Soar

by John Weisman

  “That’s enough, Rocky.” The president’s voice betrayed irritation. “Go on, Nick.”

  The DCI reached into the center of the table for a black-and-silver plastic thermos pitcher that sat on a salver surrounded by a half-dozen empty glasses. He poured himself a glass of water, sipped, then continued. “Anyhow, because of its ambient nuclear activity, the convoy was being dual tracked. From overhead by a FORTAE13 satellite operated jointly with the British, and from our unilateral monitoring station in Sumbe Tekes, Kazakhstan. Shortly after the PLA convoy was intercepted, gradient effluvium readings from both satellite and unilateral monitors intensified exponentially, indicating to us that the package had been—”

  “Nick,” the president said, “use English, will you?”

  “The terrorists broke the seals on the protective container, Mr. President. They are currently in possession of a first-generation nuclear weapon—from the looks of it, it’s a fifteen-kiloton MADM, or medium atomic demolition munition, from the late 1970s or early 1980s. From our other unilateral overhead assets in the region, we know for sure they have already been playing with it.”

  Rockman said, “Playing with it?”

  “Fiddling with the dials, or whatever’s on the damn thing,” Pappas said. “At least that’s what it looks like on the photos I’ve seen.”

  President Forrest massaged his forehead. “Okay, Nick, now give us the good news.”

  The DCI didn’t miss a beat. “That was the good news, Mr. President.”

  The president peered down toward the end of the table. “Roger,” he said, “you’re my well-paid secretary of energy. You do nuclear. What’s your department’s take on this mess?”

  “I’ve brought Tracy Wei-Liu with me to shed some light on that, Mr. President.”

  Pete Forrest said, “Welcome, Miss Wei-Liu. What do you do for a living?”

  The young woman stammered, “I’m deputy assistant secretary of energy for national security policy, Mr. President.”

  “That’s a hundred-dollar title, young lady. What does it mean in buck-and-a-half words?”

  “I keep track of nuclear weapons, Mr. President.”

  “Ours or theirs?”

  “Everybody’s, sir.”

  “Okay,” Pete Forrest said. “What can you tell us about this alleged fifteen-kiloton medium atomic demolition device Nick just told us about?”

  “I’d like to see a picture of the device, if I could.”

  Pete Forrest shot an angry glance at the DCI. “Didn’t you messenger the photos to Energy?”

  “I couldn’t verify that Miss Wei-Liu had the appropriate clearances,” Pappas said. “Goddammit, Nick—”

  The DCI passed the folder to the Joint Chiefs chairman, who slid it below the salt to where Wei-Liu sat. The young woman took a magnifying glass out of a briefcase at her feet and examined the photos. “This device is a J-12—the largest of the Chinese MADM series, with an explosive power of fifteen kilotons. The J-12 was developed in the late 1970s. It was known as the Icebox, because it looked like one of those old-fashioned refrigerators with the compressors on the top.” Wei-Liu paused long enough to draw a deep breath. “The J-12 was intended as a tactical weapon to be used against India and Taiwan. It is based on an early Soviet design.”

  Rockman waved a hand at the young woman. “When I was secretary back in 1974, I decommissioned all of our MADMs because they were obsolete. You mean the Chinese only began to use them after that?”

  “Mr. Secretary, you have to understand that until the Chinese intensified their technical espionage programs in the 1980s and 90s, they’d always been fifteen to twenty years behind both the U.S. and the Soviet Union in nuclear weapons development. Both we and the Soviets discarded the MADM by the mid-1970s because we’d moved on to smaller, lighter, and more precise tactical devices. The Chinese kept their MADMs operational until 1988. That year, one of the smaller J-series weapons detonated as it was being taken from a bunker on the Indian border during a military exercise. Shortly after that, all thirty MADMs were abruptly removed from China’s tactical inventory.”

  The president asked, “What caused the 1988 incident?”

  “Our best guess,” Wei-Liu said, “was the weapon’s primitive detonation system.”

  The president said, “How primitive are we talking here?”

  “Somewhere between Cretaceous and Jurassic, Mr. President,” Wei-Liu said. “Today, sir, we achieve detonation through highly precise electronic means. In the 1970s, the Chinese were still technically unable to accomplish this. And so they made do—until relatively recently—with what might be called an IED, or improvised explosive device. The Chinese inserted a series of thin wires into an eighty-five-pound core of an explosive that’s similar to our military Pentolite, which is a fifty-fifty mixture of pentaerythritol tetranitrate, or PETN plastic explosive, and TNT. The Chinese use a slightly different formula, which makes theirs more volatile. The Pentolite we use has an explosive power of one and a quarter times TNT. The Chinese version is two and a half times more powerful than TNT, which was what they needed to achieve an explosion generating critical mass. They initiated the Pentolite by vaporizing the wires in a precise sequence, using a huge surge of electrical current generated by a series of powerful capacitors.”

  “What’s the problem with that?” Monica Wirth asked.

  “First,” Wei-Liu said, “it was technically efficient but unwieldy—similar in many ways to the detonation system on the atomic weapons in the Manhattan Project. If you look at the photograph—” She slid the magnifying glass and one of the prints down the table to the chairman, who slid it to Monica Wirth, who passed it to the president. “See, sir, that boxlike attachment bolted onto the top of the device—it’s roughly two feet by three feet.”

  Pete Forrest moved the glass back and forth across the photo. “Yes,” he said. “I see it. Cumbersome.”

  “That’s the electrical component for the detonation package, sir.”

  “Uh-huh,” the president said.

  “So, as I said, it’s unwieldy. Second, under certain conditions the Chinese version of Pentolite can degenerate and become unstable, similar to the way mishandled dynamite sweats nitroglycerine. Third, there are the capacitors. They require a bank of storage batteries to keep them fully charged. And despite insulation, batteries can still generate both volatile fumes and static electricity under certain conditions. Static combined with fumes can result in a spark, which in turn can set off the Pentolite if the explosive has begun to deteriorate.”

  “Give us the situation in a nutshell,” Rockman said.

  “We’re basically talking about your terrorists driving around Western China with the equivalent of a thirty-million-pound mason jar of nitroglycerine in the back of their truck,” Wei-Liu said, matter-of-factly.

  The president said, “Well, Miss Wei-Liu, thank you for putting all this in such unambiguous terms.” He paused. “Thank you for coming. And thank you, too, Roger.”

  The energy secretary rose and slid the photos back toward Nick Pappas. “You’re welcome, Mr. President.”

  The room remained silent as the two of them made their way out. As Wei-Liu passed Monica Wirth, the NSC adviser handed the young woman a note, which Wei-Liu read, folded, and dropped into the pocket of her jacket.

  After the door clicked closed behind them, the DCI raised his hand. “Mr. President—” The CIA director was churning his legs and squirming uncomfortably in the chair, reminding Ritzik of the poor guy in the Preparation H commercials.

  “Yes, Nick.”

  “I can also report that NSA’s technical capabilities have confirmed Beijing has activated its rapid reaction forces and assigned them the task of hunting the terrorists down and retrieving the weapon.”

  “Jeezus H. Kee-rist.” Robert Rockman’s palm slapped the table surface. “What made you wait until now to give us that piece of intelligence? What’s next, Nick?”

  “Just hold on, Mr. Secretary,” Pappas interrup
ted. “There also happen to be two pieces of hugely positive intelligence.”

  The SECDEF crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders—body language that told Ritzik Rockman didn’t believe a word of it. Rockman rolled his chair across the floor. “And they are?”

  “First, the Chinese are incapable of tracking the guerrillas by satellite because their birds take up to a week to be shifted.”

  The secretary’s hand slapped the table. “I know that, Nick.”

  “Last night, Chinese intelligence used its front companies to call every commercial satellite operation in the world in order to secure one-meter imagery of Xinjiang Autonomous Region. They tried the French. They called the Belgians, the Finns, the Germans, the Canadians, the Japanese, and finally all our own American companies.” Pappas tapped his pen on the table. “But CIA anticipated the move and successfully preempted Beijing. Last week, through half a dozen cover firms, CIA bought up exclusive rights to every bit of commercial European and Asian satellite imagery with a resolution of twenty-five meters or less, covering the western Xinjiang Autonomous Region. Then I had NSA exercise shutter control over all the American-owned commercial birds in the same target area. So the Chinese are blind.”

  The president visibly perked up. “Good work, Nick.”

  “Thank you, sir. And now …” Pappas flicked through the papers in his leather binder until he came to a white-covered folder that had a single, thick, diagonal blue line running from top left to bottom right. He opened the dossier. Inside sat a thin stack of National Security Agency paperwork. “Second, NSA transmitted these Zulu-grade intercepts to me not half an hour ago. China’s Central Military Command has just assigned the task of interdiction and retrieval to its Army Aviation Unit.” The DCI’s stubby fingers played air piano on the NSA documents. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is very good news.”

  SECDEF’s eyes narrowed belligerently. “What’s so good about it?”

  Pappas said, “I will let Margaret Nylos explain.” He paused to acknowledge the middle-aged woman sitting next to him. “Margaret is the national intelligence officer for China. She is responsible for keeping me up-to-date on all of China’s internal politics.”

  The president said, “Miss Nylos?”

  “Mr. President, this is hugely positive news because we believe it demonstrates irrefutable evidence of the growing rift within the PLA, a schism my people have been predicting for more than a year now. That split—between the elders who lead China’s conventional forces and the young generals who control its Special Operations units—has long-term strategic and tactical implications for us. It is a situation the United States can exploit to great advantage as we enter the next stage of our relationship with Beijing.”

  Pappas noted the look of impatience on the president’s face, sipped at his water, and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Margaret. Of more immediate interest to us this morning, the assigning of AAU as the retrieval force is noteworthy because, unlike our American special operations units, the Chinese have never fully integrated their air and ground special operations forces. The AAU’s operations are highly centralized. They are headquartered in the Beijing Military District. Every one of the unit’s assets lie within sixty miles of the Chinese capital. And not one AAU aircraft has the capability of reaching the Xinjiang Autonomous Region without multiple refueling stops.”

  Rockman interrupted: “Can’t they refuel in the air?”

  Margaret Nylos said, “No, sir. The Chinese lag far behind the West in helicopter technology. In fact, most of the current operational Chinese helicopter designs have been adapted from Soviet or French models. As you will also recall, the United States sold China a squadron of MH-60 Black Hawk helicopters in 1991, in return for Beijing’s allowing NSA to establish six Russian listening posts in the Tian mountain range. But those helicopters lack spare parts, and our statistical models indicate that today, the majority of them are inoperable. I also think—”

  “Thank you, Margaret.” The DCI squirmed awkwardly. “The bottom line is that this development buys us the time we need to extract our people,” he said.

  “Nick.” Rockman cupped his chin in his hand. “Refueling a squadron of aircraft can be accomplished in a matter of minutes. It seems to me we’re not going to gain but a few hours.”

  The DCI’s head wagged negatively. He tapped the NSA intercepts with his middle finger. “Mr. Secretary, what we have here proves otherwise. The commanding officer of the Army Aviation Unit is China’s youngest major general. His name is Zhou Yi. Zhou just turned forty—a real up-and-comer. He has been pressing the political leadership to allocate more resources to such areas as Special Operations, information warfare, and other unconventional methods and tactics. He has many supporters within the CCP, and it’s expected that within the next six to eight months he will be put forward as the next chairman of the PLA’s Central Military Command.”

  The DCI sipped his water. Margaret Nylos picked up the narrative. “Zhou’s strongest rival for that post is the commanding general of the Beijing Military District, an army four-star named Yin Zhong Liang. Yin is sixty-eight, married for forty-one years. He’s very old guard and tied closely to President Wu Min. Now, General Yin stumbled a few years ago when he lied to the political cadre about who was responsible after that Chinese F-8 fighter hit our EP-3 reconnaissance plane, and Beijing held twenty-three of our Navy personnel for eleven days. But since then, his position has been strengthened because he’s kept dissent in the capital under control, and he’s mended his fences with the leadership. In fact, Yin has single-handedly built such a cult of personality around the president that I can now state we believe Wu will remain in power for the foreseeable future—more significantly, he will not, as previously thought, relinquish his chairmanship of the committee that oversees the military. Equally significant, Yin has made strong political alliances with the generals in charge of the Nanjing, Jinan, Guangzhou, Shenyang, and Lanzhou military districts. All these commands stand to lose massive funding if the budget reallocations young Major General Zhou Yi is advocating go through.”

  “Miss Nylos, stop right there,” the president interrupted. “I think I already heard a lot of what you’re saying on CNN last week.” The president glared at the DCI. “Nick—can you people please get to the point.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.” The DCI’s voice took on a pedantic tone, and he tapped the tabletop with his pen for emphasis. “Point: General Yin believes he is vulnerable to a challenge from Zhou. Point: Yin’s political allies control every military installation and every liter of aviation fuel between Beijing and Xinjiang. Point: There is no way they will make things easy for the young upstart Zhou.”

  Rockman’s eyes went wide. “Even though there’s a loose nuke, Nick?”

  “Yes,” the DCI said confidently. “Even so.”

  Pete Forrest rapped his knuckles on the table edge. “Enough political theory. There are lives on the line. How much time do we have? How much time?”

  Margaret Nylos said: “A minimum of four days, Mr. President, from the sample of message traffic we managed to skim this morning. Possibly as many as five days. I’ll know more after the intercepts are translated.”

  The president’s jaw dropped. “Miss Nylos, aren’t you the national intelligence officer for China?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “And yet you can’t read Chinese.”

  “Mr. President,” Nick Pappas interjected, “I promoted Margaret for her analytical skills, not her language capability.”

  Rockman raised his hand. “Nick,” he said.

  “Yes?” The DCI shifted his gaze.

  Rockman pulled at his earlobe. “I don’t want to sound like a doom-and-gloom kind of guy, but how do you know that the Chinese aren’t putting out false message traffic?”

  Pappas said, “False message traffic?”

  Monica Wirth cocked her head in the DCI’s direction. “Disinformation, Nick.”

  Ritzik watched as Rockman’
s right hand slipped into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved a thin paperback. The secretary flipped to a page that he’d marked with a yellow Post-it, slipped a pair of half glasses out of his breast pocket, perched them on his nose, and read: “ ‘When strong, appear weak. When brave, appear fearful. When orderly, appear chaotic. Draw your enemy in with the promise of gain, and overcome him through confusion.’”

  The secretary dropped the paperback on the table. “That, ladies and gentleman, is Sun-Tzu—the granddaddy of all Chinese generals, including General Zhou and General Yin.”

  Nick Pappas’s cheeks grew red. “What’s your point, Rocky?” he asked.

  “I guess,” Rockman said dryly, “my point, Nick … and Margaret, is that everything the two of you have told us so far appears to be the result of technical intelligence gathering. But what if Beijing is playing with us—sending out false message traffic in order to deceive us and suck us into a situation that will embarrass the United States? There’s a summit in six weeks, and the Chinese are good at mind games. What’s the hard evidence that your intercepts are genuine? I’ve seen reports from our military attachés in Beijing that describe a possible schism—and I underline the word possible—within the PLA. But the mere appearance of a rift between factions isn’t good enough for me. I’d like to know if you have reports from agents on the ground in China who have verified the situation you’ve just described.”

  “Jesus Christ, Rocky,” the DCI exploded. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re tossing a wrench is what. Goddammit, you’ve been trying to undermine me from the get-go, and I—”

  “Gentlemen, that’s enough.” Pete Forrest’s voice took command of the room. “What has been decided has been decided.” The president stood. He glanced quickly in Mike Ritzik’s direction. “I think we all have a lot of work to do.”

  Rockman was first on his feet. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The president focused on Nick Pappas. “Nick, I want you to deliver any information Rocky wants—anything he asks for—without delay.”