by Chuck DeVore
A Novel by
Chuck DeVore
and
Steven W. Mosher
China Attacks
A Novel by
Chuck DeVore
and
Steven W. Mosher
Published in 2000
Second Edition—August 2001
Third Edition—January 2013
To the American fighting men and women who may be called upon to defend us from the coming storm…
Copyright Ó 2013 by Chuck DeVore and Steven W. Mosher
ISBN-13: 978-1481973809
ISBN-10: 1481973800
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Chinese language edition published by Silkbook.com
Order online from: www.Silkbook.com
Prologue
Belgrade, May 7,1999
The American B-2 Spirit Stealth Bomber pilot suppressed a small wave of anxiety and concentrated on his radar imaging display. He knew he and his mission commander were as close to invulnerable as American science and engineering could make them—but he still had a tinge of fear. An Academy classmate of his was shot out of the sky in an F-117A Nighthawk Stealth Fighter only six weeks before. Thankfully, he was rescued. The incident made the tight-knit brotherhood of pilots based in Central Missouri’s Whiteman Air Force Base somewhat circumspect during their nighttime bombing raids “downtown.”
There—the headquarters building of the Yugoslavian Federal Directorate of Supply and Procurement came into view on his radar imager. Every building around the target checked out—this was the one, the building that housed the bureaucrats who worked to supply the Serbian genocide in Kosovo. Not that he needed to double-check the target manually, given the precise capabilities of his aircraft and weapons.
The two-man bomber crew had been in the air for 16 hours now. Three times they took manual control of the giant black flying wing: at take-off and during two mid-air refuelings. The rest of the time the bomber flew itself. The actual bombing run was no different. The GPS-Aided Targeting System perfectly pinpointed the aircraft’s location as well as the target’s. The system fed the data to the 2000-pound GPS guided glide bombs that were to be dropped on the target. The pilot simply validated the computer’s work and toggled the switch to release the bombs.
Somehow, killing people seemed a little easier when a computer did it. The human in the loop was there only to veto an error in targeting. There were few errors. This system—highly trained pilots, B-2 Bomber, and GPS guided bomb—rarely missed. More accurate and reliable than the robotic cruise missile, or the older F-117A Stealth Fighter, the B-2 was used by NATO to reduce “collateral damage” (that euphemism of war referring to the undesired death and destruction caused when bombs fall astray or damage a wider area than intended). Less collateral damage would mean less opposition to the war back home and less international pressure to end it before forcing the Serbs to their knees. Amazingly, the B-2s had inflicted no collateral damage at all. The heretofore unattainable ideal of a “surgical” air campaign had finally been realized.
Fu Zemin had never been in a war before. At first, he was terrified. The haughty Americans and their European NATO henchmen had been bombing targets in Belgrade for several weeks now. Almost every night Fu was held captive by the hammering explosions about the city. During the day, Fu tried to fight back, to even the score with the arrogant Americans by diligently exchanging intelligence with his Serbian counterparts.
Fu Zemin was a dedicated member of the Chinese Communist Party—so was everyone else in a position of power in his country. Of course, being a Communist did not necessarily mean that he believed in Communism. Communism was a dead ideology in China—as dead as Chairman Mao, as dead as Lenin. It was a convenient tool to justify control of the masses, no more. On the other hand, Zemin believed in the Party—or rather, the Party’s power. The Party made his father important. The Party made it possible for his father to advance his career. It provided him perks and authority. He owed the Party everything. In return for his good fortune, he devoted his life to the Party. This was why he now found himself in the middle of a war zone, frightened for his life.
Fu was working late with a military attaché and three female Chinese intelligence agents (accredited to Belgrade as journalists and housed in the embassy’s “press” offices). The quintet was finalizing an agreement to buy the crashed remains of an American Stealth Fighter from the Yugoslavians. They were almost ready to place the proposal’s final terms and attached technical and political analysis in the next diplomatic pouch bound for Beijing when Fu stretched and said, “I’ve had so much tea that I’m ready to burst.” The operatives tittered as Fu stood up to head to the restroom. Normally, a woman wouldn’t dare laugh at Fu’s comment—he was a man and a Party official. But, these women, spies all, were also part of China’s elite. “We are all very tired. I want to review the final proposal and attachments one more time before it goes out under my signature. I’ll be right back.”
Fu walked down the nicely appointed embassy hall and ducked into the restroom. He decided to take out a cigarette (he smoked casually, and then usually only very late at night to help himself stay awake). He sat down on the toilet and lit up.
Fu inhaled a buzz-inducing drag and simultaneously relieved himself. He began to think of how China might soon counter America’s unchallenged global domination. He exhaled, slowly letting the smoke curl out of his nostrils. As if in a dream, the bathroom door blew off its hinges, the hallway flashed a bright white-orange, and the lights went out. Fu’s cigarette burned a hole in the palm of his hand before he yelped from the corner of the bathroom where he cowered. A moment later another explosion ripped at the building, knocking the wind out of Fu’s lungs and filling the air with a choking, hot dust.
Slowly getting to his feet, Fu heard muffled cries for help. They came from the direction of where his comrades were working. He saw flames swirling around the doorframe of the intelligence center and “press” room. He hesitated. Rescue operations were for military personnel and fire fighters and maybe bureaucrats—not up-and-coming Party officials. Fu turned his back on his countrymen and ran down the hallway illuminated only by emergency lighting and the spreading fire.
* * *
American B-2 Bomber pilots always hit their targets. The night of May 7th was no exception. The problem was not that the bombs missed, it was that the target moved. The Chinese Embassy in Belgrade had occupied the former offices of the Yugoslavian Federal Directorate of Supply and Procurement for more than a year. Unfortunately, no one in charge at the CIA or NATO headquarters knew this. And it was this point that really irked the Chinese—not that the Americans could have purposefully killed their spies and destroyed their intelligence center (the Chinese would have done the same thing in similar circumstances). The American explanation that the bombing was a “mistake” was deeply offensive to the Chinese—it showed the contempt that the West held for the Chinese—could anyone imagine the Americans “mistakenly” bombing the Russian or the British embassies? Never.
The American bombs that stained China’s honor also stole Fu Zemin’s honor (although his cowardice was known only to him). Fu returned to Beijing more committed than ever to restoring China’s proper place in the world as its premier power—its hegemon. China’s restoration would be Fu’s and Fu wouldn’t rest until both assumed their rightful places.
1
The People’s Commando
Major Chu Dugen remained motionless in the predawn calm, th
e moon lay low in the west to his right. Small puffs of icy steam leaked out from his black ski mask, it was the only evidence of life coming from his carefully camouflaged position. He and three of his best men were high on a ridge overlooking a small, Muslim village in extreme western China near the borders of Afghanistan and Tajikistan.
The sniper next to Dugen shifted his weight and sighed slightly. The man had been in position for an hour now. The cold was beginning to bite into his muscles. Dugen put his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. He said in a low, barely audible voice, “Huizi, relax. They won’t move until the moon sets. Give your rifle to me and slowly stand up. Stretch. Just keep your movements slow and fluid.” The commando officer knew there would be a period of total darkness for about 37 minutes before the dawn began to break.
The sniper soundlessly stood and began to limber up using Tai Chi. Dugen smiled under his mask. His men were completely at ease in his presence. He liked that. How different now than it was in 1989 when he led a platoon of conscripts in the assault on Tiananmen Square.
“Guangkai,” Dugen addressed the compact sergeant perched above him on the rocky ledge, “You have been at the night scope long enough. Wannian take over. Guangkai prep the thermal scope, the moon is almost ready to leave us.”
The men silently obeyed. Dugen kept his sniper from getting eye fatigue by having his other two men trade off observing the target house with a more powerful starlight scope set on a tripod. The starlight scope needed some illumination beyond that provided by its namesake, however, so Dugen was forced to use a thermal sight to cue his sniper once the moon set.
“Huizi, enough. Check your battery level.” Dugen knew Huizi’s American-made thermal scope ate through batteries at a fearful rate, especially in weather this cold.
Dugen shook his head almost imperceptibly—those men down below were good. Five more minutes and his starlight scope would be worthless at identifying the target. A thermal sight could pick out a man, but it wasn’t at all good at identifying him, and for this mission, Dugen needed to strike the right target.
“Sir!” Wannian hissed, “The door is opening. I see two men. The target is not among them.”
“Huizi?” Dugen asked.
“I see them,” the sniper whispered.
A puff of wind blew across Dugen’s mask, stealing the warmth off the end of his nose. “Wannian, look at the back of the house and up the slope.” The house was one of five strung out along a dusty road. Their common backyard was a 1,000 meter high ridge.
“Three people and a donkey.” Wannian’s excitement was muted by his professionalism. “They’re about 50 meters above and to the left of the house.”
“The target will be riding the donkey,” Dugen said. He knew he was stating the obvious. He had thoroughly briefed his men, they all knew what to do. In fact, every one of them were qualified snipers as well—Huizi just happened to be the best.
Huizi adjusted his right elbow and became very still. Dugen knew he was melding with his rifle and his target.
Crack! The single rifle shot echoed through the canyon.
“Target’s down!” Wannian said a little too loudly.
“Right. Pack up, let’s go!” Dugen’s men were already scrambling, pulling themselves up by the thin brown nylon rope they left in place to aid their ascent up the steep canyon wall. Dugen made sure his men were out of sight when he pulled a small pouch out of his field jacket and left it where Huizi only a moment before had fired his shot. For an instant Dugen wondered what was in the goatskin pouch, but he was forbidden to open it by Jia Battalion’s political officer. It wasn’t worth the risk to find out, he decided. A whiff of burnt gunpowder passed by his masked face and for a moment his mind filled with images of the bloody bodies of Tiananmen Square. He forced the unwelcome vision out of his head as he turned to pull himself up the rope.
2
Donna Klein, Spy
Donna Klein thought of herself as a spy. She always liked to use that term when thinking of her job, even when the most dangerous thing she faced was a paper cut. But, contrary to popular misconception, most of the CIA’s employees were analysts such as herself, not field agents. Information, whether from the most highly placed spy or from an ultra-sophisticated reconnaissance satellite, was just useless data until she got to it, examined it, questioned it, massaged it, then molded it into intelligence in the form of a concise report or briefing that could be used to shape and execute policy.
Donna especially enjoyed the challenge of forecasting events. While earning her Masters in International Relations (magna cum laude) at Georgetown, she often felt compelled to examine the “what ifs?” in her papers, even if her professors didn’t appreciate the extra effort. Working at the CIA gave her the opportunity to explore “what ifs?”—and actually get paid for it too!
Donna loved her job as a Chinese political specialist. Unfortunately, many of her pearls were being cast before pigs. She was coming to realize, after four short, intensive years, that much of her work was ignored, or, worse yet, misused by the political processes that made Washington tick. Unless one’s work happened to be on the radar screen of official Washington it was often shunted aside in favor of the crisis du jour. Still, the challenge of producing great intelligence was a wonderful job, even if the final product was often under-appreciated.
Donna’s left hand clicked her computer’s mouse to minimize the window of the report she was working on—a brief update on Chinese military modernization progress. There were no rings on her left hand and her fingers were graceful, but the fingernails were carefully cut short and only had a coat of clear polish. The report vanished off of her modest 19” monitor (senior analysts had the big 24” screens). Her e-mail window, always open, always resting immediately beneath whatever she happened to be working on, flashed to life. She highlighted the second message out of eight unread messages—it was from her boss’s boss, Mr. Scott:
Donna,
Our office has been asked to participate in an interagency simulation involving China. I would normally go, but I’m tied up with Balkan issues. Please call the simulation coordinator, LTC Gene Ramsey, at 697-3297 to make arrangements. The in-brief and start-up will be on Tuesday from 8 to 5. The simulation will run five hours each day from noon to 5, M-F, for 2 weeks. I’ll expect you to complete all your normal work assignments during this period. I already spoke to Jack about this.
Thanks.
I think you’ll enjoy this opportunity.
—S.
Donna smiled. A large mouth with generous lips—not too much lipstick—framed her straight white teeth. Yes, there’d be extra work. Yes, she’d catch even less sleep than normal. Who needs six hours anyway? But this was why she’d signed up for the job.
She wondered about the Balkan reference in the e-mail then realized that, while her boss was the head of the Office of Asian Pacific and Latin American Affairs within the Directorate of Intelligence, he was recently the section chief for China. His seniority and his long-time knowledge of China was being tapped to provide intelligence on Chinese intentions for the sections dealing with the latest Balkan debacle—especially important given the heightened Chinese sensitivity about the region after their embassy in Belgrade was bombed by the U.S. in 1999.
She’d heard a few things about interagency simulations. Normally, some planners based in the Pentagon would round up representatives from State, DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency), CIA, the NSC (National Security Council), and sometimes Energy, or other appropriate Executive Branch agencies for the simulations. These representatives would role-play their respective agencies’ advice or interests or be asked to participate in a red cell to act out hostile nations’ actions. This provided military planners with potential reactions from allies, neutral nations, and potential aggressor states. They could then use that information to revise their military contingency plans.
This would be her first interagency war game. Donna smiled again, brushed back a strand of curly red hair, and t
ucked it behind her ear, revealing one small pearl earring. She picked up the phone to tell Lieutenant Colonel Ramsey at the Pentagon that she’d be there tomorrow.
After the call, she returned to her report. She wondered about including a passage on her idea about the military utility of motorized hang gliders in China’s People’s Liberation Army (PLA). Open source articles from the PLA itself discussed their military potential. She even saw a classified report detailing small-scale maneuvers. One of her male counterparts with military training (ten years in the Air Force) ridiculed the idea that motorized hang gliders could make any significant contribution to the modern battlefield—it was simply a low-tech stunt with toys, he snorted. Donna wasn’t so sure—in her experience the PLA wasn’t much interested in toys. She decided to include a small passage about the hang gliders to illustrate how the Chinese often adapt common and inexpensive commercial technology for military uses.
The remainder of the day at work passed routinely. Donna placed her working papers and research in her desk and locked it. She changed out of her black high-heeled shoes (with heels neither too tall nor too thin) and put on her running shoes. She signed the security checklist hanging inside her cubicle doorway, and headed down the hall, towards the doors of the SCIF (Special Compartmented Information Facility) she worked in. It was 7:47 PM and she was tired, having put in another 12-hour day.
