have an escort.'

  'Hostile?'

  'Not yet,' said Campbell. 'They'll let us in. But why should they let us out and lose the technology of the Osprey?'

  'I don't have an answer to that,' said Kozerski. 'Like I don't have an answer to most things right now.'

  They were flying at 283 knots. Arrival time over the US embassy in Beijing would be in seventy-three minutes' time, thirty minutes after nightfall.

  ****

  61*

  ****

  Washington, DC, USA*

  'Campbell will be there in an hour,' said Kozerski, finishing the call.

  'Have you got Sato yet?' asked West.

  'Sato's dead. He stayed above ground in Tokyo,' said Pierce. 'Just hold a moment, Mr President--'

  West turned to Kozerski. 'Is Kozlov still on the line?'

  'The line's open. I can get him.'

  'Is he in Beijing or Moscow?'

  'Just back in Moscow, sir.'

  'Japan's launched on North Korea,' said Pierce. 'A 20-kiloton nuclear warhead, airburst above Pyongyang at 2,000 feet.'

  For a stunned moment, there was complete silence in the Oval Office.

  'One launch?' asked West softly. An old saying came to mind. After the first time, the rest is easy. Amid the confusion and hard facts, a cold truth was coming out. How could he blame Sato? He would do the same, if one of his cities was hit. Only Mehta had shown self-control. And for that he had lost.

  'President Cho from Seoul,' said Kozerski.

  'Hold him for a couple of seconds,' said West. 'Chris, we have to go in across the DMZ. Now.'

  'Our troops?' Pierce looked sharply at the President.

  'They're fighting a war. They'll do fine. John, put Cho on.'

  'Don't hit them, Mr President. Or they're going to hit us. Let it settle. We're emptying Seoul. I can't go nuclear on the border because the fucking wind's blowing south.' Cho sounded desparate.

  'We're going in,' said West calmly. 'We have treaty obligations with you and with Japan.'

  'Fuck. No--'

  'Cho, we've got to draw a line on this. It'll be fine.'

  ****

  62*

  ****

  Beijing, China*

  In one earpiece, Campbell listened to commentary from the Pentagon; in the other, he was on the intercom to the pilot. As they came in over the northern suburbs of Beijing, the SU-27 escorts peeled away. The pilot of the lead aircraft gave a thumbs-up.

  'Good luck, Osprey,' he said in English, breaking radio silence. 'Hope to see you on the way out.'

  'Identification of armoured vehicles in the diplomatic quarter,' came the voice from the Pentagon. 'Units outside the British and Japanese embassies are loyal to the Second Artillery Regiment. Unit unknown. Units at the US embassy belong to the Zhongnanhai presidential security detail.'

  The Osprey, flying at only 300 feet, slowed as it approached the centre of Beijing. Strangely, the neon signs flashing on the top of the buildings were symbols of American capitalism. Campbell took in Kenwood, Ford and Motorola, before becoming distracted by a glow in a side street like a bonfire suspended above the ground. He punched in the GPS coordinates so he could get a closer look from the satellite imagery. As the image settled, he checked it against what he saw outside and realized that two bodies had been strung from lampposts and set on fire.

  Further along, columns of military vehicles moved towards Tiananmen Square.

  'What's that in Tiananmen Square?' he asked the Pentagon.

  'Still checking, sir. We believe they are tanks and APCs loyal to the Second Artillery Unit.'

  'Shit!' said Campbell to himself. 'Take her up,' he instructed the pilot.

  He pulled on his night-vision helmet. The landscape of central Beijing was transformed into a deep transparent green.

  Two lines of military vehicles faced each other in Tiananmen Square itself. A single tank blockaded the entrances to Zhongnanhai. Four more were at the steps of the Great Hall of the People.

  'Head for the embassy, and switch to horizontal rotors,' Campbell instructed the pilot.

  The pilot brought up the Osprey's nose and in ten seconds transformed it into a twin-engined helicopter. 'Keep her steady,' said Campbell. With the aircraft hovering, he pulled open the door to get a better sense of what was going on.

  The US embassy itself appeared untouched. But it was surrounded by a civilian crowd. They were bundled up against the night cold, warming themselves at flaming braziers and encircling the compound. Converging on the embassy from two directions were six - possibly eight - armoured personnel carriers. The sky itself was clear of aircraft, indicating that the power struggle was confined to a few units within the army. The air force would swing once a victor emerged.

  'Stay back,' Campbell instructed the pilot. 'And take her up.'

  'Lazaro, Kozerski here.' A voice in his other earpiece.

  'Go ahead,' said Campbell. The Osprey kept climbing. So far, the crowd hadn't noticed it and Campbell wanted to keep it that way. When he went in, it would be sharp and fast.

  'Just the Secretary of State,' he said. 'We're watching the pictures here.'

  'It could go any way.'

  'Correct. And the President wants the Secretary of State out of the embassy before the marines have to begin defending it.'

  'You talking to anyone?'

  'Negative. Kozlov arranged your air cover. But I don't reckon anyone has control of what's down on the ground there.'

  'Wheeled armoured vehicles,' said Campbell, 'approaching the embassy from two sides. Six in all, maybe eight. You got anything on that?'

  'Type 90s. Nine troops in each, plus crew,' said the voice from the Pentagon. 'You could be looking at fifty to a hundred men against you.'

  The armoured personnel carriers, sealed down, no commander in sight, stopped at the edge of the crowd.

  'As soon as you are overhead,' said Kozerski, 'the Secretary of State will come out of the embassy building into the garden at the back of the building. She w
ill be moving in the middle of a six-man marine unit. We'll leave it up to you how you get her into the Osprey. Once on board, head north and you'll pick up your SU-27 escort.'

  The Osprey pilot gave a thumbs-up. Campbell clipped himself on to the winch.

  The aircraft's nose dipped, but the pilot maintained altitude, bringing the Osprey directly over the embassy. From the corner of the compound, there was a flash from one of the armoured vehicles.

  '7.62mm machine gun,' said the Pentagon. 'If they get serious, they'll use the 25mm cannon.'

  The crowd scattered. The armoured vehicles pushed through, crushing some as they went, and drew up outside the gate.