Shock of War (6 page)

“Your Excellency?”

Cho Lai looked up. His intelligence minister, Ludi Yan, had returned to his office after taking a call outside.

“The agent we sent almost reached him on the bridge,” said Ludi Yan. “But the plan fell short.”

Cho Lai nodded.

“The man—we believe he died. We are looking for his body.”

“Better that he is dead than captured.”

Ludi nodded.

“We have already begun blunting the American propaganda,” continued the intelligence minister. He handed Cho Lai a touchpad tablet. There was a video in the middle of the screen, poised to play. The premier touched the arrow. A scene outside the UN began to play, showing a press conference the scientist had held.

“I have no time for more of his lies,” said Cho Lai.

“Wait for a moment, Your Excellency. It will pause.”

The camera moved to the right, looking over the crowd. Then the image stopped on a young American woman. Her face zoomed to fill half the screen. Next to it, a black presentation-type slide came up.

“She was called the Dark Horse in Malaysia, we believe,” said Ludi. “A very skilled operative.”

“A woman.”

“A CIA officer who has accompanied the scientist. Who is to say that she did not plant the information for him to discover?”

“His story is that he witnessed the massacre,” said Cho Lai.

“He ran from the camp where the other scientists were, so he doesn't know what happened there. We have already begun to attack his credibility. Videos have been prepared. We have several operatives ready to contact media. It will be a subtle, but all-out campaign.”

Cho Lai frowned.

“If you do not wish us to proceed, Your Excellency—”

“Do what you can to discredit him,” said Cho Lai. “Do not harm the scientist. That will only make it look as if we are guilty. As for this girl—kill her if it is convenient. That would bring some measure of satisfaction for our agent's demise.”

“It will be done.” Ludi bowed deeply, then left the room.

9

Aboard Air Force One

For the briefest of moments,
George Chester Greene thought he was going to get everything he wanted: a near unanimous censure of China in the UN, a vote in the Senate and House to provide troops to enforce a cease-fire in Vietnam, and a ten-point boost in his approval rating.

The last was always a pipe dream, but with Josh MacArthur's dramatic appearance before the UN, the first two seemed well within his grasp. Yet within hours, everything began to disintegrate. The UN vote was postponed by Iran, either as a payback for oil deals between it and China, or as the latest in a campaign to tweak America's nose—or very likely both. Senator Phillip Grasso, who had been among Greene's biggest critics since the start of his presidency, had fallen into line, thanks largely to a thwarted attempt by the Chinese to kill him and Josh MacArthur as they traveled together in New York. But Grasso's influence in the Senate only went so far, and as soon as he came out in favor of intervention, the antis began mounting an offensive.

Then there were the lies from China itself. Greene knew the Chinese would attempt to pass off the American information as so much propaganda. What he hadn't quite expected was how much the news media would play up that angle. Every story he saw seemed to focus on the Chinese counterarguments, rather than the clear evidence Josh MacArthur had brought back.

Greene had seen a confrontation coming with China for a long, long time. But the one thing he hadn't seen was that it would be over Vietnam.

It was a supreme irony. He'd spent several months at the end of the Vietnam War as a prisoner in Hanoi. And now he was trying to figure out a way to save the bastards.

Not for them. China, and more specifically its despotic premier, had to be stopped. Vietnam was clearly intended as just the first of Cho Lai's coveted prizes. The rest of Indo-China really would fall easily. The question was where would they go after that: Taiwan? Japan, perhaps?

Greene got off the exercise bike. The first time he had used it in Air Force One, he had thought it very strange indeed—he was literally pedaling at the just under the speed of sound. Now, like much he had experienced in his brief tenure as President, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He poked his head out the door of his private room. His national security director, Walter Jackson, was sitting on the couch of the executive office, talking to the National Security situation room for an update.

“Walter, I'm going to take a shower,” said the President.

“Mr. President, a moment?”

“All right,” said Greene, frowning.

Jackson hung up. “Can we get Lin in here?”

Linda Holmes was the legislative coordinator.

“It's your meeting, Walter.”

Greene stooped down to the small beverage refrigerator. He paused over the selections—a beer would go down pretty well right now—then pulled out a bottle of water.

Linda Holmes came into the conference room holding a large binder in front of her chest. Now just past fifty, in younger years she was quite a beauty. Greene still found her attractive, though there wasn't a hint of flirtation between them. It would have gone nowhere in any event—she'd just celebrated her thirty-year marriage anniversary.

“Mr. President.”

“Drink?” asked Greene, settling down on the couch.

“I just had coffee.”

“How's it look?”

“Well.” Holmes opened the binder. She had an iPad 3 in the pocket. She fired it up, then flipped about midway through her book. She tapped the iPad twice, coordinating whatever was on the screen with her documents. “You need eight more votes.”

“In the House?” asked Greene.

“That's the Senate. The House is even tougher.”

Greene cursed. Now he really wished he'd chosen the beer.

“It's because it's Vietnam that's being attacked,” she added. “Anywhere else, even Taiwan—”

“I know,” said Greene. “All right. Just tell me: Is there any hope?”

She made a face Greene had seen all too often in his short tenure as president. He called it the Bad News Grimace—
I don't want to be the one to tell you this, sir, but …

“I wouldn't rule it out,” said Holmes. “If you could make some calls, it might help.”

“Give me a list,” said Greene.

Holmes tapped her iPad. The printer at the far end of the room began humming.

“I'll let you know how I do,” said Greene.

He got up. As Holmes left, he took a swig from the water bottle and turned toward the back to his private suite.

“George?”

“Yes, Walter?”

“Are you thinking of sending the troops without the authorization?” asked the national security director.

“Possibly.”

“That's risky. Legally.”

“Agreed.”

“The worst thing would be to send them too late.”

“I'm well aware of that, Walter. Do you mind if I take a shower now?”

“Couple of other things,” said Jackson. “The operation against Hainan seems to have been successful. NSA has intercepts telling the fleet to look for Vietnamese submarines. The admiral who was supposed to lead the invasion force has been recalled to Beijing for consultation.”

“Excellent.”

“Yes and no. There's still a sizeable force on Hainan. They won't stay there forever. And the CIA thinks there's some sort of operation being planned against Hai Phong. The details are sketchy.”

“What sort of operation?”

Jackson shrugged. “Details are sketchy.”

“Get a hold of Frost and tell him to sharpen it up,” snapped Greene. Peter Frost was the head of the CIA. “Tell him to stop sending me the latest fake YouTube and Twitter posts, and get real intelligence.”

“One other thing you should know, George,” added Jackson, his voice notably lower. “The two American Army officers involved in the Hainan operation as advisers? They're missing.”

“Missing where?”

“Hainan.”

Greene pursed his lips. Just what he needed—another public relations nightmare.

“Very possibly they're dead,” added Jackson.

It was a horrible thought, yet in this circumstance their deaths would be far more desirable than their capture.

A terrible thought, especially for him. Would Nixon have thought that about his capture? And yet it was certainly true for the country.

Or at least for him.

Was that the same thing?

Absolutely not. He had to be clear about that.

“Keep me advised,” Greene told Jackson, opening the door to his private suite.

10

Hainan Island, China

Zeus relaxed a little
as the Fokker 50 lifted from the runway. They were off Hainan at least. The farther from the scene of the crime, the better.

The turboprops made a loud, droning noise that reminded him quite a lot of the turbocharger he'd installed in his old Firebird.

Odd to be thinking of the 'Bird now. She wasn't nearly as nice as the Corvette he'd kept, but she had been a pretty car in her own right, old-school muscle and gas guzzler. He'd done a good job with her, and she'd paid him back nicely, returning a decent premium over what he'd paid when he sold her to a millionaire over eBay. At least he assumed the guy was a millionaire; he didn't even bark about the price.

The Fokker banked sharply, pushing Zeus against Christian.

“Something's up,” Christian told Zeus. “We're turning north.”

“Solt's got it under control.” She was sitting a few aisles away.

“I'll bet.”

“You come up with a better plan, let me know.”

Casually glancing to his right and then left, Zeus tried to get a read on the other passengers. He could only see a handful. They were all Asian, probably Chinese. They didn't seem particularly worried or thrilled to have escaped Hainan. He thought of striking up a conversation to see what they knew of the situation on the island, but decided it was too risky; there was no sense calling more attention to himself.

Zeus unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Where are you going?” asked Christian. There was panic in his eyes.

“Bathroom.”

Zeus glanced at the faces of the passengers as he walked toward the back of the cabin.

No other Europeans. Mostly men, mostly in formal business clothes. His own clothes, a baggy pair of cotton pants and a Western-style sweatshirt with a pseudo designer name, were probably among the most casual on the plane.

The restrooms were occupied. Zeus turned back toward the cabin, hoping that Solt Jan had seen him and would follow. But she didn't.

The door to one of the commodes opened. Zeus stepped back to let a short, thin woman squeeze past. Then he went inside the restroom.

He needed to wash his face. The salt water from the ocean felt as if it had embedded itself into his pores. He rubbed the water from the faucet into his forehead and down across his cheekbones, to his jaw and chin. He filled his palms again and ran them over his face, trying to flush the salt and fatigue away.

He avoided looking in the mirror, knowing he looked terrible. He took a quick glance at his clothes—stolen from a gym locker, but reasonably close in size—then opened the door and went back out to his seat.

“We're going to Zhanjiang,” whispered Christian as he sat down.

“How do you know?”

“Solt told me. She came by while you were in the restroom.”

“Okay.”

“She says there're flights from there to Beijing. From there we can go anywhere. I'm not crazy about going to Beijing.”

“There's always Pyongyang,” Zeus answered sarcastically, referring to the capital of North Korea.

“You're a real comedian.”

“Did she say how long the flight was?”

“Didn't ask.”

Zeus leaned over, trying to see through the window next to Christian. If they were going to Zhanjiang, it shouldn't take very long. They would fly directly over the island, cross a small strait, and then reach the mainland not far from the city.

“Not even anything to read,” grumbled Christian.

“We'll be down soon.”

“Yeah, I'm really looking forward to that.”

The pilot began speaking over the loudspeaker in Chinese. There was some rustling in the seats as he went on.

Zeus waited for him to finish, hoping he would repeat the announcement in English, but he didn't. Finally, he leaned across the aisle.

“Excuse me,” he said to the sleepy-eyed man sitting opposite him. “I don't speak Chinese. I wonder if you could tell me what he said.”

The man simply stared at him.

Two rows ahead, Solt Jan heard him talking and turned her head back. She got up and came back, kneeling down next to his seat. She looked as if she were genuflecting.

“The plane is diverting because of the war emergency,” she told him in a whisper.

“Uh-huh.”

“Zhanjiang is closed,” she added, her voice even softer. “The pilot didn't say, but we are most likely going to Beihai. We will be able to continue from there.”

She shook her head, telling Zeus not to ask any more questions.

“Small airport,” she whispered. “But adequate.”

“We're in your hands.”

She nodded, then went back to her seat. The aircraft had begun banking gently westward.

“Why do you think they closed Zhanjiang?” Christian asked.

“Need it for military operations,” said Zeus. “Has to be.” Probably in response to our fake attack, he thought. Zeus guessed there would be extra patrol flights now, the Chinese military in high paranoid mode.

Good. Though not necessarily for them.

The airplane leveled off. The harsh drone of its engines eased. Zeus wondered about the Vietnamese air force. They still had some flyable MiGs, but he doubted they'd risk them this far from their base. In fact, he tended to doubt that they'd risk them at all.