Ashes of Victory

— 6 —

It began as a rumor along the Chinese coastal provinces, a war story about a young aviator who went up against staggering odds to defend the homeland. Slowly the tale spread across the countryside, and as it did, as all tales do, it evolved, developing into the gripping account of a fisherman’s son who became a fighter pilot. Freshly out of flight training, he’d engaged and shot down multiple enemy jets threatening his homeland, meanwhile dodging their deadly missiles.

By the time word reached Beijing, the number of downed F-86 Sabres had quadrupled, plus he had survived for days adrift in the Taiwan Strait when his plane had finally gone down, but only after eliminating the threat. In fact, one story claimed that his engine had been on fire when he’d killed the final F-86 with his last rounds.

It was certainly the stuff of legends.

And at the time, Chairman Mao Zedong had been in dire need of such a story to overcome the embarrassing loss the world remembered as the Second Taiwan Strait Crisis. Deng Xiangsui became a national hero, and his rise through the ranks began.

General Deng Xiangsui, vice chairman of the People’s Republic of China’s Central Military Commission and supreme commander of the People’s Liberation Army, stood on the tarmac below his Citation X business jet parked at the private terminal of the Lisbon airport. He recalled the hero’s welcome he’d received at Fuzhou, as well as the emissaries from Beijing arriving to the PLAAF coastal air base.

Presented with the highest military decorations by Chairman Mao himself, Deng went on to become the poster child of the People’s Liberation Army and served on various commissions, rising through its ranks and earning the respect and loyalty of those serving under him. And today, on the eve of his seventy-ninth birthday, the aging and highly esteemed military commander was regarded as the last living link to those glorious revolutionary days that gave birth to the PRC.

At least overtly, he thought, aware of the forces at work to put him out to pasture and give way to a new generation of leaders — a covert movement started by no other than Xi Jiechi, recently elected president by the National People’s Congress.

Deng admitted to himself that the day would soon arrive when he would have to step aside.

But not yet, he thought. Not when he had yet to fulfill the promise made while drifting in that stretch of water a lifetime ago. But decades later, Taiwan and the various affiliated islands stolen by the rebels following that civil war still lay beyond Beijing’s grasp.

Not for long, he thought as he watched an Embraer Legacy 650 business jet taxiing up to his Citation. Not while he still controlled the military, as well as the Politburo Standing Committee of the Communist Party of China, the group of nine men who made all decisions of national significance. Modern times or not, China was still controlled by its communist party, which the PSC ruled with an iron grip, and that included the appointment of members to the National People’s Congress, which in turn elected the president.

Of all the people to disappoint him, Deng never expected it to be the son of Liko Jiechi, the pilot burned alive by the same bastards who continued to defy Beijing’s rule.

After all, it was Deng who had become like a father to Xi, tending to the boy’s every need in the wake of that terrible day.

It was Deng who had sent him to the finest schools in England, before clearing his way into China’s provincial politics and guiding him through the turbulent waters.

It was Deng who had helped Xi Jiechi become governor in Fujian Province, then party secretary in neighboring Zhejiang Province before he’d joined the Politburo Standing Committee six years ago.

And it was Deng who had influenced the PSC to steer the National People’s Congress into appointing Jiechi as vice president two years ago and elected him to the position of China’s “Paramount Leader” six months ago.

Paramount, my ass, Deng thought as the Embraer came to a complete stop and its twin turbines spooled down. Now his protégé had started making his own moves to forge new alliances with the United States, the very nation who had sent — and continued to send — its carrier strike groups to the Taiwan Strait to protect the renegade island. And in doing so, Jiechi had spat on his father’s memory.

The last communiqué from Deng’s spies inside the PSC told him that the young president continued to work his way through the politburo in hopes of retiring the men loyal to Deng and replacing them with his own allies.

Perhaps I taught him too well.

But perhaps I still have something left to teach him.

In spite of their differences, he still loved the man he considered his only son. And that reminded him of another one of his father’s proverbs: It is easier to govern a country than a son.

Deng sighed.

The Embraer’s door finally swung down and Prince Omar Al Saud stepped out, followed by his aides.

Well educated, well mannered, and always dressed in Western clothes — no keffiyeh or thawbs, the traditional Arab robes — Al Saud and his lieutenants could easily pass for junior executives of a multinational corporation. And it was this unorthodox approach to terrorism, circumventing the traditional values to which so many of his colleagues desperately clung, that had first attracted Deng’s attention during a gathering in Dubai two years before.

Unlike other extremists, Al Saud had discarded the notion of roaming the strife-worn crossroads of the Middle East with an entourage of dirty, uneducated extortionists and murderers bent on forcing others to their ways.

To the contrary, Al Saud had carefully crafted the persona of a nonreligious, no-nonsense business executive with a charming smile. His slim nose, high cheekbones, chiseled chin, and neatly trimmed beard would sometimes cause him to be mistaken for the actor so famous for his pirate movies. In stark contrast to fundamentalist black-hooded terrorists hanging from the backs of pickup trucks, Al Saud almost always had beautiful women surrounding him, like the two ladies deplaning after his men. He often flew to Paris or London for lavish shopping sprees and nights of clubbing more often expected from teen rock stars than businessmen. The tabloids always covered the elaborate excursions, often suggesting that one of the women was soon to be his fiancée, despite Al Saud’s perfect portrayal of the playboy billionaire.

Always impeccably attired, he maintained penthouses in places like London, Paris, New York, and Sydney.

And right here in lovely Portugal, Deng thought as the Saudi approached him smiling his billion-dollar smile.

When he wasn’t enriching Harrods in London and Cartier in Paris, Al Saud dined with business titans and selective royalty, played golf with heads of state and presidents, and entertained Hollywood’s elite on one of his impressive yachts. He had sponsored private economic summits with the most powerful men and women in business and political circles, none of whom suspected his involvement with international terrorism.

And that made him an ideal partner to fulfill the promise Deng had made over those watery graves long ago.

“Hello, my friend,” Al Saud said, extending a manicured hand.

“Welcome,” Deng replied, shaking his hand, before pulling him closer and whispering, “and congratulations on Norfolk.”

The smile faded, and for an instant Deng saw the eyes of the terrorist glinting in Al Saud’s dark stare as he whispered back, “With your intelligence and my… worldwide resources, that small test is just the beginning. Just the beginning.”

A short and slightly overweight man in a far less well-tailored suit stepped up behind Al Saud. Mostly bald, with a wispy mustache and round glasses, he didn’t look the type that normally traveled in Al Saud’s circles.

“This is Dr. Ayman al-Rouby,” said Al Saud. “He will be performing the inspection.”

Deng barely acknowledged the man before sweeping an open hand toward the motorcade of black Mercedes-Benz SUVs. “Come,” he said. “Our Russian associates are waiting by the docks.”