China Attacks

by Chuck DeVore

  The drive home along George Washington Parkway was uneventful. She decided there was one thing she didn’t much like about working in the late fall and winter months—the lack of sunshine. When she arrived at work in the early morning, she could sometimes see the sun. In the evening, forget it. George Washington Parkway’s scenery outside her windshield was about as close to a park as she got these days. Sadly, this time of year, her view time was cut in half by the early hour of darkness and her habitually late departure from work. That was the toughest part about moving to D.C. from San Diego. Of course, then there was the East’s infamous summer humidity. . .

  Donna was too tired to catch the news about the suicide bombing in East Timor.

  3

  The People’s Prince

  Fu Zemin propped his feet up on his expansive, darkly rich wooden desk. Other than a phone, a half-full ashtray (he started smoking more earnestly after the American bombs almost killed him in Belgrade) and a picture of his wife and only son, the desktop was clean. On a small table to the left of his desk sat a personal computer. A manila envelope lay across his lap. Fu’s door was closed—the privacy a perk of his high-ranking Communist Party status. His star had risen high since his “heroic” brush with death—all the more so because it was the hated Americans who almost killed him and he accomplished his mission: the remains of the F-117A Stealth had been carefully dissected and studied for any secrets China did not already know. Life was good. He smiled at the photo on his desk, but the smile slowly turned to the frown of a driven man.

  Fu lit up a prized Marlboro cigarette (he never saw the irony in his favored vice) and settled in with the classified report he asked one of his underlings to generate two days before. He knew the man stayed up late to produce the report. His lips curled up a little bit. He had done his time in the rice fields and now it was someone else’s turn. If the report was particularly useful he would see to it that the man was recognized in due time. Fu read down the summary list of current American foreign military interventions:

  1) Yugoslavia, provinces of Bosnia-Herzegovina, Kosovo, and Macedonia

  2) Iraq, northern and southern no-fly zones

  3) Kuwait

  4) Republic of Korea

  5) Western Europe/NATO

  6) East Timor

  7) Haiti

  8) Sinai Peninsula

  9) Counter-narcotics operations in South America

  Fu’s eyes narrowed with interest at the list—there were vulnerabilities hidden away in these troop deployments. An unwelcome rap at his door jerked him away from the report. “Comrade Fu?”

  “Yes, what is it?” He did his best to sound impatient, Fu recognized the voice as an underling liaison with the internal security forces.

  “Sir, I have some interesting news for you.”

  Fu flipped the report over, quickly combed his slicked hair, and said, “Enter.”

  “Sir, I have news about that special operation you recommended to the Party’s Chief Representative to the General Political Department of the PLA.”

  Fu looked at the man with open contempt. “Shut the door and keep your voice down!” Fu brought his cigarette to his mouth and inhaled deeply. Exhaling, he lowered his voice and said, “You may tell me what you know. Leave out no detail, but be fast.”

  The man looked for a place to sit, then decided the safe course of action would be to remain standing. “A week ago a certain Muslim cleric was killed by a sniper about 10 kilometers from the Afghan border. Three days later an entire village of about 100 people, all Muslims, were killed in apparent retaliation. Yesterday, PLA commando forces intercepted a Muslim guerrilla force of 300 fighters preparing to exact revenge for the village massacre. The guerrilla force was destroyed.”

  Fu slowly sucked on his cigarette then suddenly crushed it out in the ashtray while letting smoke curl out of his nose. His face betrayed no emotion. “You have done well to tell me,” Fu paused, trying to remember the man’s name, “Comrade Chung. Cigarette?” Fu extended his pack of prized American smokes.

  Chung’s eyes lit up. Fu didn’t think the man smoked, but that mattered little right now. Fu’s small favor would keep the man reliably energized for at least a month.

  The man bowed to Fu and turned to go. Once again alone, a toothy grin extended across Fu’s face, revealing teeth stained by years of tea drinking.

  4

  East Timor

  Colonel Mike Flint was a Marine’s Marine. He relished command. He loved his Marines as much as he loved his wife and two children. He figured he wasn’t likely to get promoted to general and sent to the Pentagon—he’d insulted too many people for that, even for a Marine. Freed of the need to pay homage to political correctness, he was a better combat commander and his Marines loved him for it.

  Colonel Flint commanded the 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit (Special Operations Capable). Based on Okinawa in southernmost Japan, the 31st had a storied history, including the final evacuation of Saigon in 1975 and the Beirut barracks bombing in 1983. Colonel Flint was with the unit in that day of pain and peril. He was a captain. His most vivid military memories were of pulling the broken and tangled bodies of Marines from the shattered barracks. That was the only time he cried in uniform. He almost cried a second time, when he was a company commander and his unit was deactivated in 1985. The 31st Marine Amphibious Unit, as it was formerly known, was reborn as the 31st MEU in 1992. He was its third commander since reactivation.

  The colonel wasn’t surprised when the warning order for East Timor came. He saw this one coming a mile away, especially since the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF) already had communications and reconnaissance assets in East Timor supporting the Australian-led peacekeeping force. It was only a matter of time before some crazy got lucky and killed a bunch of peacekeepers.

  Last Friday Flint had ordered his staff to prepare a contingency plan and brief it to him the following Wednesday. Tuesday morning (Monday night in Washington, D.C.) he saw the President’s speech on TV about East Timor explaining why the, “United States has a compelling interest to help the people of East Timor achieve peace and security.” Since the 31st MEU was the closest, fastest reacting and most capable unit in the region, he figured they were going. The warning order’s arrival was anticlimactic.

  Of course, his staff was impressed at his foresight. Colonel Flint normally would have been mildly pleased at his staff’s opinion of his brilliance, but now he was too worried to notice. Every time he thought of the strife on Timor his memories of Beirut would burn through. He picked up his phone and jabbed the buttons with large, powerful fingers, “Colonel Burl, I need to see you.”

  Within a moment, Lieutenant Colonel Hank Burl was in his office, “Yes sir?” Burl’s eyes traveled to a small plaque on the wall behind Colonel Flint’s desk. It was below the large framed poster of John Wayne in a set of USMC dungarees with the inscription: Life’s tough, but it’s tougher when you’re stupid! The plaque read: Hair on a woman is her crowning glory. Hair on a Marine is an abomination. Lieutenant Colonel Burl had advised Colonel Flint to remove the plaque. It might be construed as sexist and contributing to a hostile work environment for women. The Colonel had said at the time, “I’ll take that under advisement.” Which was mil-speak for go to hell. The plaque stayed.

  “Have a seat Hank,” Colonel Flint’s voice was detached, his dark brown eyes fixed on a distant, unseen problem. “I need you to write up a request for Third MEF (III Marine Expeditionary Force) with a ‘cc’ to MARFORPAC (Marine Forces, Pacific) to clarify our rules of engagement for our little trip to Timor. I don’t want to be sent in with beanbags and rubber bullets. Those bastards mean business down there.”

  The XO looked up, his blond eyebrows arching above his bright blue eyes. He wasn’t a bad officer, Flint thought, he’s just too pretty to be a Marine. He could see Burl as a naval aviator or a submariner, but a Marine. . . The officer was young for his rank and very mindful of perks, power and position. Hell, he’ll probably
be Chairman of the JCS in ten years!

  Burl spoke, “We’ve already received our rules of engagement from CINCPAC (Commander-in-Chief, Pacific Command).”

  “Yes, and they stink! You know that. You want our Marines killed?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then write the fricken letter and help me get these ROE changed! I began my career with a goat rope excuse of an ROE, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to end it with one.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Have the completed draft on my desk in two hours. Oh, and I already told Lieutenant General Hill of my intent, so I’m sure we have the support of our MEF commander across the street, we just need to follow channels to make the request official. That is all.” Burl stood and wheeled out of Flint’s office. Flint rubbed his left hand against the back of his neck, feeling the prickly short nubs of his meager allotment of light brown hair. Time for another haircut, he thought, my hair is almost visible again.

  Colonel Flint rarely locked up his officers in private, or in public for that matter. Burl just had a way about him that grated against Flint. Old Marines versus the New Marines, he guessed. So much had changed in the last few years. Political correctness. The loss of the fighting spirit. More sexual harassment and sensitivity training, less combat training. Burl epitomized the new Marine officer. He’ll go far, Flint thought—unless he gets fragged by his men in combat, he grunted to himself.

  5

  The Pentagon

  Donna arose at 5 AM. She worked out lightly on her exercise bike while watching two cable news channels, clicking back and forth with her remote to catch as much international news as possible.

  The news about the first American casualties among the handful of U.S. military personnel in East Timor caught her attention. She was wondering what her counterparts in the Indonesian section would say when she saw the sound bite from the President’s impromptu news conference the night before. She unconsciously frowned—so now we’re going to save East Timor.

  After working out, she showered and ate a light breakfast. She always ate in front of her PC, scrolling through various news sites, seeing what the open source world had to say. She was often amazed at how rapidly the full-time news networks reported world events. Of course, reporting after the fact was much different than anticipating events before they occur. Her morning routine was always the same. She liked to keep a familiar pattern, especially when things got crazy at work.

  At 7 AM, she left her modest apartment and drove to the nearest Metro parking lot. Her stomach had a few small butterflies. She hoped the exercise would be enjoyable. She found a parking spot and walked to the Metro station. The air was brisk with a faint breeze. She could smell the damp, slowly decaying leaves of fall.

  As an analyst, she didn’t suspiciously survey her surroundings as a field agent might. As a woman in the D.C. area, however, she took the normal precautions. She saw no one but commuters, not even a panhandler (one advantage of living in Virginia, rather than in D.C. proper).

  She fed a $5 bill into the Metro ticket vending machine. The machine took her money and spit out a business card-sized piece of paper with a magnetic strip down its length. She entered the station and waited six minutes for the train.

  On the train she read both the Washington Post and the Washington Times. The stories that caught her eye were usually buried deeply behind the front page. If it makes it to the front page without my knowing about it first, she thought, I’ve failed. There was nothing in the papers that she already hadn’t seen on the cable news or on the Internet earlier that morning. She wondered, as she always did after reading a paper, when newspapers were going to go the way of the buggy whip.

  About 15 minutes later she got out of the train at Pentagon Station. It was the first time she actually left the train at the Pentagon Station. Most of the D.C. Metro’s escalators are impressive, coming from deep within the earth to deposit their passengers, blinking in the light, upon the surface. The Pentagon Station was no exception. Its four banks of escalators must have had a vertical climb of at least 15 stories—very impressive.

  She got to the top of the escalator and realized, amidst the pressing crowds, that the Pentagon was indeed a small city. Ahead were the metal detectors and guards, processing thousands of morning workers through this, the most popular Pentagon entrance. To her left was a gift shop and shoe shine stand, with three out of four seats occupied by an Air Force general, an Army sergeant, and one civilian in a gray suit.

  She veered towards the visitor entrance desk and presented her ID. A young Army sergeant stood quietly behind the guards who took information from the visitors. He heard Donna’s inquiry and passed her a badge on a silvery chain and said, “Good morning Ms. Klein, Here’s your ID for the simulation. Please step through the metal detector and follow me to the simulation room for your in-briefing.” Donna was already impressed with the Pentagon.

  She went through the metal detector, looked to the right and noticed what must be the safest bank in the world: The Pentagon Federal Credit Union. The sergeant said in an urgent tone, “We’re running a couple of minutes late, mind if we take the stairs instead of the elevator?”

  “Not at all.” Donna blushed a bit at the thought of being late. It was 7:50 am, she had ten minutes to spare, but she supposed the sergeant was personally on the hook for her on-time arrival at wherever she was going. She followed the sergeant through the wide Pentagon halls to a stairwell. They briskly stepped down two flights of stairs to the basement. The sergeant led her to room B205 and dropped her off at the check-in desk where another sergeant, this one from the Air Force, welcomed her and examined her ID.

  She walked into the room. It was dominated by one long table with about 20 chairs. Most chairs were occupied, about half by officers, the remainder by men in suits. On the table in front of each chair sat a briefing book and a nametag. Donna looked for her tag at an unoccupied chair. Other than an electronic white board and a TV at the left end of the room and a TV camera mounted on the right end of the room to the upper right corner of the ceiling, the room had no other adornments or visible equipment. Clearly this room was about as functional as they came in Washington.

  She found her seat at the far end of the table, facing the door. To her right was a powerfully built Army Colonel with a massive West Point ring and wedding band on his sausage-like, hairy ring finger. To her left was a bored-looking middle-aged man from the State Department. His reading glasses hung on the end of his slender nose, his salt and pepper hair nicely groomed. Two more people made their way into the room, both men in their 40s wearing suits.

  Donna scanned the room—not a woman in the room save her, and all the men were at least in their early 40s and up. So, she was the youngest person and the only woman. That was fine. She liked a challenge.

  Donna smiled as an Air Force general stood in front of the white board and cleared his throat. Their eyes briefly locked and Donna looked away, flushing slightly. “My name is Lieutenant General Tim Taylor. Thank you all for coming here today and taking time out from your busy schedules to participate in this important exercise. We’ll conduct a brief orientation, review our goals and our schedule, and after a short break, we will provide you with the remainder of the day to review your role-playing packets, ask questions and make your initial decisions. Lunch will be delivered. I expect to get you all out of here today by 16, er, 4:30 PM.”

  Donna noticed the general’s quick recovery from saying 1630 hours. His face had a kindly look to it, but there was sadness in the eyes. Donna took a breath—the man’s probably 20 years my senior, and married too, get a grip.

  As the general continued, Donna saw the ring on his left hand, “As some of you know, this simulation will review Chinese options to reintegrate Taiwan into China. We are the red cell. Our goal is to overcome Taiwanese, American, and other nations’ counters to our actions.” The man from State sighed with disdain. Had Donna been looking at him, she would have also seen him roll his eyes briefly
to the ceiling. The Army Colonel let out a barely perceptible grunt. Donna focused on the general’s words. This could be one of the more interesting assignments she’d had since joining the CIA as a political analyst specializing in Chinese affairs.

  The general drew a quick breath and focused his gaze on the civilians in the room, “We will have two opposition cells, a blue cell and a green cell. They will independently develop counters to your actions as a sort of American A and B team. There will also be separate cells for Taiwan, North and South Korea, and Japan. Each cell will have its own success criteria. After your first move, you will then have to generate two responses, one to counter each cell opposing you. The only requirement you have is that you must attempt to control Taiwan by the end of play.”

  The man from State muttered under his breath, “What a waste of time. . .”

  “Five of you will be the controlling players in this simulation. The remaining 15 are support personnel representing Chinese political, military, diplomatic, and industrial leaders and analysts. We are using five players to provide our simulation with a leadership junta roughly similar to the collective authoritarian structure the PRC now uses. The five controlling players are as follows; please raise your hand when your name is called: Colonel Westly Lake will represent the People’s Liberation Army,” the Colonel to Donna’s right raised his right hand. His face held the faintest of smiles; it almost looked predatory. “Mr. Amos Ye of Commerce will represent China’s industrial interests and the Ministry of Economic Affairs,” Donna looked around the room, leaning forward, she saw that Mr. Ye was seated just to the left of the bored looking man from State. “Dr. John Wendell from State will represent China’s Foreign Ministry,” Dr. Wendell reluctantly raised his hand, his elbow never leaving the table. “Donna Klein from the CIA will represent the Premier, the Head of Government,” Donna raised her hand and held back a smile. She noticed a couple of arched eyebrows in the room full of men. “And, Cliff Dowling, on loan to the Pentagon from State serving as Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense for the Asian and Pacific region, will represent the Chairman of the Communist Party who is also President, Head of State,” The man to the right of Colonel Lake raised his hand and smiled. “Please take the next 30 minutes to review your packets with your specific instructions, then wait for further instructions from your group leader.”