by James Kiehle
“You are starving. We should eat,” he said.
“Surely the meeting will include breakfast,” the captain said.
“Even if they offer it, decline,” the minister said. “It would be impudent for you to dine with your superiors. I have much to say, will have no time. I must appear robust. You will stand behind me with your hands folded. Stare at the center of nothing. Pretend you do not hear what is being discussed. As for behavior: Decline all offers of food or drink with a nod. Am I clear on this?”
“Yes, sir,” Xiong said. “I am to be a ghost.”
“Yes, captain, a phantom of history.”
At Dongchangan Jie, the car U-turned and stopped sharply at the entry to the stately old Beijing Hotel. Built in 1917 as the Hotel Pekin, it was in room 1735 that longtime premier Zhou Enlai worked and stayed. Other hotel guests included Nikita Khrushchev, Ho Chi Minh, and Richard Nixon. Block B was the defense minister’s destination. They were scheduled to meet clandestinely with the most high-ranking officials of the People’s Republic promptly at 0715 and they were quite early.
The driver had done well. Now she hopped out of the car in her crisp black and white uniform, adjusted her formal cap, then stood by the door, waiting to open it with white kid gloves, all while straining to hear the dregs of the conversation, without luck.
She stood for a few minutes, adopting a hypnotized stare.
Inside they talked.
“May I ask the agenda, sir?”
The minister nodded. “The agenda will be simple. One topic. We will ask our president to endorse retaking Taiwan if they declare independence. Everything is set for an embargo and invasion should that happen.”
“And will it?”
“Of course. With the American’s delivery of their advanced technology, Taiwan will feel emboldened. They made it their campaign platform to break away. The fools.”
“Are the Americans aware of our next generation of missiles, sir? The Dongfeng 51s?”
“I would have to presume so, yes.”
“Won’t they turn their eyes away from North Korea to concentrate on them?”
The minister laughed. “The Americans tend to fixate and only look at the shiniest objects. In this case, that is the NPRK, just as we planned. I doubt they realize how far our military capabilities have progressed while they look north.”
Xiong smiled. “They will be unpleasantly surprised.”
“If America intervenes with undue force, they will be destroyed,” the minister informed him.
Eventually the old man tapped on the window, then stepped from the car and into a warm, humid morning and a bustling avenue. He pointed down the street at a red, white and yellow sign. “We’ll walk there—it will be good for us to be among the People. We will eat well before our meeting. Exercise and diet keeps me young,” the eighty-year-old said to his junior as he hurried along, almost knocking people over. The captain tried to keep pace with his boss, anxious to know about the conference. He had to shout above the street sounds. He pressed the minister.
“Please, sir, when does this mission start?” Xiong asked.
The defense minister stopped suddenly and looked around cautiously and leveled his gaze at the aide. “With luck, in a few days we will see the end of American hegemony and meddling. Their crass commercialism, fast-food mentality and worship of money has infected our nation. This comes to an end. We will be the power again. China will regain its rightful place at the center of the world.”
After a moment, the young captain smiled knowingly. He finally got it.
“So this is not entirely about Taiwan,” he said. “You want to embarrass the Americans.”
The minister raised his chin, half-smiled. “Perhaps you are more intelligent than they say,” he replied, a comment that left the captain speechless, as well as three paces behind him. Over his shoulder the minister said, “Humiliation and fear are our finest weapons.”
They reached the eatery. The door opened and the two men marched inside the restaurant, along with the squad of armed soldiers and security flanking them. The minister strode past the long lines and a soldier pushed aside the man in front.
The clerk looked up, did a double-take and bowed slightly.
“Sir?” he managed to say.
The defense minister narrowed his eyes at the menu, read the selection and looked across at the employee.
“Is it too early for fries?” he asked.
The young man behind the counter almost stammered, “Yes, sir, we don’t serve fries until eleven, sir.”
The minister made a face. “Fine, fine. Hmmm. Then I shall have an Egg McMuffin with sausage, hash browns, coffee,” he said, and then turned to his aide, cocking his head slightly.
“And you, what will you have?”
2. Warning Signs
In Manhattan, four days before the big event, Lt. Colonel Peter Grant waited impatiently in the Chinese delegation’s elegant United Nations foyer for the People’s Republic’s vice consul Li Cai Wen to get the hell off the phone.
Grant’s foot tapped to an infectious Rebecca Chase song playing in his head as he scanned portraits of noted Sino leaders the average American wouldn’t recognize even if they were working the counter at their favorite neighborhood Golden Dragon Buffet.
Peter knew them all, had their dossiers memorized like a senior-year history exam. The president and party chairman. The vice deputy chairman and defense minister—the latter, one and the same. The defense minister was the most dangerous man in China and ultimately the reason Grant was meeting with Li Cai Wen.
The door opened, and Li, attired in tailored Armani, ushered Grant inside. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Peter, but that call couldn’t wait.”
“I imagine the Secretary-General outranks me,” Grant said, lowering into his seat.
“My wife, reminding me to pick up our son from soccer practice.”
“Yes, well, I know she outranks me.”
Li beamed. “So, why are we meeting, my friend?” clasping hands as if about to close a sale on a Hummer.
“A few select issues I hope you can clarify,” Grant replied.
Li’s fingers formed a chapel. “I should guess. North Korea, perhaps? You needn’t be concerned. As your Texans say, all hat, no cattle.”
“Well, they are a bit beyond that summation. The North has been sabre-rattling for the last few years, saying their ICBM’s can reach downtown Kansas City.”
Li nodded. “Yes, and they are close to these goals but their atomic weapons don’t quite fit just yet. Like trying to squeeze a Chrysler Hemi engine into a Mini Cooper. So is that the extent of your worry, Peter? North Korean threats?”
“Let’s stay on your turf, Mister Li. It’s all your mysterious movement,” Peter said. “Rail cars. Fake houses. Big, long, scary missiles hiding underneath them. Run of the mill, if your mill uses enriched plutonium.”
“These fake houses, do they have a double garage?” Li smiled, playing cat and mouse.
Grant grinned and said, “I’ll get to the point. You have something else going on. Something bigger than naval drills, war games and the Korea diversion. I’m talking about the DF-fifty-ones.”
“Remind me, please?” Li asked, palming open his hands. “DF—?”
“The Dongfeng fifty-one’s? Big-ass heavy missiles heading to your south? These appear to be warning signs,” Grant said. “You seem to be gearing up for something, if not sinister, at least not nice.”
Li raised his hands, showing indifference. “You are misinformed, my friend. DF-fifty-one’s would be very advanced weapons. They don’t yet exist.” Grant noticed Li’s slight eye movement, a tick that foreshadowed his next sentence.
“Shall we take a walk outside, my friend? Clear the air.”
They strolled up First Avenue as gusty winds swirled between shady canyons of steel and glass, surrounded by a drone of traffic noise, hurried worker bees in suits, and awe-struck tourists taking selfies in front of the United Natio
ns building.
“We may talk like grown men now,” Li said, “Your point, please.”
“Look, we know that you’ve got all these super-sophisticated, long-range ICBM’s ready to flip over the big lake. You’ve been fast-tracking these monsters in Yunnan province for the last three months. I can tell you which factory if you like. The head foreman’s name is Mei. He has an eight-year-old daughter named Ki. She has asthma. What I’m saying is that we know things.”
“And you have but one testicle,” Li grinned. “Peter, we all have intel and guard our secrets.”
Peter, barely blushing, went on, “By my count, you’ve got eighteen DF-fifty-one missiles, each carrying up to ten two-and-a-half megaton warheads, some in silos, some on tracks, some road-mobile. Range: fifteen-thousand miles, twice that of the previous generation. Hell, you could almost attack yourselves with these bastards. But we suspect they’re aimed our direction.”
“News to me…” Li began but Grant cut him off.
“We’ve seen your non-existent missiles from our own satellites, old buddy,” Peter said. “They’re as plain as Amish chicks.”
Li actually laughed. So Peter took the opening.
“We also know about some recent rockets launched into orbit.”
“Communication satellites, perhaps?” Li shrugged. “I assure you we have other ways of screwing with each other’s nations. Not so much hardware and fireworks. That is a last resort.”
“On the level?” Peter wondered.
“As close as I can say without your guessing.”
Li Cai Wen and Peter Grant had been almost-friends since 1998. They’d met in Hong Kong at a briefing on the transfer of ownership of the region from British to Chinese hands and hit it off immediately. Aside from the obvious facial differences, they looked similar—same height, fit builds, once-black hairs now sprinkled with grey, though Li used hair dye to cover his while Peter’s had become increasingly silvered as his job became more intense. Peter, long divorced, used to dine with Li and his wife at their condo on Park Avenue, but those days had passed. Now, strictly business. In part, Li’s ascendency through the ranks to the People’s Republic of China’s vice consular position dwarfed Peter’s rise to lieutenant colonel—at fifty, Grant should be a full-bird colonel, if not a general, especially considering his recent, seminal report regarding the flareup in Iran that may have prevented a war.
“So what are we to make of these developments?” Grant asked. “Missiles, rockets. Is your unhinged Defense Minister behind all this?”
“Don’t point fingers. You should really learn to take the long view, my friend,” Li said, sidestepping the question. “Speculation can lead to confusion and misunderstandings.”
“You’re saying what?” Grant asked.
“I’m saying your new president is breaking long established protocols and setting the stage for trouble. My government is not infinitely patient.”
“Really? What happened to the long view?”
Li grinned. “Good point.”
Peter Grant considered Li Cai Wen to be truthful, or as much as he could be in his position, and seeing as Grant routinely laundered intel from all wings of the military and government and archived them efficiently in his brain, he could now track the thread Li Cai Wen was weaving with his outward denials.
“This is about Taiwan, isn’t it?” Peter said. “The president’s outreach, embracing their national independence plan. You already have two-thousand conventional missiles aimed at Taiwan but these DF-fifty-one’s are nuked up. You don’t need that kind of muscle for a little island. So what’s in play here? Why shake the big stick at us?”
“Ah, the renegade province—intent on not being Chinese,” Li Cai Wen nodded. “Seriously, is Taiwan even on your radar anymore? No one cares about it except for my people, my government. I doubt many Americans have ever heard of the place.”
“They’ll hear about it now if you keep playing this game,” Grant said. “America does three things exceptionally well: Movies, music, and broadcast news.”
Li Cai Wen looked amused. “In all truth and in reality, their posturing for independence has set the stage for trouble.”
“That has nothing to do with America,” Peter said.
“No, Peter?” Li’s eyes danced a bit. “Let’s look at just one small item. The Aegis systems you sold them? Arleigh-Burke-class destroyers? Advanced command-and-decision, radar tracking, and guidance systems—these are not an issue for you?”
“Not at all,” Grant replied. “Politics and profit.”
Li pressed, “These weapons are a threat. Let’s be clear: Taiwan is this close to a complete breakaway and we both know my government will not allow that. The only thing standing between China launching an embargo or, worse, declaring out and out war, is an official announcement from Taipei on establishing full independence. And that looks more likely with each passing hour.”
Grant said, “Taiwan’s new government feels they have a mandate. Especially given that our president seems to be weighing in on the matter. And you’ve known about the Arleigh-Burke sale for a a decade or more.”
Li Cai Wen sighed before saying, “There are powers in my capital who wish to make a point and unfortunately your ships are delivering the sharp end of that point, a payload that would lead to disaster.”
“What payload?”
Li combed his hair. “Peter, ask yourself what would cause my country to even entertain the idea of intervening in Taiwan, thus threatening your way of life.”
“Not a clue,” Peter shrugged.
“Nuclear bombs,” Li Cai Wen answered. “Taiwan will have nukes, too. To us, that is the ultimate threat.”
Not wishing to seem ignorant, Grant said, “So to counter it, you stack the deck.”
“It’s worse than that, Colonel,” Li said. “I haven’t yet told you details about the other dangers.”
And once Li Can Wen had finished, Peter Grant thought: If this is true, we’re all fucked.
Twenty minutes after his worrisome chat with Li Cai Wen, Peter Grant boarded a commercial helicopter at the East 34th Street Heliport for a short flight to JFK.
His phone burped and he read the caller’s name—Spivey.
“Did you speak to the Chinese?” the general asked. “Li’s take?”
“He wanted to meet in his office so his handlers could hear the party line of denials,” Peter told his CO. “But then we took a walk.”
Spivey said, “That means they’re keeping the channels open. Someone in the PRC’s New York office is concerned about Beijing’s moves.”
“It’s Taiwan,” Grant said, moving to a jump-seat area, out of earshot. “They’ve stepped too far out on the limb with this independence talk. The new Arleigh-Burke shipment is rattling nerves.”
The general said, “I admit the timing sucks.” There was a muffled pause, like the phone was being cupped, then a moment later Spivey added, “Give me the Cliff Notes. We’re secure.”
“The DF-fifty-ones are aimed our way,” Peter replied. “Their range and firepower is too great to waste such juice on Taiwan. The Chinese only arm conventional missiles with standard payloads to scare the island. That’s probably all they need. And they want the country intact; no bullet holes.”
“That’s kind of a stretch if China starts shooting,” Spivey said. “We’ve seen naval maneuvers lately, including that new aircraft carrier and the jet they think we can’t see. What else did Li say?”
Certain he could not be overheard, Peter still asked quietly, “As far as I know, Taiwan has not joined the nuclear club. Is this right?”
After a beat, Spivey replied, “Where are you?”
“Boarding the helo to JFK now, sir,” Grant told him. “You?”
“The White House,” Spivey said. “Situation Room. President. Joint Chiefs. Bunch of yahoos. Take the chopper, Peter. I want you in D.C. two hours ago. This isn’t horseshit. The DefCon level has been kicked up a notch. We need your report live. Come dire
ctly to the Oval Office.”
“I understand, sir,” Grant said. He followed a flight attendant to his seat up front by a window and checked the time. “With my connection, I’ll be there at three.”
“There must be static on the line,” the general said. “Maybe you didn’t hear the order. Commandeer the aircraft. It has range and fuel. Get here now. We’re waiting.”
The line went cold.
Grant approached the flight attendant, briefed her on the need to vacate the aircraft, then strode to the cockpit and told the captain to alter his course and head for Washington, D.C. The pilot, uncertain of protocol, merely handed him some paperwork.
“I need to file a flight plan first,” the pilot said. “Where do you want me to land? Reagan, Dulles, or Andrews?”
“Drop it down on the White House lawn,” Grant replied.
3. The Bullet
Days before the shooting began, Ben Cage lost the Bullet.
On the highest ridge of Mt. Cochiti, a remote peak in New Mexico, Ben scanned the sky but came up empty. Frustrated, he prepped a large array telescope nicknamed Betsy to a quadrant he’d not monitored for several hours, searching for a tiny but growing blue spot that might be a rogue asteroid or a large meteor possibly making a beeline for Earth’s neck of the woods.
They’d nicknamed it the Bullet.
In England, his boss, Dr. Mavis Kent, wanted current data—measurements and presumed speed at least—but Ben had instead selfishly followed his pet A2H-5 spectacle, neglecting the assignment. Now he was back on the Bullet, borderline frantic.
“Baby, don’t hide from me,” Cage said, quickly browsing through the previous day’s catalog of shots, seeking a trace. “Do not become a ghost. You think I want Mavis the MILF to say I screwed the pooch?” Still, the Bullet wasn’t Ben’s true interest, it was hers. Cage had his own fixation.
Two days before, while the mysterious, weird, brilliant Edwin Dark was interviewing for a research position, the two stood five feet back of the monitor and stared. They turned their heads sideways—gobsmacked.
