by Jeff Edwards
Jia Bangguo raised a hand. “We will crush who, Comrade Lu? The Americans? Are you saying that we will crush the United States?”
“The Americans have gone too far,” Lu Shi said. “They have crippled a major strategic asset, and damaged the credibility of our naval forces. We must show the world that China does not kowtow to any foreign power. We do not back down from India. We do not back down from America. We do not back down from anyone. And any nation that challenges the People’s Republic does so at its own peril.”
Ma Yong, Party Secretary of the Leading Group for Financial and Economic Affairs, nodded toward Lu Shi. “Comrade Vice Premier, I know very little of military affairs, and I know even less about the intricacies of international strategic deterrence. But I do know that the United States and India collectively consume more than thirty-five percent of our manufactured trade goods. America is by-far our best customer, and India is also one of our largest trading partners. Have you considered what will happen to our national economy when a third of our export market suddenly evaporates?”
Lu glared at him. “Comrade Ma, you know that I have always considered you a wise counselor. But you are overestimating the resolve of your adversaries. America is an undisciplined consumer culture, and India is not much better. They cannot live without their toys. If the average American is forced to choose between his political convictions and his iPhone, he will take the iPhone every time.”
Ma Yong started to speak, but Lu Shi cut him off. “If you examine the true nature of your customers, you will see that there is no real danger of economic reprisals. There will certainly be a few economic sanctions—boycotts of Chinese trade goods, perhaps some short-lived tariffs—to demonstrate America’s financial independence and the strength of American character. But any such measures will be short in duration, and they will not significantly impact the flow of our manufactured goods. Because, regardless of their misguided pride, American resolve is weak, and their economy is inextricably tied to ours. If they attempt to cut financial ties with China, they will be cutting their own throats.”
“Perhaps you are right about that,” said Party Secretary Wei Jintao. “But you are talking about fighting two tigers at the same time.”
“Yes,” Lu Shi said. “But both tigers have more whiskers than teeth. These are not real tigers. They are make-believe tigers. They will growl and thrash their tails, but India is no match for us, and we will pull America’s fangs before they can do much in the way of biting.”
Ma Yong raised an eyebrow. “How do you propose to accomplish this? How exactly will we pull the fangs of the United States?”
“Unrestricted cyber warfare,” Lu Shi said. “We have been probing strategic elements of their critical infrastructure for years, and their cyber defenses are not capable of withstanding a determined assault. We will take down their national power grids. We will infect their computer networks with military-grade viruses, interrupt their cellular telephone communications, disrupt their air traffic control systems, and paralyze their commercial banking architecture. Within forty-eight hours, the average American won’t be able to buy a slice of bread or a liter of water. Bank accounts will be frozen. Planes will be grounded. Telephones will be useless. And the vaunted U.S. military will have its hands full quelling riots, and trying to keep the peace within its own borders.”
“An ambitious undertaking,” said Jia Bangguo. “But what if your plans for hobbling America are not as successful as you hope? What if you have overestimated the effectiveness of your proposed cyber attacks? Or if you have underestimated the resilience of the Americans?”
“I’m not wrong,” Lu Shi said.
“Possibly,” Jia said. “But before we commit ourselves to such drastic measures, we must consider all possibilities. So I ask again, what happens if you are wrong?”
Lu Shi’s voice rose to a shout. “I am NOT wrong!”
He turned hard eyes on every face gathered around the table. “Look at yourselves,” he sneered. “You are supposed to be leaders. You are supposed to be men. But you sit around whining like a gaggle of old women. Where is your heart? Where is your spirit?”
His gaze was an open challenge to every man at the long table. “This will happen,” he said. “It will happen. And when it does, I will remember everyone who opposed me. I have the complete backing of Premiere Xiao on this—”
“No!” said a voice from the far end of the room.
Every head turned toward the newcomer. The wizened form of Xiao Qishan stood in the doorway, flanked by two young and hard-looking PLA officers.
“You do not have my backing,” Xiao said. He began to hobble toward his chair.
“I don’t understand,” Lu said. “You were going to speak to the American president. You were going to—”
“I have spoken to the president,” Xiao said. The old leader was wheezing slightly, as though the act of walking to his chair had used up a significant fraction of his strength reserves. “I am no longer in favor or following your plan.”
The expression on Lu Shi’s face was one of utter shock. “But Comrade Premiere, you know that President Wainright is weak. We can do this. It is our time to do this.”
Xiao lowered himself carefully into his chair and shook his head. “Wainright is stronger than you think he is. In fact, I suspect that he’s stronger than he thinks he is.”
Xiao was wracked by a series of painful coughs, and when he spoke again, his voice was even feebler than usual. “We will not move against the Americans. I have already called the Indian President. We will cease all hostilities with India, and make immediate efforts to normalize diplomatic relations.”
He gave his Vice Premiere a long and patient look. “Comrade Lu, the time for anger is past. Now is the time for healing, and moving forward.”
All color drained from Lu Shi’s face. “You’re too weak for this job, old man. You no longer have the courage to make the hard decisions. It’s time for you to retire, and totter off somewhere to die quietly. You’re finished here.”
The old Premier gave him a thin smile. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You will be retiring today, my friend. Not me.”
He motioned to the pair of PLA officers, and they closed in rapidly on Lu Shi. Before Lu had time to react each man had a firm grip on one of his arms. They began to lead him firmly from the room.
“The Americans are weak!” Lu shouted over his shoulder. “The Indians are weak! We can crush them…”
“Perhaps,” Premier Xiao said softly. “But let’s see if we can live with them instead.”
CHAPTER 57
THREE GORGES DAM
SANDOUPING, CHINA
WEDNESDAY; 03 DECEMBER
7:29 AM
TIME ZONE +8 ‘HOTEL’
The reservoir extended nearly 700 kilometers upstream from the catchment wall, more than 39 billion cubic meters of water held in check by a concrete edifice that was half as tall as America’s landmark Empire State Building.
The wall’s internal reinforcements included 463,000 metric tons of steel, enough to fabricate 63 copies of the Eiffel Tower. The entire structure had been designed to withstand accidents, massive seasonal over-flooding, and earthquakes of 7.0 on the Richter scale. But the architects and engineers hadn’t known about the Next Generation Penetrator warhead that the Indians called Rudrasya khaḍgaḥ, the Sword of Shiva, and they certainly hadn’t known that regional turmoil might push their neighbors to actually utilize such a weapon.
The 370 on-site personnel knew nothing of the Indian plan to destroy the dam. The workers went about their daily routines, maintaining and operating the thirty-two house-sized hydroelectric turbines, and the power distribution plant in its adjacent underground facility.
The inhabitants of the Yangtze River basin were beginning to stir under the first rays of the morning sun. The cities of Wuhan, Nanjing, and Shanghai were gearing up for another busy day of buying, selling, making, and consuming.
Not one person within t
he footprint of pending destruction knew that India’s 48 hour deadline was only a minute away. Not one of the potential victims knew about the seven cruise missiles targeted on the dam, or the meticulous care with which the impact sites had been selected.
The final 60 seconds ticked away, one after another. Forty seconds. Twenty seconds. Ten.
And then, the deadline expired, and the appointed moment arrived.
No missiles fell from the sky. No warheads pierced the hardened concrete of the catchment wall. Downstream from the dam, the brown waters of the Yangtze River continued their slow rolling journey to the sea.
The cataclysm had been averted by a phone call, an act of reason, and the extension of a human hand in the age-old gesture of peace.
The hour of doom had come and gone. And 400 million Chinese citizens went about their morning business, unaware that death had brushed past them in the clear early sunlight.
EPILOGUE
FORT SAM HOUSTON NATIONAL CEMETERY
SAN ANTONIO, TX
TUESDAY; 11 FEBRUARY
1:45 PM EST
Kat Silva walked down the long row of grave markers until she came to a headstone that was visibly newer than most of the others. The marble was crisply white, and brilliantly clean, having only been exposed to the elements for a few weeks. The inscription read: SAMUEL HARLAND BOWIE, Capt. USN, followed by the dates of birth and death.
Silva sighed, and nodded toward the stone. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to make it around to see you, Jim. But you know how it goes when your ship is in the yards. The Towers is going to be just fine, by the way. When the yard birds are finished sprucing her up, you won’t even be able to tell where the missile hit.”
Silva felt a yawn coming on, and covered her mouth. “Sorry about that. Fourteen hours in the air, not counting layovers, and I never sleep worth a damn on airplanes.”
She glanced up and down the rows of white markers. “I see there are a bunch of old-time Indian fighters buried here. Scouts, cavalry soldiers, maybe even some of the boys from the Alamo. You should look them up. I’ll bet some of those guys are relatives of yours. The hero streak in you runs pretty deep, so it’s probably in your bloodline.”
Silva reached into her pocket and fished out a folded sheet of paper. “I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t bring flowers. You never struck me as the kind of guy who goes for floral arrangements. But if I’m wrong about that, you let me know, and I’ll get you some begonias, or something.”
She unfolded the sheet of paper and spent a few seconds smoothing out the creases. “I did bring you something, though. Maybe you’ll like it better than a bunch of daffodils. I’ll just read it for you, and you can decide for yourself.”
She cleared her throat softly. “From: Department of Defense Public Affairs, Washington, DC Naval News Service. Secretary of the Navy Alexander Fields announced today that the Navy’s next Arleigh Burke class guided missile destroyer will be named USS Bowie, in honor of Navy Captain Samuel Harland Bowie who was killed during last year’s naval combat action in the Bay of Bengal. The USS Bowie will be the first ship to bear the name…”
Silva folded the paper. “There are four or five more paragraphs, but the rest is mostly about the capabilities of the modified Arleigh Burke class, and you probably know more about that than just about anyone. There’s also a section about your military career, and the heroic actions of the Towers on her last three deployments, but—again—none of that is news to you.”
The folded slip of paper went back into her pocket. “The keel laying ceremony is in May at Bath Iron Works. The Navy is inviting everyone who ever served under your command, so it’ll be a much bigger dog and pony show than usual. Under the circumstances, I doubt they’ll send you a direct invitation. I thought I’d tell you myself, in case you decide to swing by and watch the fun.”
Silva’s voice took on a more serious tone. “I don’t know if you can hear me, Jim. I don’t know if you’re in heaven, or floating in some ethereal afterlife, or even if there is an afterlife. Maybe you’re just gone now, and I’m talking to myself. But whether you can hear me or not, there’s something I have to say to you.
“The world will probably never understand how much it owes to you, and to the men and women who fought under your command. The average person on the street has no idea that you dragged America—and maybe the entire planet—back from the brink of catastrophe at least three times. Most people will never know how much you did for this country, and how much you sacrificed to give us all a second chance.”
She was surprised to find that her eyes were beginning to get misty. “But some of us know. We remember what you did, and we know the price you paid. And we’re grateful, Jim. I can’t even begin to tell you how much.”
Silva tried to continue, but her voice had gone husky with unexpected emotion. “I guess that’s really all I came to say.”
She came to attention, and her right hand performed a slow, deliberate salute. “Thank you.”
Her hand came back down to her side. She executed a precise about-face and walked away, leaving the headstone to stand among the ranks of its brothers and sisters under the gray Texas sky.
THE END
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Anyone with an understanding of orbital mechanics (or a working knowledge of physics) will spot the fact that I’ve taken some literary license with the orbit of the Chinese surveillance satellite known as Redbird One. The flight path I’ve described for the satellite is at too low an altitude, and too far from the famous “Clarke belt” to support a geostationary orbit. I haven’t attempted to calculate what the duration of such an orbit might be in the real world, but it’s a safe bet that it would not remain stable for the ten days predicted in the story.
I could attempt to justify my departure from Keplerian motion by pointing out that Redbird One could be an experimental statite (static satellite), a hypothetical satellite which employs a solar sail to modify its orbit. Theoretically, a properly-configured statite could hold itself in a geostationary “orbit” at much lower altitudes and with inclinations far different from the traditional equatorial orbits used for geostationary positioning. I could make such a claim, but I won’t. The simple fact is, the story called for a satellite at a lower altitude, and well out of the geostationary belt, and I followed the needs of the plot.
Purists and aficionados of space technology are advised that my criminal misuse of orbital mechanics was premeditated, and carried out with malice-aforethought. In other words, it wasn’t an oversight. I done it on purpose.
— Jeff Edwards
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following people for their assistance in making this book a reality:
Rear Admiral John J. Waickwicz, USN (Retired), former Commander Naval Mine and Anti-Submarine Warfare Command, for his excellent technical and editorial advice; Lieutenant Commander Loren “Alien” DeShon, USNR (retired), for technical advice about Navy F/A-18s, aircraft carrier landing procedures, and fighter combat tactics; Commander Cliff “Poker” Driskill, USNR (retired)/former Top Gun instructor, for patiently explaining (and then re-explaining) the intricacies of aerial combat maneuvering; Peter Garwood of the Balloon Barrage Reunion Club (www.bbrclub.org), for permission to use his excellent photograph of a Nazi V1 Rocket on its launch rail; Brenda Collins, for her superb research and editorial assistance; FTG2(SS) Bill Blanchard for talking me through anti-submarine warfare and anti-surface warfare engagements from a submariner’s point of view; and my crew of advance readers, for catching many (many) of my blunders before they reached the final page.
I’d also like to thank the contributors who are not named here, either by their own choice, or through accident on my part. The information I received from these people was consistently excellent. Any inaccuracies in this book are either the result of deliberate artistic license, or my own mistakes. Such errors are in no way the fault of my contributors.
As always, I would like to thank m
y editor, Don Gerrard, for more than a decade of guidance, sterling advice, and true friendship.
I hope you enjoyed reading these books as much as I enjoyed writing them. Whether you loved the books or hated them, I’d sincerely appreciate your feedback. Please take a moment to leave a review on Amazon.com.
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YOU KNOW WHAT’S COMING NEXT…
This isn’t the first time you’ve finished a book, so you already know what comes next: teasers for more books, right? Nothing unusual about that. It’s pretty much standard practice in the publishing industry.
Let me tell you what’s different here. The books and authors on the following pages weren’t chosen according to a corporate advertising strategy. They’re not part of some carefully-optimized marketing campaign. They weren’t selected by an algorithmic database that monitors your purchasing preferences. They were hand-chosen by me. These are my personal recommendations.
When I first read John Monteith’s ROGUE AVENGER, I paid the book my highest compliment by saying that I wished I had written it. (In the spirit of full disclosure, I still harbor that wish.) I had a similar thought when I read A SWORD INTO DARKNESS, by Thomas A. Mays. It is, quite simply, the best space combat novel I have ever read. THE GODS OF WAR, by Graham Brown and Spencer Andrews is one of the few books I have ever read twice back-to-back. And Kevin Miller’s RAVEN ONE put me in the cockpit of a U.S. Navy fighter with a visceral human realism that I haven’t felt since my first viewing of the movie TOP GUN. I also think rather highly of some of my own books, so you might see a few mentions of my work.
You get the picture. This isn’t a random marketing blitz. These are the kinds of books that I recommend to my friends. I sincerely hope you enjoy them as much as I have.
