Brute Force

Chapter 6

Minister of State Security Wen Shou folded strong hands in the lap of his navy blue suit and listened to the leader of China vent about the impetuous actions of the United States. Wen rolled his lips slightly, keeping a passive face. A bitter word or even a frown at the wrong moment could very well become the match that lit the fuse of war. General Sun, the commander of the People’s Liberation Army’s Second Artillery Corps — and thus, China’s ballistic nuclear missiles — and Admiral Jiang, commander of the PLA Navy Submarine Force, sat across the office from Wen, side by side in matching golden chairs to the right of the President’s desk. The two military men were among the few leaders not presently under investigation for some sort of graft. It was not the lack of technology, weaponry, or troops that threatened his country’s military. It was corruption.

The presidential office seemed meant to make visitors feel small. There was nothing to clutter the center of the spacious room — no busy coffee table or cozy couches as in the American President’s Oval Office — just thirty feet of empty red carpet, plush and smooth but for the faint outlines of footprints that had stood in exactly the same spot in front of the President’s antique huanghuali wood desk. Wen found himself wondering about the fate of the men who had worn those spots in the carpet. To stand in front of the desk of a man as powerful as the President — who simultaneously held the offices of General Secretary of the Communist Party of China and Chairman of the Central Military Committee — seemed a perilous endeavor.

As the leader of the Ministry of State Security — patterned after the former Soviet Union’s KGB — Wen had nearly unfettered power to jostle and manipulate the lives of a billion citizens if he’d had the notion to do such things — but President Chen Min could manipulate the lives of the manipulators themselves. And yet, the man appeared to like him, telling Wen he valued his “direct and unfiltered” counsel. Wen did not admit it, but when a wise man spoke to the paramount leader of The Peoples Republic of China, he always filtered his counsel. A consummate diplomat and spy, Minister Wen just did it better than the military men in the room.

Both General Sun and Admiral Jiang nodded thoughtfully at each word Chen spoke, as if they could not have possibly said it better. The President paused for a long moment, looking at his counselors over pursed lips, as if he had a touch of indigestion.

Taking the silence as a cue to speak rather than ponder, General Sun leaned forward in his chair to drive home his point. “My soldiers stand ready,” he said. A well-fed and jowly man, his thick fingers clutched a large dress hat above his belly, next to the ribbons festooning his chest. “As a proud nation, we cannot be expected to suffer the indignities and bullying from the United States.”

The minister kept a file on all of the most powerful military leaders. General Sun had not always been so fat. Before being promoted to the Second Artillery, he’d been fit enough to lead the Southern Broadswords, an elite group of special operations commandos based in Guangzhou. The pampered living of a general officer may have softened his body, but Wen had no doubt the man had retained his flint-hard resolve and tactical sensibilities.

“Perhaps,” Wen interjected from his spot across the room, “they mean to goad us into firing the first shot — to make us the aggressors in a devastating war.” He spoke to the President, unconcerned as to whether he convinced the general of anything or not. A sword, after all, was not meant to stay sheathed. Advice from the military would always contain a military option. It was the way of things.

“Zhŭxí Chen,” General Sun continued, using the word that had meant chairman during Mao’s day, but was now commonly translated as president. “The United States is well aware that it could not win a protracted war in our battle space. They are stretched thin with Korea and have neither the stomach nor means to occupy anything else east of Japan for any length of time, not with the world such as it is. They will try to utilize their carriers and submarine fleets to attack us from afar. So far, we have planned for little beyond denying them access to our waters. But Mr. President, national honor demands we take the fight—”

The President raised his hand, waving away the assault of words. General Sun fell silent immediately.

“I understand our national honor,” Chen said, more contemplative than angry. “And I am more than aware of the tactics the US will use in an air-sea battle. What I need are options — and a cogent plan of what to do in the face of this open hostility from the US. I cannot understand what is going on in the American President’s head. It seems to me as though he is bent on war. The President is practically in bed with the Japanese. Two of the most notorious terrorists in our nation were handed over to the Pakistanis — who conveniently let them escape.” He gazed out of the floor-to-ceiling windows to his left, breathing deeply, thinking on each word. “I wonder what the Americans would have done if we’d had bin Laden and handed him over to France. I have to tell you, gentlemen, even if I did not want a war, there are plenty in the Central Committee who think it is the wisest course of action — blood and treasure notwithstanding.”

Wen had no love lost for the United States, but chose to look at things as they were, rather than as nationalist fervor wished them to be.

“Sir,” he said, speaking evenly, mirroring the President’s demeanor. “I agree with the general’s point that after decades of fighting in the Middle East, Americans have no stomach for war — but I assure you, they have much less stomach for defeat. Even if our strikes disable US communications satellites and cripple their naval assets with the first salvo of nuclear missiles — a relatively blind and wounded United States would counterstrike with enough force from their surviving submarines and carriers that our losses would be in the millions.”

“Perhaps it would be millions.” General Sun sniffed dismissively. “But are those lives not a small price to pay to chase the US out of our waters for good?”

“Any victory would be a Pyrrhic one,” Wen said, “At the cost of so much blood and treasure that our economy would crumble—”

“Or perhaps the economy would grow.” Admiral Jiang nodded thoughtfully. At sixty-six, he was the oldest man in the room by a decade. He was fit for his age, had a square jaw and military bearing — but he parted his jet-black hair in the middle, a habit that Wen found off-putting and distinctly un-Chinese. “The Americans flaunt their perceived power in our noses at every turn,” the admiral said. “They appear to want a war. I do not need to remind you that though the side that shoots first, so to speak, may be judged the aggressor in the court of public opinion, that side will also have a considerable advantage in the fight.”

General Sun leaned farther forward. “In an air-and-sea battle with the United States, first strike would be a necessity, sir. I believe, as do many of my colleagues, that we could endure the heavy losses sustained in such a conflict — even a nuclear war — as long as we make the primary move.”

“Are these colleagues that agree with your assessment the same wise men who allowed a sensitive prototype weapon to be stolen from a poorly guarded warehouse in Penggu?” The President tipped his head slightly to one side, eyes locked on the general while he waited. This was not a rhetorical question.

Wen decided to step in, more to let the President know the status of the stolen weapon than to let the bloviating general off the hook. If Sun had his way, nuclear missiles would arc westward by nightfall.

“We have information that may lead us to the Black Dragon, sir,” he said, careful not to give himself an impossible deadline to find something that was lost because of the military’s inept security measures.

General Sun glared at the interruption and the news that MSS possessed information that had not been shared with the army.

“This thing you’ve lost.” The President leaned back in his chair addressing the question to anyone with an answer. “This Black Dragon. It’s not nuclear, correct?”

“That is true,” General Sun said. “But thermobaric weapons are sometimes called the ‘poor man’s nuclear device.’ The effects are devastating.”

Chen Min gave a thoughtful nod. “I understand the Americans do not have such a device.”

“Not as such,” Minister Wen said. “The US arsenal includes many thermobaric bombs. Their Javelin for instance is a shoulder-fired missile much like this one. But for its size, the Black Dragon is much more powerful. An ugly weapon.”

“Ugly and useful,” the general said.

“Ugly, useful, and small enough to make it difficult to locate, I’d imagine,” the President said. “Please work in concert on this, gentlemen. I do not need to tell you what sort of problems it will cause if our own Black Dragon, say, made its way here to Beijing. There are those who would be happy to see such a thing deployed against this very office.”

“Understood, sir,” General Sun said. He took a deep breath, holding his hat in both hands. “Mr. President, I must speak frankly. I hold Minister Wen in the greatest of all possible esteem, but regarding our clear victory over the United States during a possible conflict, I have more faith in our country than he does. The minister’s world is one of spies and deceit — which, I freely admit, is necessary for the security of our nation. The admiral and I operate in a world of honor and duty — a world of direct attack. We have a plan in place that will allow China more than any Pyrrhic victory.” He looked at Jiang, who nodded in forceful agreement.

“Even as we speak, Mr. President,” the admiral said, “if the Americans want war, we have assets in position to crush them.”

“Very well,” Chen Min said. He gave a flick of his hand as he stood, knocking a silver teapot off his desk in the process. All three men moved at once to pick up the pot, nearly knocking each other over in the process. The President stopped them with a look.

“Tea and blood are both impossible to retrieve once they have been spilled,” he said. “Trust that I am not above spilling either if I see that it is the right move. In the meantime, someone find out what is going on in the mind of that fool America has for a President. And while you are at it, capture the Feng brothers and locate our missing weapon.”

Wen did not say it in front of the others, but he had someone working on that very plan. He looked across the spacious office at the fallen teapot. The admiral caught his eye and gave him a pleasant nod. There was no doubt that he and the general had a plan of their own.