Drone Command

TWENTY-EIGHT

The headquarters of the Chinese Communist Party and the vast bureaucracy known as the State Council were located behind the ancient red walls of Zhongnanhai, the ornate imperial leisure garden of China’s resplendent emperors.

Vice Chairman Feng and Admiral Ji stood uncomfortably in President Sun’s executive office. The squat, balding technocrat sat glumly behind his massive mahogany desk, his small hands folded quietly in front of him. Four red phones, a single black phone, a row of sharpened pencils, an empty yellow writing tablet, an iPad, and a recent family photo of Sun, his wife, and his daughter were the only items on the fifteen-foot-wide expanse.

Behind Sun, a wall-length bookcase of identical construction as the desk, each shelf neatly stacked with legal, political, and chemical engineering texts, reflecting Sun’s accomplished professional background. Above the bookshelves, a reproduction of the ten-inch-tall, seventeen-foot-long scroll painting Along the River During the Qingming Festival, the most famous work in all of Chinese history. The thousand-year-old painting by the master Zhang Zeduan depicted the prosperous economic life of the Song Dynasty. Sun’s administration referenced the painting as often as possible. It was a clear message conveying the peace and prosperity of an era before both Western colonialism and the brutality of Maoist Communism, the perfect metaphor for Sun’s reform programs.

Feng quietly seethed, waiting for the hapless president to croak out some blathering inanity. Sun looked like a sleepy toad with a bad comb-over, his oily face and hands riddled with liver spots. Dark bags underscored his heavy-lidded eyes, which blinked behind thick prescription lenses wedged into large, unstylish frames.

Sun’s inexorable rise to power had always frustrated Feng. The rancid little bureaucrat had an excellent reputation as an efficient and effective administrator, but he possessed little in the way of charisma or personal presence. His singular virtue was his determined, stubborn spirit. Like dripping water, he invariably wore down his opposition, less by force than by persistence. His unassuming demeanor caused many to underestimate him. His anticorruption reforms at the local and state levels were insignificant as far as Feng was concerned, but it was surprising that Sun survived the ordeal at all. Even the bottom-feeders in China’s ruthless political ecosystem were dangerous. Sun was the compromise choice of a slim majority within the Politburo and the Standing Committee to become China’s latest version of a reform president. His alliances were shaky at best. In Feng’s estimation, Sun’s days were numbered, especially when the nation would come to rally around him in the coming weeks when the oil would begin to flow from the Mao Island project and the American navy was driven out of Chinese territorial waters for good.

President Sun had summoned—summoned! — Feng and Ji to his office today with a terse summary of the meeting’s agenda and a copy of Ambassador Pang’s troubling report.

“I believe the Mao Island project is becoming too dangerous to continue,” President Sun said. “It must be shut down immediately.”

Feng tensed. “But Mao Island drilling has just begun. You’re well aware of the oil and gas reserves we shall capture if we don’t lose heart.”

“The risk of war with the United States is greater than the reward of continued operations.”

“The risk of war poses no danger; only war is dangerous. And the Americans will avoid a war with us at all costs,” Admiral Ji said.

“You nearly killed an American president yesterday. Do you think the Americans wouldn’t have retaliated if you had ended her life?” Sun asked.

Admiral Ji raised his hands in protest. “It was an accident. Had she announced her presence, we would have dealt with the situation differently.”

“I’m afraid the Standing Committee agrees with me, gentlemen. Not you.”

President Sun was the first among equals as one member of the seven-member Standing Committee, the ruling body that controlled the Communist Party of China. The Communist Party of China, in turn, controlled everything else, including the government and military. The Standing Committee met at least once per week and sometimes more if a particular crisis arose. Their decisions were reached through debate and consensus, but once made, they were final. President Sun was the legal head of all three branches of government — party, executive, and military. All of the members of the ruling class, no matter their bureaucratic or military titles, were members of the Party, and the Standing Committee controlled the Party.

President Sun was also the chairman of the Central Military Commission, which controlled all the branches of the military. But Sun’s chairmanship was more ceremonial than actual. Vice Chairman Feng was the true head of the CMC, and General Chen, the other vice chairman, was Feng’s paid lackey. As powerful as he was, however, Vice Chairman Feng wasn’t yet a member of the Standing Committee. He had attained his position as vice chairman of the Central Military Commission three years before Sun rose to the presidency, and though Sun legally could dismiss Feng, he didn’t have the political muscle to do so. Feng’s densely woven web of alliances and secret bank accounts had proven too difficult to crack even for the determined Sun.

“The Standing Committee may agree with you,” Feng said, “but the Central Military Commission certainly does not.” He started to tell Sun that he knew the secret Standing Committee meeting had split four to three on their recent vote because three of the Standing Committee members were on Feng’s payroll, as were half of the Politburo, who elected the Standing Committee, but there was no point in tipping his hand now.

“Vice Chairman Feng is correct,” Admiral Ji said. “The PLAN is quite in favor of our current direction.”

“And the PLAN is willing to risk a catastrophic war for a few gallons of oil?” President Sun asked.

“The Americans don’t want war and neither do we. But there will be no war because the Americans won’t fight us,” the admiral insisted.

“Did you bother to read Ambassador Pang’s report?” Sun demanded.

“Of course. Myers is mistaken. The Sixth Fleet wouldn’t dare challenge us.”

“She’s a failed president of a failing nation,” Feng said. “What does it matter what she thinks?”

“It matters because she’s a close friend of President Lane’s. My sources tell me she helped him win power. That means she has influence over him.” Sun leaned forward. “And she wants an apology from you, Feng. A personal apology.”

Feng was lost in thought. It suddenly occurred to him that Myers might be his best option yet. “If you were certain that the Americans would not oppose us, would you support the continued drilling at Mao Island?”

“Do you take me for an idiot? Of course I would. The amount of oil and gas located there would virtually guarantee our energy independence in the coming decade,” Sun said. “But you can’t guarantee the Americans won’t attack us.”

“Myers said the Americans don’t believe the Wu-14 is operational. You also said she has influence over Lane. If I can convince Myers the Wu-14 exists, she’ll convince Lane. And if Lane believes we have it, the U.S. Navy will, and the U.S. Navy will never risk an aircraft carrier, especially for the sake of Japanese oil interests.”

“Vice Chairman Feng is exactly right,” Admiral Ji said.

Feng relaxed, knowing he’d already won. “So let me propose this. I’ll invite President Myers to meet me in person, and I will apologize to her face-to-face.”

“Where and when?” Sun asked.

“At Admiral Ji’s headquarters,” Feng said. “Where the Wu-14 is currently located.”

President Sun unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair, thinking.

“Yes, that might just work.”

“I’ll make the arrangements immediately,” Feng said.

Once Myers saw the Wu-14 in person, the Americans would be convinced of its existence. China might just win this war without firing a shot.

“Do so, and keep me informed,” the president said, picking up a phone. He waived a spotted hand, dismissing the two men.

“As you wish,” Feng said.

Feng glared at Sun’s flaking scalp. He made a mental note as he left. The first thing he’d do when he took over this office was to have it thoroughly disinfected.