Oasis: The China War: Book One of the Oasis Series

by James Kiehle

  “Bombings of the mainland. And that will only rile them up; not just the military but one-point-three billion Chinese citizens. The rest of the world will split but most would look at us as bad guys, too.”

  The president played with a pencil, moved it back and forth, up and down. “Let’s say we reposition our forces first.”

  “Takes too much time to pull it together,” Peter replied. “Extremely complicated, a logistical nightmare. And mobilizing our military would tip any hand.”

  The president said, “I agree that Taiwan is stirring the hornet’s nest when—if —they claim sovereignty. If China embargoes, well, legally, it’s theirs. We move into place and they paint us as the aggressor, right?”

  “Mr. President, if we attack in retaliation, they’re free to use this new generation missile system to smack us back and possibly win a war; if such a thing is possible.”

  “So your recommendation is to sit tight, let them invade?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are the capabilities of these new missiles?” Lansing asked.

  “The DF-fifty-one’s, sir,” Grant replied. “The Dong-Feng class of ICBM’s. The Chinese employ what they call ‘limited nuclear deterrent’ with seventy, maybe eighty, long-range missiles, each one armed with a four-to-five-megaton thermonuclear warhead; in some cases, as many as three per missile, but with the fifty-one’s, well, sir, they pack a buttload of ordnance. If they choose to launch some of these puppies our way, they could reach Denver, maybe Detroit.”

  “How much damage?” Lansing asked.

  “It would turn Motor City into glass.”

  8. Rebecca

  The famous blonde sat on a stool at the hotel bar and ordered a martini. Ciroc. Dry. Two olives with an onion in-between them. She liked to clench the olives between her teeth and then smile so that her teeth showed fully, because that was her trademark, that’s how everyone knew her.

  Her arsenal of smiles.

  Legend.

  “This is so cool,” the young man sitting two seats down gushed. “Rebecca. Here. Shit. Jesus. Henry. Christ.”

  She ignored him. “Can I smoke here?” she asked the bartender, who shook his head. “No?”

  “Not my fault. State law,” he shrugged.

  “Stupid smoke Nazis,” she seethed, looking back to the young guy, turning full-on to face him. “Damn it. Okay, you: Go on,” she said, but the boy looked kind of bewildered—she had lost him at the first word.

  “Uh…”

  “Spit it out. Keep up with the game.” She snapped her fingers in his face, gave him a flash of her famous Diva anger. The smoke ban had pissed her off. “You said: Rebecca. Here. Shit. Jesus. Blah. Blah. Do you have anything more beyond you have a nice smile and I have all your albums?”

  Far from offended, the young man was amazed that Rebecca Chase was even letting him talk to her. Everyone knew she was a world-class bitch; he was ready for that.

  “No, no. Nothing more,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I just, you know, I’m a fan. And I have all your albums. I think you already know about your smile.”

  She laughed too, then lit a cigarette anyway. The bartender said nothing.

  She turned back to the young guy. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice me, might think I was just some girl who looked like Rebecca Chase. Not actually her. Sometimes that would be soooo nice. No one knows me. Just a face, not the face.”

  The young man cautiously edged forward.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Having a drink,” she said, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “I’m tired.”

  “Tired of what?” the bartender asked, eyebrow cocked. “The fame, the fortune? The worship?”

  “The microscope. Look at the tabloids, watch TV. They say I’m a slut. A fucking slut. Why? Because I’ve had sex with movie stars? Athletes? That matador guy and a busboy named Juan? Apparently I was into necrophilia not long ago. That’s dead people. Where would I even find dead people to fuck?”

  People seated throughout the room turned around to see who the loud mouth was, and then, recognizing Rebecca Chase, murmured to each other. The young guy looked at the bartender, whose expression he couldn’t read, then back at her.

  “I meant, why are you here in Portland?” the young man said. “We don’t get stars like Rebecca Chase hanging out here very often.”

  She gave him a weary smile, this one likely called Oh, please.

  Rebecca made up names for her smiles, giving them identity, depending on how they were needed. Her sarcastic one Think you are man enough? was used a lot, though not as often as You love me...You want me…Desire me.

  Her cache of smiles was currency.

  Undaunted, the young man scooted his stool closer, looking to her first for approval. “My friends won’t fucking believe this.”

  She gave him the patented I Love It smile.

  “You have a phone? Take a picture.”

  The invitation brought him near rapture. “Cool. Tight.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, careful to touch it only lightly, and snapped three shots as quickly as he could. He gave the camera to the bartender, who took a few more, one focussed on her breasts.

  “Man, this is so extra, and so weird.”

  Rebecca thought his innocence was semi-charming. He was young, possibly a minor with good ID, but he was cute and drinking an expensive Bourbon. He had a rich kid look about him, with a good tan but oddly flushed cheeks. His haircut looked salon quality and his shoes ran about five bills per foot. Overall, a naive young prospect with bucks.

  Could be fun.

  The barman brought another drink, tried to engage her, but she just smiled the smile and the bartender melted like an ice cube on a griddle. She turned to her rich, young admirer. “What was the question?”

  “Here. Why are you here?” he said.

  Rebecca sipped deliberately and moved her gaze between her two suitors. “I got bored,” she replied, lowering a blonde head onto her propped-up hand and pouted convincingly.

  The kid laughed nervously. “Bored? Hell. Jesus. You can go anywhere, buy anything and could have like anyone in the galaxy. You’re a fucking star—”

  “Yeah, and guess what? That’s shit,” she said, stamping out the cigarette.

  “What the hell bores you?” he wondered.

  Her smile vanished. “Real life. I don’t have one. Everyone knows ‘Rebecca’ went from preteen fairground singer to huge star in a heartbeat. So, unlike other nameless bitch stars, I haven’t really been tested. It’s been easy for me.”

  “I don’t get it,” the kid said and turned to the bartender. “Do you get it?” The barman shrugged and gave him a Not Really smile.

  “You boil it down, this is the problem,” Rebecca said. “Absolute truth. Want the exclusive?”

  Both men nodded, eyes wide.

  “I have no idea who I am,” she said. “The me beyond this…” she motioned to her body with hands as if a mirage. “…this outside person, this celebrity—I just don’t know who she is. Am I just a commodity? Disposable? I live on my looks, my talent, but you tell me, honey: Who am I?”

  This was easy. The kid knew the answer. Even the bartender nodded.

  “The most beautiful woman in the world.”

  This took her a minute. “Yeah? You think? Me?” Her smile was new, almost shy, unnamed.

  “I’d probably pray to you,” the kid blushed.

  The bartender, somehow offended by this, stepped back a pace, looked up at the television, watched talking heads arguing about what America should do about China, then file footage of Chinese soldiers marching in lockstep. He didn’t like what he was hearing, let alone seeing.

  “Pray to me?” Rebecca liked that. It was flattering, even if untrue. She charmed him with her Well, I Don’t Know About That smile.

  “I mean it. I’ve always thought you were a goddess,” he confessed. “I have a poster of you upstairs in my room.”

  “You live in a hotel?”
>
  “My dad owns the place.”

  Full tilt You love me… version. Hooked like a catfish. Hell, she could have a Menage a Trois with the bartender, too, if she wanted. But no, he didn’t have enough cash and seemed more interested in the broadcast news.

  She touched the rim of her glass with a wet, pink-and-white manicured fingertip; rotated it along the edge so slowly it seemed as if in time lapse. Her wet finger made the glass hum, this while the young guy watched her in speechless awe. The bartender wiped his hands on the clean white towel he then twisted.

  Rebecca raised her glass. “I have a startling confession, boys.”

  “Confession?” the bartender grinned.

  She swallowed the drink. “I’m not Rebecca Chase.”

  Not Rebecca Chase?

  “Why would you even say that?” the bartender asked, sadly realizing that the kid’s bigger wallet probably trumped his free martinis, but was still daydreaming that her stylish blonde hair might soon be in his grip, her lips on his. French kisses. Oooh-la-la.

  The famous blonde said, “It’s true. I’m an impostor. I’m conning you.”

  “It’s a funny thing being behind this bar,” the bartender said, trying to catch her gaze. “You learn about people. You know when they’re lying. Tells, like in poker. It helps separate the wheat from the chaff.”

  “What’s chaff?” the boy asked him and the bartender sighed.

  “It’s the part that isn’t wheat,” he replied. “Can’t eat it.”

  The blonde sipped hard, downed a lot of vodka.

  “Which part is a lie?”

  “All of it,” the bartender replied. “There’s no question in my mind that you are the Rebecca Chase. My only question is what are you doing here? Are you going crazy like they said on the tube, getting tired of all the stalkers. The pa-pa-rot-zee? I heard you were freaking out on TMZ. Just disappeared. No one knew where—”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard the stories myself,” she grinned. Thinking on it, she realized it could be called her Yeah I’ve heard the stories grin and that made her smile more.

  The kid jumped in, offering, “Your smile is killer. Honest to God, I loved that smile ever since you did that very first video—”

  “Yeah. The cheerleader one.” A long sip and a hidden grin.

  “Exactly. That pleated skirt, and the lollipop and the—”

  She pressed a finger on his mouth, silencing him.

  “Would you like to kiss me?”

  The bartender abruptly and awkwardly found a reason to leave.

  The kid gulped. “Who wouldn’t?”

  Rebecca leaned in, paused a moment, then put her hand behind his head, pulled him close and kissed him. It was long, wet, and soft. One of her better ones, really.

  Maybe she should name her kisses?

  She stared at him a moment, then gripped his hair tightly.

  “Like that kiss?”

  “God yes.”

  “Best one ever?” Rebecca asked.

  “Probably. Maybe. Yeah.”

  “And yet no one will ever believe you. Real dilemma, huh? Would you pay to do that again? Maybe film it?”

  The kid took a breath. His eyes widened.

  “Everything I have.”

  Rebecca laid her head on the boy’s shoulder and touched his arm.

  “I have this wicked fantasy,” she said softly. “Wanna hear about it?”

  9. The River

  In late Spring, when it was finally warm, Russell Perry would amble down Minnesota street, cut over to Wall, cross the green expanse of Drake Park, rest on an old, jade-colored bench that faced the Mirror Pond and eat his lunch. The antique seat had a missing slat and a loose bolt and tilted back as if about to topple. Despite its frailty, Russ preferred it to the other park benches, which were newer and better maintained but had none of its weathered charm. Most of its surface was crudely engraved with the carved initials of lovers or vandals from another era, their public imprints seemingly immortal.

  The letters GP were carved into a narrow strip of wood. Perry traced the groove of the markings with his index finger and wondered if they belonged to his comical nemesis, the mayor, Gavin Parks.

  If so, page one news.

  Russ withdrew his reading glasses, slipped them on and studied the preview pages of the paper while he ate a turkey sandwich and sipped a bottle of chocolate Boost.

  During this break he’d usually edit the newspaper’s galleys away from the office, sitting in quiet, finishing his work long before the newspaper was sent to press that evening. But now Perry found himself distracted by the activity around him and the thrust of several unsettling dispatches from Asia that sat on his lap.

  The threat of a conflict between the United States and China now overshadowed the previous lead story, the possibility of local flooding. The Deschutes River, fifty feet away, flowed along at record volume, splashed over sandbags meant to corral its hard wash and apt to spill even deeper into the park with another hard rain. Pockets of the undulating lawn were already under several inches of water.

  For many weeks before, attention had been focused on the Canada Ice Shelf—now officially a glacier. There, a potentially far greater catastrophe was building on the upper Columbia River, five hundred miles north in Washington state and in Canada, but that big story was now relegated to the lower left corner of page four by the ominous and more immediate events overseas.

  It seemed the world was prepared to play dominoes.

  All fall down.

  The headline written by Ted Gallo was to scream: COLLISION COURSE, but Russ changed the wording to BLOCKADE THREAT GROWS, set in 196-point Helvetica Demi-Condensed, about the largest point-size the paper would normally feature, short of announcing World War Three or heralding Jesus’s return. Surely, either the Second Coming or global war would demand really big type, five-inch or greater, but both events seemed to be only remote possibilities and 196-point remained the benchmark.

  He read: BEIJING (Reuters)—Underlining his nation’s concern, Chinese Foreign Minister Wang Shu Zhi told the annual Congress of Revolutionary Students that “Any move to declare independence from mainland China would be resisted at all costs…”

  Russ closely scanned the pages for typos and errors, marking up each offending page, circling suspect words and flagging badly written phrases with tiny yellow post-it notes, his comments lettered in handwriting so fine as to look typeset. The wire stuff was perfect; it was the local stories that needed correction, along with each and every column, opinion piece, editorial, and all the local, commercially-driven bullshit he had to try to make sense of and sometimes translate into both American English and acceptable AP style.

  24 pages of trouble in his hands.

  TAIPEI (AP)– Defying mainland China’s assertion that Taiwan was on a collision course if it accepts the advanced weaponry from the U.S., the island’s new president, Ho Deng Chi, reaffirmed his nation’s stand that America’s delivery of an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer with Aegis defense systems was vital to Taiwan’s security…

  And.

  WASHINGTON (AP)—An unnamed State department official voiced concerns over the movement of Dong-Feng-class missiles, solid-fuel MIRV’s armed with multiple warheads one hundred and thirty-five miles from Taipei…

  Bad news dispatches went on and on. The threat from the Ice Shelf had become an afterthought.

  Russ thought: Jesus. Were there plagues of locusts he hadn’t heard about?

  Of the many items he’d read, the only good news in the batch seemed to be that Edgar “Bolt” Bolton, a notorious convicted murderer who’d escaped from Two Rivers prison a week before, had been apprehended and would soon be transferred to the maximum-security Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem.

  One small miracle anyway.

  •

  A white light awakened Judy; a mild slap made her aware and she wondered: Honolulu?

  “Mom?” said Iris, blocking the sun from her eyes. “You okay?”

 
“Should I call an ambulance,” Caryn White asked. She was another mom from the Cable school, kind of a drama queen. “Or water? I’ll get some water. I’ll be right back.”

  Judy’s eyes popped open and she sat up, sunglasses sailing into her lap. Shaky, the world seemed to vibrate.

  She reached out and touched Iris’ face, holding it so her cheeks were squashed. “Am I okay? Iris, are you alright?” she asked. Judy felt her daughter’s arms and legs and tummy to see if she was still in one piece.

  “Stop it,” Iris laughed, “Mom, that tickles.”

  Judy reluctantly pulled back and let out a deep breath. “Thank God you’re all right.” She tried to rub her face back to feeling while her daughter looked at her, troubled.

  “Did you fall asleep in the sun, mommy?” Her eyes were a little bloodshot.

  Judy, distracted, confused, said, “I thought your dad was here—”

  “Here?” Iris wondered. “Mom, are you drunkized?”

  Judy peered up, saw two Irises. “I might be.” Still woozy, she sipped some Mai-Tai, then took another longer drink, swallowing hard.

  “A-hem,” Iris chided. “Mom, maybe less alkie and more H-two-O?”

  Judy sipped again. “I’m good.”

  “You were either dreaming or crazy,” Iris said and patted her knee. “Don’t worry, Mom, modern medicine is great; a little brain surgery can fix you right up. Just an incision here and then we take out all that gunky gray stuff—”

  Judy snorted a laugh, but it wasn’t funny. Was something seriously wrong with her? She felt like crap but managed to say, “Your father was here. He warned me.”

  Iris put her shades back on. “Oh sure, daddy just materialized out of thin air,” she said. “He’s on deadline, Mom. He won’t even call because you’re so cheap. Have you noticed we don’t even have a tablet, just old phones?”

  “It was so real,” Judy insisted. “He warned me. You were drowning, Iris. I came in to get you but you were underwater and then I saw you standing over me. It’s—I don’t know what.”

  Iris sat silent, but her eyes spread a little wider, her mouth opened slightly. She rubbed her nose and looked around a moment before saying, “Uh, Mom, that is more weirder.”