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

by James Kiehle

  “More weirder is not correct—” Judy began, but Iris cut her off.

  “Yeah, well, uh—the truth is, I was drowning,” Iris said. “We were doing this see how long you can hold your breath underwater thing? And I was probably winning—I don’t know cuz this kid named Zach or Arnold or something—well, he pulled me up because he thought I was drowning and, yeah, I was. Drowning. I was going down for the third time. Everything was all fuzzy on the edges—”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Cross my heart,” Iris said. “Pretty scary.”

  Judy’s maternal instincts kicked in but vanished in a flash, as the dizziness returned and so did Love is Blue. Everything swirled. “Okay, then, just a coincidence; just something… Honey, can you check the asparagus? All the wheat is gone.”

  Confused, Iris asked, “Pardon?”

  Judy’s slurry answer sounded like: “In my checking, six loaves, fishes.”

  “Mother?” Iris said, holding her hand, voice nervous.

  “I don’t have enough— There’s something in—” Judy’s eyes suddenly rolled back in her head and showed white. She was ready to pass out.

  “Mom, what is it?” Iris almost screamed, kneeling, grabbing her mother’s hands. “What’s wrong? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  •

  Every year in June, Russ Perry’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Iris, traveled somewhere with her mother. This go-round the destination was Hawaii, a field trip arranged by the private school Iris attended.

  The Cable School, just outside of town, cost nearly eleven thousand dollars annually and their trips to distant places ran the Perry’s an extra five or six grand. The previous spring, Iris and Judy had traveled to Russia; the year before that, to Mexico.

  Aside from what happened on the way to Russia, both Iris and Judy had been enriched by the travels, but Russ always felt his world was shattered the moment they stepped on the plane. Russ wished he would hear from them. Find out how the flight had been at least.

  Russ walked back towards the office along the edge of the river, taking notes of what he saw. He idly watched people feed the ducks while the river crews continued their chores.

  The sun was warm but not hot, especially when the breeze picked up from the south. The afternoon duck feeders were mostly seniors, dressed as if they expected a snowstorm, with ample time on their hands to spoil the mallards.

  Russ’s cell phone suddenly began to play an annoying little song and he clicked the phone open.

  “Hello?” There was a brief pause and some noise.

  “Hi, hon,” Judy said, her voice tinny, as if speaking through a can on a string. “You down by the river?”

  “You know me too well. Are you at the beach?”

  Another tiny pause, as if an unseen interpreter was translating his words to her. “At the beach, no, just the hotel pool,” Judy told him. “We spent the morning doing the touring thing but we thought the kids deserved a break. Us, too. Listen, I had to get a new phone. I dropped the other in the pool. Sorry.”

  “Everything alright? How was the flight?”

  “Uneventful. All was calm. I watched a couple of movies, drank some scotch and sodas. Iris read part of an old Harry Potter book.”

  “Weather good?”

  “Perfect. Eighty degrees.”

  Russ looked at his watch. It was five-thirty. “What time is it there?”

  “Two-thirty,” Judy replied, then cupped the phone for a second before she got back on. “Russ, do you have any idea what the president is going to talk about? There are a lot of rumors floating around here.”

  “That’s news to me. About what?” he asked.

  “Russ, shouldn’t a newsman know?”

  “Touché, but still, what?”

  Judy’s reply was garbled for an instant and all he caught was, “—island’s buzzing about it. Lot of people feel this Taiwan stuff is getting dangerous. Even Iris brought it up.”

  Although it was currently the lead story in the paper, the United States and China had yelled at each other before and Taiwan seemed safe enough. From what Russell had heard, the People’s Republic was patiently taking what they called the long view, opting to negotiate for Taiwan’s return rather than try to take it by force.

  “Judy, you’re five thousand miles from China,” he almost laughed. “Don’t worry.”

  Another long pause finally ended with his wife’s broken message.

  “I got—bad— nection— here.”

  “Can I talk to Iris?” Russ asked through another surge of noise.

  “What? No. Sorry,” Judy said, after the line cleared. “She went back into the pool. She said she’s having fun and loves you.”

  “Same here,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I love you,” Russ told her instead. “Bunches.”

  Judy said something within a band of crackles and the line abruptly went dead.

  10. Aloha

  In the mid-Pacific ocean, Captain Chao Dai-wing leaned over the railing, fifteen stories above the sea, and watched the white foam trail caused by the secret and not-yet-named aircraft carrier she was on as it powered west towards Midway island, out for a test run. Up to the minute technologically and almost invisible to detection, China owned the first stealth aircraft carrier.

  As far as the world knew, China’s only carrier, the 54,000-ton-displacement Liaoning was sea worthy and the story of its evolution showed how secretive China could be. Originally a Russian carrier (called Varyag, then Riga) by the former USSR, the vessel was sold to Chinese interests ostensibly as a future casino in Macau for a laughably cheap $25 million. The name Liaoning itself was deceptive—the word meant ‘peaceful’—but at a thousand feet long, a range of 3,850 nautical miles, hosting a crew of just under 2,000, the Liaoning could stay at sea for more than a month and a half, and with thirty Shenyang J-15 aircraft and a variation of the Aegis system that was causing such havoc for her nation’s leaders re: Taiwan, it’s presence was anything but peaceful.

  This ship—unnamed for security reasons but apt to be called Wúxíng (Unseen)—dwarfed Liaoning in size and capability. It had on board not only forty J-15 but a highly classified new carrier-borne fighter/bomber that only Captain Chao Dai-wing and three others had ever flown.

  The ZCF-111, with low observability, forward canards, folding wings, an arrester hook, high maneuverability, thrust vectoring, supercruise, sensor fusion, and helmet-mounted sights—modifications to help it deal with carrier operations and landings—the aircraft she would be testing was arguably among the finest in the world.

  But for now, orders under seal, Chao Dai-wing watched the sea, though she longed to be flying above it and just see what that humongous puppy can do out in the real world.

  Maybe pay a visit to Hawaii.

  Say Aloha.

  •

  Peter Grant had managed to catch a nap on a cot in the infirmary for only a couple of hours before he was abruptly awakened with a light pat and a push on his shoulder. Groggy, he reluctantly opened his eyes and saw Deborah Lansing smiling down at him—surprised that the second most important person in the White House had given him a personal wake-up call.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Colonel Grant, but there have been developments you might want to look into,” she said. “You can sleep a little later. Maybe.”

  “Developments?” Peter yawned as he sat up.

  “Taiwan is about to declare full independence and we’re about an inch away from war,” she laughed mildly. “But, from your perspective, there is possible movement of your DF-fifty-one’s. We have images. I was nearby, thought you should know.”

  “By all means. Let’s go.”

  They walked the wide hallway towards a temporary office that the president’s chief of staff had arranged for Grant to work in, not far from the Situation Room. They passed fast-walking servicemen, aides, and a pair of cabinet-level secretaries until they reached the office and stepped inside. Two marines were work
ing at computer stations. Peter tapped one on the shoulder and the lieutenant scooted to the other side. Grant began pounding the keys, calling up the most recent satellite images while Lansing took a call.

  He zeroed in on Huangshan, Base 52 in the Nanjing Military Region.

  Headquartered in the Jiangxi mountain resort town of Huangshan, the Second Artillery is the most important unit for conventional long-range precision strikes against the entire length of Taiwan. The 815th Brigade, garrisoned in Leping, is equipped with the newest addition to the Second Artillery’s inventory, the DF-15. Short range, very powerful. They moved by rail.

  But they were not the DF-51’s Peter had suspected.

  Grant shook his head. The fact that the 51’s had been transported at all was telling, but his biggest concern was that most of the watchers in the US military were training their eyes on the military war games taking place to the north, near Nanjing, and the annual naval exercises in the East China Sea.

  Or else, as usual, North Korea.

  “This is where your missiles are hiding?” Lansing asked once she clicked off. “Those are missiles on the rail car? Disguised as houses?”

  “This rail line passes right by the base. It’s home to intermediate and long-range missile platforms. If the Chinese decide to attack, we —and the Taiwanese— would not be looking in the right direction. We’d expect the firepower to come from Fujian province, directly across from Taiwan.”

  “I guess I’m not fully clear on all this,” she shrugged.

  “Watch,” Peter said.

  The satellite image finally sharpened. Peter could clearly see the rail line from a fly-over taken hours before. He zoomed in. There were about twenty of what appeared to be manufactured houses but what Grant knew to be the concealed Dong-Feng 51’s, the longest range missiles in their arsenal. A covering had been removed and the head of an ICBM was revealed. Nearby, the fixed missile silos appeared as concrete circles.

  “These are the bastards,” Grant said, as Lansing’s phone rang again. “And those are aimed not at Taiwan but at the You Ess of A.”

  “Excuse me.” Lansing took the call, listened, then spoke in a hushed tone before she hung up.

  Peter was muttering, “I wish I had access to the satellite feeds in real time” out loud, not really meaning to, but Deborah Lansing smiled, so he cocked his head and asked, “What?”

  “It could be that your wish has been granted.”

  “Back to New York?”

  She leaned over and whispered, “The president wants you to go to Idaho.”

  “What’s in Idaho?” Grant wondered. “Besides potatoes and— what, more potatoes?”

  Her luminous smile broadened.

  “You leave in three hours,” Lansing told him. “And you may have company.”

  •

  In New Mexico, Ben Cage had enlisted the services of three out of work, slumming geniuses to help plot the revised trajectory of Cage-Kent 018. So far, Ben had not been satisfied with the data he’d been shown. The projections seemed wavering, unsure, in part because the Bullet was rocketing end over end, not straight at all.

  That by itself was baffling.

  But now a consensus—and evidence—pinpointed the touchdown target.

  “You certain of this? You all actually agree that this is the impact point?” Cage asked Dani Moreland, otherwise known as Pinkie; she who had her own nicknames for everyone, including Ben.

  “Indeedy-do, Doctor Puffy,” Pinkie replied. “We’ve done calculations, tabulations, ramifications, certifications, and probable destinations. We’ve checked this flying monkey from thirty-six angles and two you never thought about. The fishes are heading for Troubletown, sey-nyor Puffcake, with a capital ‘rubble’.”

  Cage took a breath. “Well, that’s not so bad, then. Splashdown in the middle of the Pacific is all we could ask for. And you are all in agreement? That’s pretty rare.”

  “We am. We is,” Pinkie replied.

  A meteoricist from Yale via U of Houston, Moreland was potentially tops in her field but an observer would never know it from her unusual dress. Pinkie had magenta-tipped blonde hair and wore complicated ensembles in pinks and whites, accessorized with gobs of bangles, beads and bows. Not your standard scientist garb, except for the Drew Carey Marine glasses. Worse, many times Ben had trouble getting what the hell she was talking about, what with all that street jive that Ben just never understood. Still, Pinkie was cute, so that made it okay. The cute can get away with murder.

  “What’s your take?” Ben asked Dutch Sparks.

  “I cross checked with calculations from the Australia station and that’s affirmative. The Bullet’ll pass right over them, so close they’ll get face burns, then head north, but land far south of Hawaii.” Dutch said. For a theoretician, Sparks was another anomaly, an athletic, vain, big dude with an endlessly self-satisfied smirk, a guy who checked his hair in the mirror a lot. Dutch seemed to believe he was God’s gift to both astronomy and women. He also had a quick temper—arrested for assault back in March, pled a deal.

  “It’s going to hit us,” Pinkie said. “Think Mike Tyson in his prime landing a right jab in a punch bowl. Same effect.” Pinkie had a habit of chewing gum and blowing bubbles—she liked the snap. It was cute on her, but might be obnoxious on another.

  “Edwin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Answer?”

  “That was my answer: Yeah,” Dark said. “They nailed it.”

  “I’ll call Mavis,” Ben said.

  11. Marital Misdemeanors

  A beautiful place on a beautiful day in a beautiful city awaiting a beautiful woman.

  Russ Perry felt like a snake.

  Outside, sitting on the deck with a river view, Russ hypnotically watched the waters splash over pebbly banks as the sun disappeared behind Awbrey Butte; the Deschutes charging though Bend as sunlight speckled on its long waves, dazzling him.

  Maggie was late, of course, and Russ took long gulps of a Stella Artois as he counted her tardy minutes, checking his watch. Was Maggie toying with him, as often seemed? Was this a test of his patience or his interest? Her bold feigned kiss earlier was not only unexpected but clear sexual harassment, not that Russ would file a complaint.

  Russ was painfully aware that his wife knew about his attraction to Maggie, a woman who exuded the sexual confidence and sultry aura of a character straight out of Tennessee Williams. Ted Gallo once called Maggie the “Duchess of Denial,” and if anyone in Bend knew her, it was the publisher.

  Russell’s wife, on the other hand, referred to Maggie less charitably.

  Still, to her credit, Judy had never mentioned that she’d once uncovered a provocative email from Maggie to Russ with an attached photo that bordered on pornographic. When Russ discovered the page had been left wide open on his laptop, he felt an apologetic gut-punch, though the episode remained forever an embarrassing, mutually-kept secret for both husband and wife.

  When Maggie finally breezed onto the deck, Russ had already downed two pints and was feeling a tinge of remorse at even being here. Still, the sight of the statuesque Ms. Chapin gliding through the open doors and onto the deck somewhat magically—all eyes following her grand entrance and graceful gait—made Russ smile.

  Maggie, a regular here, sat down opposite Russ, and an alert waiter delivered a Tom Collins almost before she was fully seated.

  “Did I keep you waiting long?” she asked, scooting closer, overpriced sunglasses veiling her beguiling eyes.

  “Just enough to feel a buzz,” Russ replied, signaling for another draft. “What’s on your mind, Maggie?”

  “Right to the point. Refreshing.” She smiled with upscale teeth and laughed like a cartoon evil queen—nothing subtle about Maggie.

  “That near-kiss earlier kind of put me on edge.”

  “One of the things I like about you, Russ. You might be one half of a sunny all-American modern day Ozzie and Harriet duet, but you can be a blunt Everyman.”

&nbs
p; “Everyman?” Russ repeated, a little insulted. He thought there was more to him than that. “Is that what you like about me? Normality?”

  “In part.” Maggie grinned. “I like what’s hiding behind your mask of normal. The hidden chambers of your fantasy castle.”

  “How poetic.” Russ raised an eyebrow and smiled, too. “And that leads us to drinks by the river at sunset.”

  “At the very least.” Maggie said, spreading sparkling pink lips wide to reveal ivory teeth. She looked gym-fit and regal, a tantalizing blend of age and eternal youth. Dressed low-key for her, wearing a cowgirl-style white blouse with metal rivets and leather trim, black shorts with a gold belt and matching black-and-gold cowgirl boots, all enhanced a body to turn porn stars green.

  “Coworkers having drinks,” Russ said as his cold beer arrived. “Innocent business expense.”

  “If need be.” Maggie peeled off her dark lenses, exposing a magnetic gaze under turquoise-colored eye makeup. “Pretty simple really. I’m alone, you’re alone. Do you really like to be alone?”

  “It’s only for a few days,” Russ shrugged, tearing his eyes away from her intense gaze. “I don’t get to be alone very often. I can call Ted if I get lonely. I’ve got frozen foods to nuke if I get hungry, a six of PBR in the fridge if I get thirsty. All in all, life is good. ”

  “It could be better,” Maggie suggested, as her silken calf unexpectedly caressed his leg, sending a spark directly to his groin.

  Russ laughed, “That’s not been my experience. Better is not always better,” while remembering that a fantasy realized usually dissolves in the sharp light of reality.

  Maggie flashed a knowing cheshire smile as she twirled the ends of her sunglasses. “Now I’ll be more direct. Are you happily married? Or is there wiggle room?”

  Perry had no answer. Happiness was not exactly ‘relative’—more like a distant ninth cousin. Russ and Judy were comfortable with each other, and the bond of family kept him on the straight and narrow, but they had their mounting troubles, mostly due to inaction in the bedroom.