Ashes of Victory

— 31 —

He had hopped on his Citation X the moment he’d received word that the Americans had killed the JL-2 missiles and nearly sunk Capt. Shubei’s sub.

Deng still had friends on the Politburo Standing Committee, but after tonight he worried about their loyalty. Of course, the story would have been different had he been successful. The PSC — along with Jiechi and his young politicians — would have had no choice but to go along with him or risk the embarrassment of appearing unable to control one general.

So, he had traded Beijing for Hainan Island, vanishing in the confusion of the nation’s massive blackout. He headed to the place where he was king, supreme commander of the PLA — and where he had direct control of the Type 094 ballistic nuclear missile submarines in a naval base that was, by his own design, impregnable. He had trained and indoctrinated every senior officer on that base. And along with the subs, surface vessels, cruise missiles, land-based ballistic missiles, and the assorted jets and bombers — a combined 220 nuclear warheads — it gave him the leverage he would not have in Beijing.

Sitting in the rear of the cabin, Deng stared at the distant waters of the Taiwan Strait at dawn, where long ago that Sidewinder missile had blown him out of the sky. He had fought honorably that day. The battle, though recorded as a failure by historians, had forged him, turning him into one of China’s most respected military leaders and—

The Citation’s twin turbojets suddenly spooled down as the right wing tipped and the nose dropped.

“What is happening?” he asked one of his half dozen bodyguards occupying the forward cabin.

“Don’t know, sir,” he replied, rushing to the cockpit.

Deng followed him, working to keep his balance as the business jet pitched even more. They were about to enter a steep dive while dropping below fifteen thousand feet.

He found the pilot wrestling with the controls and working through the engine restart procedure and the copilot placing SOS calls to the nearest bases along the coast, but no one was responding because of the power outage.

“The engines, General,” the pilot said with fear in his voice. “They are nonresponsive, and we have lost fly-by-wire control!”

“The radios!” the copilot reported as they descended through eight thousand feet. “They’ve stopped working!”

As he said this, the glass cockpit flickered and went dark, just as his nation had suddenly gone dark.

How is this possible? Deng thought, looking about the plane’s interior, aware of the extreme measures with which his people maintained the business jet.

Unless…

It is easier to govern a country than a son.

Deng tightened his jaw as the realization slapped him with the force of a hundred Sidewinders.

Oh, Xi! My son! he thought as the dark waters filled the windshield.

While President Cord Macklin’s urgent telephone call to Chinese President Xi Jiechi made its way through secure channels, the angry chief executive directed General Les Chalmers to place the entire US Pacific Fleet and all military installations in the South and East Asia theaters at DEFCON 1. Included in the alert status were Marine Corps Air Station Miramar in California, Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii, Kadena AB in Okinawa, and Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska.

US warships, along with attack submarines based in San Diego, Guam, and Pearl Harbor, were preparing to get under way. Destination: the Western Pacific Ocean and the South China Sea.

The commanding officers of the Ohio-class ballistic missile submarines homeported in Bangor, Washington, and at sea in the Pacific Ocean were standing by for orders from their commander in chief.

“Sir, I have President Jiechi,” an aide announced as he stepped in the room, where Macklin sat behind his desk, polishing his reading glasses. DNI Hartwell Prost and Secretary of State Brad Austin stood nearby, as did Secretary of Defense Peter Adair. A Chinese interpreter also stood ready, if needed, and a technician to handle the recording of the call.

“Remember, sir,” Prost said. “Based on the intel we extracted from Al Saud, Jiechi didn’t know about the activities of General Xiangsui.”

“Believe me, Hart,” Macklin replied as he reached for the speakerphone. “That’s the only reason I’ve contained myself to a power blackout instead of blowing Beijing off the map.”

“Also, sir,” Prost added. “Remember that the fact that we now have proof of the general’s covert activities provides us with future negotiating leverage — something to keep in our back pocket.”

His anger barely contained, Macklin gave his DNI a brief nod before stabbing the button on the phone and saying, “Xi, I would like you to tell me why I shouldn’t immediately launch a full-scale attack on your country.” Raw anger made Macklin’s voice harsh. “Our ballistic missile defense system destroyed three warheads targeted at the Vinson battle group operating in international waters. We have the capability to do that again and again until you exhaust your entire nuclear arsenal. You do not have that capability. We are on the brink of open warfare — nuclear warfare — and while I’m sure the United States will take its share of licks, you will lose.”

“Mac,” Jiechi replied. “I assure you neither I nor my government authorized the launch of the missiles. One of our generals — how do you say it — went off the reservation. He apparently panicked after… the most peculiar power outage across China early this morning. But you wouldn’t know anything about that?”

“No idea,” Macklin said.

“Estimates of the economic impact are already coming in the neighborhood of eight hundred billion dollars,” Jiechi replied.

“I imagine what the US has suffered in terms of our economy and lives lost is far greater.”

“Yes, of course. On behalf of the Chinese people, please accept our condolences on the loss of life and this barbarous attack on your country.”

“Stow it, Xi.”

“Ah… In any case,” Jiechi continued, “we have ordered a complete stand-down of all of our nuclear forces and have ordered our attack and ballistic submarines to surface and proceed to the nearest port immediately, as well as all surface vessels. We have also started a major recall of coastal forces along the strait. I’m sure your National Reconnaissance Office can confirm this.”

Macklin tilted the glasses at Adair, who signaled an aide to confirm. The aide quickly left to check with General Chalmers and the rest of the Pentagon brass huddled in the Situation Room, waiting for orders to strike.

“Also, Mac,” Jiechi continued. “Though it is an internal matter and one we will be pursuing for some time to come, I wish to inform you that the senior officer who gave the order, General Deng Xiangsui, died this morning when his jet went down in the South China Sea.”

A silence hung in the room as the full meaning of the Chinese president’s words sunk in.

The aide returned and whispered in the secretary of defense’s ear. Adair looked at the president and mouthed, Confirmed.

Macklin set his glasses on the table and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, fighting exhaustion. Lowering his voice, he said, “Xi, I’m going to take you at your word. However, I want to make something very clear: One more attack, or incident, and I will begin systematically dismantling your military forces, all of them. If you launch another missile at one of our cities, or at one of our allies, including Taiwan, or at any of our forces anywhere in the world, I will not hesitate to destroy Beijing.”

“Mac, I assure you that will not happen. We have no desire to be at war with our friend and best trading partner.”

Macklin felt a hint of relief from the stress he had been under for many days. “Xi, for the sake of your people and China’s promising future, I’m very pleased to hear that. We will, of course, be keeping a close watch as your forces stand down and return to their homeports. We wish you well.”

The president punched the line on the phone, hanging up.

“Do you trust him?” Prost asked.

Macklin caught his DNI’s eye before glancing at Austin and Adair, as well as thinking of Chalmers and the other chiefs huddled in the Situation Room, feeling damn lucky to be surrounded by such talent.

Slowly he returned his gaze to his director of national intelligence.

“Hart… in the eternal words of President Ronald Reagan,” Macklin said. “I intend to trust, but verify.”

To any casual observer, the Bay Palmer 114-foot Fantail 1960-era tycoon’s yacht could have been out for a pleasure cruise. A closer look, however, would have shown a number of details that would not be found on a pleasure yacht, starting with the armed marines keeping watch on the men huddled on the forward deck. The yacht had been refitted to operate as a private shuttle boat between Honolulu, Hawaii, and the picturesque Chilean port.

Yuri Sergeyev breathed in, tasting the salty air. He stood on the bow, flanked by Leonod Popov and Anatoli Zhdanov. In the distance, the familiar Chilean coastline, where they had trained for nearly two years, waited.

“Almost home, yes, Cap’n?” Popov said as the vessel’s hull sliced through three-foot waves.

Sergeyev nodded, still unable to believe that they had not only survived their submarine ordeal but also managed to negotiate their freedom — and that the Americans were actually honoring it.

Keeping his eyes on the distant hills, Sergeyev worked hard to suppress the emotions boiling inside of him at the thought of hugging Katrina and the girls again.

He inhaled once more while looking at his men, all clustered on the forward deck by orders of their captors, who remained on the bridge.

The Russian captain looked up at the glass windshield two levels above and saw the still figures of the skipper and his first mate steering them toward their freedom. He waved at the men, but neither returned it.

Turning to face the windy seas, Sergeyev followed the shoreline to a hill just north of the coastal town, but it was the image of Katrina that filled his mind.

Come home to me, Yuri.

“All right, Captain,” Prost said after getting visual confirmation that the Russians had made it safely to shore, per Macklin’s direct orders.

He stared at the images from an orbital asset flying at twenty-four thousand miles per hour over central Chile one last time and said. “We’re done here. Shut it down.”

“Yes, sir,” Blake replied, before relaying his order. It was obvious that the captain wasn’t pleased with the decision to free the people who’d killed so many Americans, destroyed an attack submarine, and wounded Stennis. But in the bigger picture, capturing Omar Al Saud and milking him at that black site in Poland had yielded — and continued to yield — intelligence that would prevent future attacks, and thus save many more lives.

Then the master spy calmly walked outside and down the steps to a waiting black sedan that would take him to Langley.

As he opened the door and climbed in the back seat, he chuckled at the irony of his profession. His clandestine work had saved — and would continue to save — countless lives, yet there would never be any public acknowledgment of him and his team. There would be no medals, nor overt recognition, except maybe for a Cuban cigar the next time he saw the president in an informal setting. He’d already put in the paperwork to ensure that Captain Blake would soon be Major Blake.

And he’d also quietly suggested the two of them might meet for dinner…