Empire Rising

1

A light rain was falling from a gray, overcast sky as a black Lincoln Town Car merged onto the 14th Street Bridge, fighting its way north across three lanes of early morning traffic. In the back of the sedan, Christine O’Connor gazed through rain-streaked windows at the Potomac River flowing lazily east toward the Chesapeake Bay. She ignored the rhythmic thump of the sedan’s windshield wipers, focused instead on the radio tuned to a local AM news station. As she listened to the morning’s headlines, she wasn’t surprised the most important news of the day was absent from the broadcast.

As the president’s national security advisor, Christine was briefed daily on events occurring around the world with the potential to affect the safety of American citizens. This morning, she was returning from the Pentagon after her weekly intelligence brief with Secretary of Defense Nelson Jennings. Near the end of the meeting, the discussion had turned to yesterday’s assassination of China’s prime minister. There would be instability within China’s Politburo Standing Committee as its eight remaining members determined the replacement for the second most powerful person in China. Concern was voiced about the loss of Bai Tao, a staunch opponent to using military force to resolve China’s conflicts. Considering what the United States was contemplating signing, that was not an insignificant issue.

The MAER Accord — the Mutual Access to Environmental Resources Accord — was the exact opposite of what it purported to be. Christine opened the manila folder in her lap, revealing the one-inch-thick document on the right side and her notes on the left, and began reviewing them one final time before her meeting with the president. Upon reading its title, one would think the accord ensured equal access to the world’s supply of natural resources, which were straining to meet the demands of the industrialized and developing countries. Oil and natural gas production were simply not keeping pace, and within three years, there would not be enough to go around.

Instead of ensuring every country would receive their fair share, the MAER Accord included complicated price calculations that favored the United States and its allies. Less fortunate countries, including China, would be forced to pay much higher prices. Additionally, it included a military defense assurance between the United States and the Pacific Rim nations, who were fearful of an aggressive China, which had been rattling its sword and staking claim to many of the region’s natural resources. The future lay in vast Asian offshore oil fields, and the half-century-long MAER Accord assured America and its allies would have access to the resources their economies would require for the next fifty years. In return, America would respond to any attempt by another country to claim the natural resources of another.

Christine’s Town Car turned right on West Executive Avenue, bringing her closer to the White House and her final meeting on the accord with the president and Kevin Hardison. The mere thought of the president’s chief of staff threatened to bring on a migraine. They were once close friends, working together on Congressman Tim Johnson’s staff twenty years ago, when Hardison, ten years her senior, had been her mentor. But all that changed once she became the president’s national security advisor, when she surprised Hardison with a mind of her own, refusing to subordinate herself to his orders.

Unlike most administrations, the president preferred to have counsel from both political parties. Unfortunately, Christine was the outsider, which meant she had the burden of fighting the uphill battles. Still, she had won a surprisingly large percentage of them, which was probably one of the reasons for the animosity between her and Hardison. Their disdain for each other wouldn’t help in a few minutes when they met in the Oval Office, with one last opportunity to convince the president of the dangerous repercussions of signing the MAER Accord.

The Lincoln Town Car pulled to a stop under the north portico, next to two Marines in Dress Blues guarding the formal entrance to the West Wing. Standing between the two Marines — almost a head taller — was a Navy Captain wearing the Navy’s version of its Dress Blues, with four gold stripes on each sleeve. Steve Brackman was the president’s senior military aide, with whom she had forged a close working relationship. Christine had called ahead and asked him to meet her when she returned to the White House. As she prepared for battle with the president’s powerful chief of staff, she preferred to have the military on her side.

Brackman greeted her as she stepped from the sedan, polite as always. “Good morning, Miss O’Connor.”

Christine returned the Captain’s greeting, and Brackman followed her to her corner office. She entered and dropped off her leather briefcase, but Brackman stopped at the entrance to her office. Christine returned to the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Miss O’Connor. Mr. Hardison requested I meet with him in a few minutes. Is there something quick I can help you with?”

Christine frowned. Hardison apparently had the same battle plan she had. She answered, “The president is going to make his decision on the MAER Accord today. Hardison is pushing the president to sign it while I’m advising against it. I wanted to spend a few minutes with you, so you fully understood my concerns.”

“I think I understand both sides of the argument,” Brackman replied.

Christine pressed her lips together. As the president’s senior military aide, Brackman could tip the scales. “And your recommendation will be…?”

Brackman’s eyes searched hers for a moment, and it seemed he was about to answer, but he checked his watch instead. “If you’ll excuse me.”

As Brackman turned to leave, Christine grabbed his arm. “Don’t let him persuade you. I’m counting on your support.”

Brackman hesitated before replying. “I know, Miss O’Connor.” He eased his arm from her grip, then turned and headed toward Hardison’s office.

Christine watched him disappear down the hallway, then decided to wait where she could keep an eye on the Oval Office’s doors. She headed down the seventy-foot-long hallway, turning left into the Roosevelt Room. While she waited, she took the opportunity to admire the two oil paintings hanging on opposing walls: Alfred Jonniaux’s portrait of Franklin Delano Roosevelt seated behind his desk, and Tade Styka’s equestrian portrait of Theodore Roosevelt titled Rough Rider. In accordance with tradition, the incoming administration had reversed the two portraits, placing the image of FDR over the fireplace and Theodore Roosevelt to Christine’s right, on the south wall.

As Christine examined the portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, she reflected on his famous slogan — Speak softly and carry a big stick. If the president signed the MAER Accord and China responded as she predicted, the United States was going to need a big stick, indeed.

There was a knock on the Roosevelt Room’s open door, and Christine turned to spot chief of staff Kevin Hardison, who tapped his watch. “The president’s waiting.”

Christine followed Hardison into the Oval Office. Captain Brackman also joined them, and Christine took her seat in the middle of three chairs opposite the president’s desk, with Hardison and Brackman flanking her.

The president addressed Christine. “Any details on the assassination of China’s prime minister?”

Christine answered, “Our Intel agencies have narrowed the potential motives down to the two most probable. The first is a terrorist attack by one of the separatist organizations from the Xinjiang region in northwest China. The second is internal strife within the Politburo, with one of the junior members taking matters into his own hands. In that case, Shen Yi is the leading suspect. He’s the longest serving Politburo member, yet sits third in the power structure behind Xiang Chenglei, the general secretary of the Party and president of China, and Xiang’s protégé, Bai Tao, the prime minister. Shen is getting up in years, and the death of Bai Tao is fortunate from his perspective, making him the leading candidate to replace Xiang when he steps down.” Christine paused for a moment. “Or if something happens to Xiang.”

The specter of Politburo strife plunging China’s leadership into chaos couldn’t have come at a worse time. The instability would make an accurate prediction of China’s response to the MAER Accord impossible. In concert with Christine’s thoughts, Hardison changed the subject.

“We need to discuss the accord, sir. The terms expire at the end of this week, so you need to sign it before you leave this afternoon for Camp David.”

“What are the current projections?” the president asked.

Hardison replied, “Without price constraints, world demand for oil will increase by eight percent per year, with oil production increasing by only one percent. To reduce oil consumption to within production capacity, the price of oil will double over the next three years. We crafted the accord to prevent skyrocketing prices, and the terms we negotiated are more than fair, restricting each country to an appropriate percentage of the world’s oil supply.”

“The terms are not fair,” Christine replied. “The method used to calculate each country’s fair share is flawed, and you know it. The accord will strangle China’s economy.”

Hardison shrugged as he turned toward Christine. “And that’s a bad thing? They had their chance to negotiate a better deal, and failed.”

“They failed because we bribed our way to favorable terms, offering over a hundred billion dollars in military grants.”

“We negotiated,” Hardison jabbed. “Negotiated.”

Christine folded her arms across her chest. “Bribed.”

Hardison leveled a malevolent gaze at Christine before turning back to the president. “Gasoline prices have doubled since you took office and will double again before the reelection if you don’t sign the accord. If you want another term in office, you don’t have a choice.”

“I don’t recommend it,” Christine interjected. “The main question is whether China will use its military to obtain the resources it needs. They won’t be able to buy the oil and natural gas they require, and they might use their military to obtain it by force. It’ll be Japan and Pearl Harbor all over again. In 1941, the United States placed an embargo on oil and gasoline exports to Japan, cutting off eighty percent of their oil supply. Japan did in 1941 what China will likely do today — they moved south to secure the natural resources they required.

“The Pacific Rim contains several billion barrels of oil, plus nine hundred trillion cubic feet of natural gas. China has already staked claim to the Spratly Island Archipelago and the Senkaku Islands. The Spratly Islands alone are under the control of six different nations, and if China decides to enforce its claim to these islands and their offshore natural resources, it’s going to put the United States in a bind. Per the MAER Accord, we’ll have to come to the defense of these countries. We’ll be at war with China. Is that what you want? Because that’s exactly what you’ll get if you sign the accord.”

“China wouldn’t dare start a war,” Hardison replied. “They know we’d come to the aid of anyone they attacked. And another thing to consider, Mr. President,” he cast a derisive glance in Christine’s direction, “is that Christine has a track record of being wrong, so I recommend you factor that into your decision.”

Christine leveled an icy stare at the chief of staff. She hadn’t kept tally, but was pretty sure it was Hardison who was wrong most of the time. His long list of flaws apparently included a short memory.

While Christine glared at Hardison, the president reflected on the relationship between the man and woman sitting across from him. Aside from a temporary truce following the Kentucky incident, Christine and Hardison got along like oil and vinegar, and didn’t realize what a great team they made. He had selected Hardison as his chief of staff primarily for his experience, and secondarily for his ruthlessness, an essential trait of an effective chief of staff. But he also recognized Hardison’s zeal would intimidate many of the men and women on his staff and in his Cabinet.

He had wanted a strong national security advisor, someone with the necessary background and keen insight. But — just as important — he needed someone who wouldn’t wither under Hardison’s overbearing demeanor, and he had known after his interview with Christine that she was the right woman for the job. She told him his proposed policies would ruin the country’s ability to defend itself. She spoke her mind and pulled no punches.

Christine was the right woman for the job, and it didn’t hurt that she was attractive. He noticed how his two teenage sons popped out of the woodwork whenever Christine dropped by the Executive Residence. Their eyes followed her every movement, surveying her attractive face — sparkling blue eyes framed by auburn hair — and her lean, yet womanly curves. After Christine departed, the two boys would vanish as quickly as they appeared.

The president clearing his throat brought Christine’s attention back to the commander-in-chief. He looked toward Brackman. “What’s your assessment? If China uses its military, can we defeat them?”

Brackman didn’t immediately respond, and the president’s question hung in the air as Brackman cast a sideways glance at Christine before focusing on the president.

“If China starts a war over oil,” Brackman answered, “we can defend any country they attack. Although they’ve significantly modernized their military over the last decade, they’re still no match for our Pacific Fleet. With five carrier strike groups off China’s shore, along with our Marine Expeditionary Forces — two Marine divisions and their air wings — any attempt to seize oil reserves in the region will be defeated.”

Christine gave Brackman a frosty glare as the president absorbed the Captain’s words, his eyes canvassing each of the individuals seated in front of him. Christine felt a deepening uneasiness as the president moved toward his decision.

Finally, he spoke. “I’ll sign the accord.”

A smile broke across Hardison’s face. “I’ll have Sikes inform the press. How about a signing in the Rose Garden at noon?”

The president nodded. “That’s fine.” His gaze swept across the three individuals on the other side of his desk. “Anything else?” After all three offered negative shakes of their heads, the president added, “I’ll see you at noon.”

Christine stood, leading the way from the Oval Office. Brackman turned right as he exited while Christine and Hardison turned left, headed toward their diametrically opposed corner offices in the West Wing. Christine looked up at Hardison as he joined her at her side.

“You better be right,” she said.

Hardison offered a smug, condescending smile. “I always am.”

No other words were exchanged. As the chief of staff entered his office while Christine turned right, toward hers, her instinct told her signing the accord was a serious mistake.

2

As the sun slipped behind the Wuyi Mountains, shadows crept east from the red sandstone slopes, sinking into the lush green gorges of the Jiuqu Xi River before encroaching on the Pacific Ocean. Not far from the coast, a lone figure ascended a narrow trail toward a grassy plateau overlooking the East China Sea, its frothy white waves crashing into the rocky shore six hundred feet below. With a steady gait, the elderly man moved toward a circular stone building flanked by a curving thicket of magnolia trees.

After climbing a half-dozen cracked stone steps, Xiang Chenglei entered the Mazu temple, stopping before the altar to kneel on the cold granite floor. In the four corners of the building, torches flickered in the fading light, bathing the goddess of the sea and her two dragon guardians in dancing hues of amber and burnt orange. Carved from the metamorphic mountain rock, Mazu sat upon her throne holding a ceremonial tablet in her right hand, a staff in the other. On her left coiled the fierce dragon Thousand Miles Eye, the red paint peeling from the two-horned guardian, while on her right reclined the fading green With-the-Wind Ear, the dragon’s single horn broken near its tip.

For tonight’s prayer, Xiang knew he could have chosen a more decorative temple, with Mazu and her guardians fabricated from precious metals and jewels instead of simple stone and paint, but it was fitting that he knelt before this unadorned goddess just as his mother had done countless times when Xiang was a child. As he knelt beside her in silence, the moisture collecting in her eyes, he wondered what she prayed for; she clasped her hands so tightly her fingers turned white. It was not until Xiang became an adult that his father explained, the revelation igniting his hatred. Tonight, forty years after learning his mother’s dark secret, personal and political aspirations had unexpectedly converged. Lijuan and China would finally have justice.

Xiang prayed tonight for the protection that would enable that justice, requesting Mazu watch over the thousands of men who would soon journey upon the seas. As he finished his appeal to the patron saint of fishermen and sailors, a warm, moist wind blew in from the ocean, carrying the scent of childhood memories. He had grown into a man in the small fishing village at the bottom of the winding path he had just climbed. The only son of Bohai and Lijuan Xiang, he was no stranger to hard work; the life of a fisherman was arduous at best. Although he had planned to follow in his father’s footsteps, the older man had a grander vision, explaining that the hands of a fisherman could take him only so far. The mind of a scholar, however, could take him anywhere. But not even his father could have imagined the path his son would follow.

After completing his prayer, Xiang rose to his feet, the stiffness in his knees reminding him of his sixty-five years. Exiting the temple, he strolled to the edge of the plateau, looking down at the small fishing village nestled along the shore. He knew the six men at the base of the narrow trail would be nervous by now. The men from the Central Guard Bureau’s Cadre Department had objected when he instructed them to stay behind, but he wanted to visit the temple of his childhood, filled with strong memories of his mother, alone. He ought to head back now; he guessed he had only twenty minutes before dusk succumbed to night, the dying light of day supplanted by the pale glow of a full moon. But there was another building of stone and mortar he desired to visit, not far down the sloping cliffs overlooking the Taiwan Strait.

Xiang carefully descended another trail, winding his way down the steep slope until he came to a smooth outcropping of rock. Upon close examination, he spotted a rectangular seam in the side of the protrusion and knocked firmly on the heavy metal door. A few seconds later, a cover over a small window in the door slid away, revealing the face of a young soldier, the green epaulets on his uniform proclaiming him a Private First Class in the People’s Liberation Army.

Even in the dim light of dusk, Xiang could see the blood drain from the young man’s face when he recognized the man standing outside. The Private stuttered an unintelligible greeting, then slammed the cover shut with more force than required. Xiang waited patiently as the soldier’s footsteps raced away from the door, returning a moment later at a more measured pace, another pair of footsteps joining his. The lock mechanisms rotated, and the door swung inward. Standing next to the Private was a Captain who saluted crisply, as did the Private a split second later.

Tension was evident in the stiff posture of both men, and Xiang attempted to put them at ease by issuing the formal greeting to his troops, a time-honored custom since the words were first uttered by Zhu De in 1949.

“Greetings, comrades.”

“Greetings, leader!” both men replied in unison.

The two men stood rigidly at attention, awaiting Xiang’s next words. He offered a warm smile instead, and the Captain and Private dropped their salutes.

“There has been much progress since your last review,” the Captain said, accurately assessing the purpose of Xiang’s visit. “We are now fully operational, and have many new men who will be proud you have visited us.”

Leaving the Private behind, the Captain turned and headed down a long hallway. As Xiang followed Captain Zhou Pengfei down the narrow passageway, his thoughts returned to the path he had traversed since leaving the sandy shore of his village almost fifty years ago. After excelling in elementary and high school, he gained entrance to Beijing’s Tsinghua University, where he earned a degree in mechanical engineering. While in college, he joined the Communist Party of China during the Cultural Revolution, quickly concluding Mao Zedong’s socialist reforms were crippling the country, stagnating sorely needed economic growth. During those formative years, Xiang developed the yearning to lead China to prosperity. All he lacked was the opportunity.

That opportunity emerged when the repression of the Cultural Revolution ended. China’s new leader, Deng Xiaoping, implemented the “Four Transformations,” promoting foreign investment and entrepreneurship, infusing Party leadership with men who were younger, more knowledgeable, and more revolutionary. Xiang was promoted quickly up the Party ranks and just before his fiftieth birthday became the youngest member ever of the powerful nine-member Politburo Standing Committee, China’s supreme ruling body. Now, as both general secretary of the Communist Party and president of the country, there was no one more influential in all of China. Yet his vast power had proved insufficient to sustain China on its path to prosperity.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, barricades had come crashing down. The United States and its allies had negotiated preferential access to the world’s oil supply. Xiang had reviewed the projections of his economic ministers — the exorbitant oil prices they’d be forced to pay would plunge China’s economy into a death spiral, unraveling the last forty years of progress.

Xiang and Captain Zhou reached the end of the long corridor and turned left, delving deeper into the mountainside. The opening led to a twenty-by-twenty-foot room crammed with electronic consoles, the blue glow from the displays illuminating the faces of the soldiers seated behind them. The Captain called out as Xiang entered and the eight men snapped to attention, awe evident in their expressions as they stood in the presence of China’s supreme leader. After Zhou ordered them To Rest, the men settled uneasily into their chairs, exchanging glances as Xiang and the Captain stopped behind one of the consoles.

“I believe it is dark enough to bring the battery on-line,” Zhou said. It was more a question than a statement, and Xiang answered with a nod of his head.

Zhou turned and issued orders to the enlisted man seated at the console. The soldier acknowledged, and as his fingers flicked across the glass surface of the touch-screen display, Xiang knew that above them, radars were being raised from recesses in the mountain’s surface, beginning their rhythmic back-and-forth sweeps. A three-dimensional image of an island appeared in the center of the display, separated from the mainland by a two-hundred-mile-wide swath of the Pacific Ocean.

“With our new Hong Niao missiles,” Zhou proudly announced, “we have complete coverage of the Strait. Nothing can enter without our permission.”

Xiang nodded again. China had spent the last decade developing advanced anti-ship cruise missiles, deploying them along the coast in forty concealed bunkers like this one. The People’s Liberation Army had done their task well, camouflaging their construction from American satellites in orbit. The United States had no idea what awaited them.

The Captain added, “Each man controls one of the eight launchers, selecting the desired target. Come, the launchers have been installed since your last visit.”

Zhou led Xiang out of the control room, crossing the hallway. They entered a second room containing eight quad-missile launchers, the fifteen-foot-long missiles pointing toward a closed portal measuring four feet high by sixty feet wide. The Captain tapped a control near the room’s entrance, and a twelve-inch-thick section retracted slowly upward, revealing the Pacific Ocean, providing a flight path for the thirty-two missiles.

As Xiang stared through the portal of the casemated bunker, the horizon melting into the darkness, he recalled the times he stood on the plateau above them in his youth, straining to see the distant shore of Taipei, the island referred to by the West as Taiwan. It was to Taiwan that Chiang Kai-shek’s forces, defeated in China’s civil war, retreated in 1949. If the Politburo Standing Committee approved the People’s Liberation Army’s plan tomorrow, there would be many benefits, one of them being the long overdue unification of the two Chinas.

Zhou interrupted Xiang’s rumination. “It is an honor you have visited us again.”

“The honor is mine, Captain. It is the dedication of men like you, who serve the people, that keeps our country safe and prosperous.”

Upon uttering those words, Xiang’s thoughts returned to the MAER Accord. The United States had restricted China’s access to vital oil supplies, strangling its economy. Although America’s aggression hadn’t been formally approved by Congress, its proclamation was just as clear.

America had declared war.

3

In the center of Beijing, on the western edge of Tiananmen Square, is China’s Great Hall of the People, its gray marble colonnades rising above a thin ringlet of cypresses and pines. China’s parliament building covers almost two million square feet, containing over three hundred meeting halls, the largest of which — the Great Auditorium — seats over ten thousand. Affixed to the center of the Great Auditorium’s ceiling is an immense ruby-red star, the symbol of the Party, surrounded by the People — represented by a sparkling galaxy of lights embedded within four concentric rings, their scalloped, wavering edges illuminated in a diffuse, white light.

Along the eastern facade of the Great Hall, with the early morning sun slanting through tall rectangular windows, Huan Zhixin moved briskly down a corridor lined with marble statues honoring the Heroes of the People. Mao Zedong’s statue rose a foot taller than the others, but Huan’s attention was drawn instead to the resemblance of Zhou Enlai, China’s first prime minister. The assassination of Bai Tao, China’s current prime minister, was fresh in Huan’s mind, and he could sense the anger in the man beside him.

On Huan’s right walked Xiang Chenglei. His appointment as general secretary and president ten years ago wasn’t without concessions. Xiang and his rival had been deadlocked, and Shen Yi, the most senior Politburo member, would cast the deciding vote. Shen’s endorsement of Xiang was contingent on accepting his nephew Huan as chairman of the Central Military Commission — head of the People’s Liberation Army, and Xiang had agreed.

As head of the People’s Liberation Army, Huan had meticulously reviewed the PLA’s plan, and was confident they would prevail. However, as the Politburo cast the most important vote in four millennia of China’s history, a majority would not be sufficient. Huan’s proposal required unanimous approval.

At the end of the long hallway, Huan pushed against two heavy ten-by-twenty-foot wooden doors. Each of the mammoth doors swung silently inward, revealing a twenty-by-thirty-foot chamber. Seated around an oval table were the seven junior Politburo Standing Committee members, grim expressions on their faces. Xiang took his seat at the head of the table while Huan settled into a chair along the room’s perimeter. The empty chair at the table weighed heavily on Huan, and while Bai Tao’s death was unfortunate, it was also fortuitous. Tao had been staunchly opposed to Huan’s proposal.

Huan turned his attention to the front of the conference room. Standing beside a large plasma screen was Admiral Tsou Deshi, the highest-ranking Admiral in the PLA Navy. The Admiral wore a disapproving frown. The conservative officer had never been enamored with the objective of his assignment, but he had crafted a superb plan. But before Admiral Tsou began his brief, Huan decided to prime the Politburo members.

He stood, addressing the men seated around the table. “As you are aware, we face the most severe crisis in the history of our country. For the last four decades, we have compromised our principles and endorsed capitalism, convinced the prosperity of our people is more important than the purity of our ideology. That sacrifice has been wise — China has become a formidable economic power and will soon overtake the United States. As our economy has grown, so has our influence around the world. America fears what we have become and is frightened even more by our potential. So they are trying to cripple us, depriving us of the oil our economy needs to thrive.

“If we do nothing, everything we have sacrificed over the last four decades will be for naught. So I ask you — do we sit by and let America destroy us?” Huan paused as the eight men shook their heads solemnly. “Or do we take action?”

Huan could tell his message was resonating, so he moved quickly toward his proposal. “America believes we are cornered, outmaneuvered politically, and without the military might to challenge them. However, they are mistaken. We have significantly improved the capabilities of the PLA, and we now have the ability to defeat the United States’ Pacific Fleet. We can obtain the resources we need, ensuring China’s continued prosperity. All that stands in the way, is your vote.”

Huan paused momentarily before addressing the one critical element. “I understand your reservations. We cannot embark on this path without the assurance of success. Admiral Tsou is here to brief us on the PLA’s plan, to convince you we will defeat America.” Huan turned his attention to the Admiral, standing stiffly at the front of the conference room.

Admiral Tsou’s gaze swept across the conference room, his eyes surveying the eight Politburo members, coming to rest on the chairman of the Central Military Commission. Huan was a visionary. A decade earlier he had predicted China would find itself in this situation. When Huan approached him years ago, Tsou was convinced the objective was a bridge too far. The Chinese navy lacked the sophisticated command and control and advanced weapons of the American Fleet. But Huan had promised him that gap would be closed, and he had delivered. Now, it was his turn.

Tsou pressed a remote control in his hand and turned to the side as the monitor behind him energized, displaying a map of the Western Pacific Ocean. To the east of China lay the island of Taipei, the bait for their trap.

“The PLA has been tasked with securing the natural resources we require, located primarily along the Pacific Rim. Standing between our country and those resources is the United States Navy. Thus, the first step we must take is the neutralization of America’s Pacific Fleet.

“In the open ocean, we are no match for the American Navy. So we must engage their Navy in the littorals, where our missile batteries along the coast will eliminate the American advantage. Additionally, we must engage the United States in a campaign where we can predict their strategy and tactics. To do this, we must invade Taipei.”

Admiral Tsou paused. There was no visible reaction from the men seated at the table. He continued, “The Americans believe they are the guardians of democracy, and will surge their Navy to Taipei’s defense, which is exactly what we want. We have spent the last decade developing the missiles and submarines required to defeat the Americans, and we are finally ready.”

Tsou spent the next thirty minutes detailing how the United States Pacific Fleet would be drawn toward its demise. It was a delicate chess match, and in most cases China’s pieces on the board were inferior to America’s. In addition, a sacrifice would have to be made, further weakening China’s position. But Tsou was confident the gambit would succeed.

At the end of his brief, Tsou pressed the remote in his hand and the display fell dark. Silence descended upon the conference room.

Finally, Xiang asked the only question that mattered. “Are you sure we can defeat the United States?”

Tsou thought carefully before replying. He had supervised every detail of their military buildup, simulated the American response countless times with endless variations, and the PLA was now consistently victorious. There was no doubt in his mind.

“We will prevail.”

Huan waited patiently as additional questions followed. He had chosen well, promoting Tsou to Fleet Admiral ten years earlier. He had superbly guided the PLA Navy, and a decade of preparation had come down to this moment.

When the questions ended, Huan addressed the Politburo. “Admiral Tsou has outlined our new path to prosperity. But before we proceed, you must vote. We cannot commence offensive military action without unanimous approval.” Huan turned to the most junior committee member.

After a moment of reflection, fifty-five-year-old Deng Chung spoke. “I am uncomfortable with the use of military force. The loss of life will be great, and I fear that even if we obtain the natural resources we need, our economy will be crippled by international sanctions.” Deng paused, surveying the other Politburo members before returning his attention to Huan. “We should continue diplomatic efforts, not resort to war.”

Huan considered Deng’s words. Like Deng, Huan had initially misunderstood the role of war. But Mao Zedong had not.

“We are continuing diplomatic efforts,” Huan replied. “It was Chairman Mao himself who stated — ‘War is the continuation of politics by other means. When politics develops to a stage beyond which it cannot proceed by the usual means, war breaks out to sweep the obstacles from the way.’”

Huan continued, “We failed to negotiate access to the natural resources we need. It is time to employ a more effective method of diplomacy. It is time for war.

“Once the American Pacific Fleet is destroyed, America and the world will eagerly accept our terms — the unification of the two Chinas, access to the natural resources we require, and termination of any economic sanctions imposed. The war will be short, and it will help us negotiate the terms we desire but have failed to achieve by peaceful methods.”

There was silence in the conference room as the Politburo members digested Huan’s assessment. Finally, Deng nodded his consent. “I concur with the plan.”

One by one, each member of the committee approved until only Huan’s uncle, Shen, and Xiang remained. Huan already knew how his uncle would vote, and he did not disappoint.

“I concur,” Shen said.

Huan’s eyes moved to Xiang. The older man was silent, reflecting on the information presented. As Huan waited for Xiang’s vote, China’s future — as well as Huan’s — lay in the balance. Huan needed to persuade him. Perhaps he could motivate Xiang to approve the plan for personal, rather than political reasons. However, it was risky to bring the topic up. He had no idea how Xiang would react.

“There are many benefits to my plan,” Huan began. “Benefits your mother would surely approve of.”

Xiang’s eyes narrowed. “What happened to my mother will not be discussed here.” He clenched his teeth, glaring at Huan before replying. “My personal prejudice will not affect my assessment of what is best for China.” There was an uneasy silence as the two men remained locked in each other’s stare.

Xiang finally broke contact, his eyes roving across the faces of the other committee members as he spoke. “Huan is right. America fears what we have become, and our potential even more. They are cowards, attempting to castrate our economy. China requires a new path to prosperity, one that places our fate in our own hands, not in corrupt negotiators courting even more corrupt oil suppliers.” Xiang’s eyes settled on Huan. “I concur with your plan.”

Huan nodded his appreciation, then turned to Admiral Tsou. “How long until you are ready?”

“Seven days.”

4

The beat of the helicopter’s four-bladed rotor filled the humid morning air as the VH-60N White Hawk skimmed low over the thick forest canopy, climbing the gentle slope of the Catoctin Mountains. Although it could carry eleven passengers, there were only two aboard the presidential helicopter for the half-hour trip from the White House to the compound originally called Shangri-La by President Franklin Roosevelt, renamed Camp David by President Eisenhower in honor of his grandson. Christine O’Connor and the president’s senior military aide, Captain Steve Brackman, were approaching the end of their seventy-mile journey, and in a few minutes, Christine would deliver the unwelcome news.

A change in the rotor’s tempo and the feeling of her seat falling away announced the helicopter’s arrival at Camp David. Peering out the starboard window, Christine watched their steady descent toward a small clearing in the dark green forest. A moment later, the White Hawk’s landing wheels touched down onto the concrete tarmac with a gentle bump. Stepping out of the helicopter, Christine and Brackman hurried across the pavement and slipped into the backseat of a waiting black Suburban.

After passing the camp commander’s cabin, the Suburban turned right onto a steep secondary road, immediately pulling to a halt at a security checkpoint. The Marine guard checked the IDs of the driver and both passengers, then waved the Suburban through, and the SUV began winding its way through the heavily wooded 120-acre compound. A few minutes later, Aspen Lodge came into view, sitting atop a three-acre clearing lined with cattails and irises, sloping down to a copse of maple, hickory, and oak trees. Calling the president’s residence a lodge was misleading at best. The four-bedroom ranch-style cabin, constructed with natural oak wall paneling and exposed ceiling beams, was cozy but certainly not elegant.

The Suburban ground to a stop on a narrow gravel driveway and the Marine sentry standing guard near the front door saluted as Christine and Brackman stepped from the SUV, with Brackman returning the salute. After knocking on the door and hearing the president’s acknowledgment, Brackman opened the door for Christine, then followed her into the cabin’s small living room, stopping beside a stone fireplace as the president rose from a couch against the far wall. Through the window behind the president, the late morning sun reflected off the surface of the swimming pool behind the cabin, the bright sparkle contrasting with the president’s dark eyes.

The president waited for Christine to begin.

“Mr. President, China is mobilizing the People’s Liberation Army. Liberty for all military personnel has been canceled and two army groups are being moved toward the coast across from Taiwan. Every warship is being loaded with a full weapon complement, with most of the activity occurring at night.”

“Do they have any war games scheduled?” the president asked.

“Not to our knowledge.”

The president reflected on Christine’s words before replying. “China’s relationship with Taiwan has never been better.”

“The timing points more toward the MAER Accord than their desire to unify the two Chinas. Their mobilization began almost a week ago, right after you signed the accord.”

“Perhaps China is just rattling its sword,” the president offered, “mobilizing their military to pressure us into modifying the accord.”

“Perhaps, Mr. President, but we can’t be sure.”

The president didn’t immediately reply. Finally, he asked, “How do we respond?”

“SecDef recommends we increase Pacific Command’s readiness one level and cancel leave for all warship crews, putting Pacific Fleet on a twenty-four-hour leash. He also recommends we reroute all combatants on deployment in the Western Pacific toward Taiwan, just in case.”

The president nodded his agreement. “I’ll give Jennings the order.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “We need to find out what’s going on and diffuse the situation. I’d send Ross, but she’s on a flight to Moscow for a meeting with her secretary of state counterpart. I don’t want to cancel the meeting and divert her to China, nor do I want to wait another week to address this issue. That means I send someone else.”

He stared at Christine for a moment, then asked, “How’s your Mandarin?”

5

“Raising Number Two scope.”

Standing on the Conn in the submarine’s Control Room, Lieutenant Steve Cordero lifted both hands in the darkness, grabbing the periscope ring above his head, rotating it clockwise. Although he couldn’t see the scope as it slid silently up from its well, he knew the handles would emerge in three seconds. Dropping his hands, he held them out near his waist on each side of the scope until the top of the periscope handles hit his palms. He snapped the handles down and pressed his face against the eyepiece as the scope finished its ascent, checking the periscope settings. He twisted his right hand forward, verifying the periscope was set on low power. With a flick of his left wrist, he rotated the handle backward, tilting the scope optics skyward. But there was only darkness.

Cordero called out to the microphone in the overhead, “All stations, Conn. Proceeding to periscope depth.” Sonar, Radio, and the Quartermaster acknowledged the Officer of the Deck’s order, then Cordero followed up, “Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet.”

The Diving Officer repeated Cordero’s order, then directed the two watchstanders in front of him, “Ten up. Full rise fairwater planes.”

The watchstander on the left pulled his yoke back, and five hundred feet behind them, the control surfaces on the submarine’s stern rotated, pushing the stern down until the ship was tilted upward at a ten-degree angle. To the Dive’s right, the Helm also pulled the yoke back, pitching the control surfaces on the submarine’s conning tower, or sail as it was commonly called, to full rise.

“Passing one-five-zero feet,” the Dive called out. USS Michigan was rising toward the surface.

Years ago, Cordero would have rotated on the periscope during the ascent. But protocols had changed. Peering into the periscope eyepiece, he looked straight ahead, up into the dark water, scanning for evidence of ships above, their navigation lights reflecting on the ocean’s surface.

As Michigan ascended through the black water, aside from the Dive’s reports, it was silent in Control. There would be no conversation until the periscope broke the surface and the Officer of the Deck called out No close contacts or Emergency Deep. Like the rest of the watchstanders in Control, Cordero knew their submarine was vulnerable during its ascent to periscope depth. A few years earlier, transiting these same waters, USS Hartford had collided with USS New Orleans during the submarine’s ascent to periscope depth, almost ripping the sail from the top of the submarine.

With a submerged displacement of eighteen thousand tons, Michigan was less maneuverable than the nimble fast attacks. The former ballistic missile submarine was almost two football fields long, seven stories tall, and wide as a three-lane highway. Converted into a guided missile submarine, Michigan was now capable of carrying 154 Tomahawk cruise missiles, loaded in twenty-two of its twenty-four missile tubes, with the remaining two tubes converted into access hatches to two Dry Deck Shelters attached to the submarine’s Missile Deck. Within each DDS rested a SEAL Delivery Vehicle — a mini-sub capable of transporting Navy SEALs miles underwater for clandestine operations. Aboard Michigan, in berthing installed in the Missile Compartment during its conversion, slept four platoons of Navy SEALs, ready should their services be required.

Their services wouldn’t be necessary tonight. This was just a routine journey to periscope depth. As Michigan rose toward the surface, Cordero couldn’t see the submarine’s Commanding Officer, Captain Murray Wilson, in the darkness, but he felt his presence. Sitting on the starboard side of the Conn in the Captain’s chair, Wilson monitored his submarine’s ascent. There was heavy traffic in the narrow Strait of Hormuz tonight as the ship began its long transit home to Bangor, Washington, in the Pacific Northwest.

It was from Delta Pier in Hood Canal that Captain Wilson had cast off lines three months ago, leading Michigan west. This was Wilson’s first deployment aboard Michigan. Cordero and the rest of the officers in the Wardroom had been surprised when Wilson had been assigned as their new Commanding Officer. Captain Murray Wilson, the most senior captain in the Submarine Force, had already commanded the fast attack submarine USS Buffalo and had just completed an assignment as the senior Submarine Command Course instructor, preparing officers for command. Rumor held he played a pivotal role in the Kentucky incident, selected for Rear Admiral as a result. But he had supposedly turned down flag rank, choosing to end his career at sea.

It didn’t take long for Cordero and the rest of the crew aboard Michigan to appreciate the breadth and depth of the Captain’s experience. However, they were perplexed when he ordered an indirect path for their journey to the Persian Gulf, forcing them to transit at a higher than desirable speed. The crew soon realized the deviation was made with the sole purpose of passing through a specific point on the chart. When they reached the prescribed spot, Wilson ordered the Quartermaster to activate their Fathomer, sending one ping down toward the ocean bottom. As Captain Wilson sat in the shadows on the submarine’s Conn, Cordero could see the moisture glistening in the older man’s eyes as they passed over the watery grave of HMAS Collins.

That was three months ago and they were now headed home, ascending to periscope depth to download the radio broadcast. As Cordero peered up through the black water, a small wavering disc of light appeared in the distance, growing slowly larger; the moon’s blue-white reflection on the ocean’s surface. The Dive called out the submarine’s depth in ten-foot increments, and Cordero gradually rotated his left wrist back to its original position, tilting the scope optics down toward the horizon. As the Dive called out eight-zero feet, the scope broke the surface of the water and Cordero began his circular sweeps, searching for nearby contacts — quiet warships or deep-draft merchants bearing down on them as Michigan glided slowly at periscope depth.

After assessing the half-dozen white lights on the horizon, Cordero called out the report everyone in Control was hoping for.

“No close contacts!”

Conversation in control resumed, with the Dive and Chief of the Watch adjusting the submarine’s buoyancy to keep it a tad heavy, so the passing ocean swells wouldn’t suck the submarine up to the surface.

Radio’s report over the 27-MC communication system broke the subdued conversations in Control. “Conn, Radio. In sync with the broadcast. Receiving message traffic.”

The Quartermaster followed with his expected report, “GPS fix received.”

Cordero acknowledged Radio and the Quartermaster, then after the usual two-minute wait, Radio confirmed Michigan had received the latest round of naval messages. “Conn, Radio. Download complete.”

They had accomplished the two objectives for their trip to periscope depth, so Cordero ordered Michigan back to the safety of the ocean depths. “All stations, Conn. Going deep. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth two hundred feet.”

Each station acknowledged and Michigan tilted downward, leaving periscope depth behind. “Scope’s under,” Cordero announced, then turned the periscope until it looked forward and snapped the handles back to their folded positions. Reaching up, he rotated the periscope ring counterclockwise, lowering the scope into its well.

The lights in Control flicked on, shifting from Rig-for-Black to Gray, allowing everyone’s eyes to adjust, then shifted to White a moment later. As Michigan leveled off at two hundred feet, a Radioman entered Control, message board in hand, delivering the clipboard to the submarine’s Commanding Officer. Captain Wilson reviewed the messages, then handed the board to Cordero.

“Change in plans,” Wilson said. “We’re taking a detour on the way home.”

Wilson surveyed the men in Control before adding, “Come down to five hundred feet. Increase speed to ahead flank.”

6

It was a twelve-story building off Datong Road in a mixed-use area of Pudong. To United States satellites in orbit, the building’s electromagnetic signature appeared no different than the surrounding commercial buildings. The complex, however, housed China’s Unit 61398, the premier unit of the PLA’s Fourth Department, responsible for cyber warfare. On the twelfth floor, Admiral Tsou Deshi and General Cao Feng, Commander of the Fourth Department, supervised the most critical element of Admiral Tsou’s plan: the dismantling of Unit 61398.

“Everything must be moved to underground bunkers before hostilities commence, Admiral,” General Cao commented. Tsou looked around as the thirty men and women busily packed away computers, displays, computer servers and their racks, power supplies, and cables. It was like watching a vacuum operate in slow motion — an entire hi-tech complex disappearing into hundreds of cardboard boxes.

“There will be a temporary disruption in ability,” Cao added, “but we are doing this in stages, and this is the last unit to be moved. All units will be fully operational by morning.”

Tsou nodded as General Cao continued, “We are a decade ahead of our American counterparts in cyber warfare, but they are catching up fast. They have finally realized the predicament they are in, and have established their own cyber warfare command. Fortunately for us, they have no idea of the inroads we have made.

“They will realize all too soon what we have done, and will attempt to respond in kind. But we have thoroughly prepared, Admiral. Their communication networks are vulnerable, while our nodes our impervious to cyber counterattacks.

“However, while our command and control networks are protected from cyber attacks, we cannot underestimate America’s ability to harm us via conventional methods. Our critical communication nodes must be moved to hardened underground bunkers, along with our cyber warfare units. We cannot risk the possibility America will discover their existence and eliminate them with Tomahawk missiles or Air Force strikes. You know better than anyone that your plan hinges on their capabilities.”

Admiral Tsou could not argue with the General’s words. Cyber warfare was the one area where China had superiority over the United States, and Cao was taking every measure to ensure America could not destroy that advantage during the conflict.

The last of the computers were placed into cardboard boxes and sealed, then loaded onto dollies and wheeled toward nearby elevators. A few minutes later, the Admiral and General stood alone on a desolate floor, with loose papers and dust balls littering an otherwise deserted office space. The two men headed toward the elevators in silence. The General would join Unit 61398 in one of the underground command bunkers, while Tsou would accompany his aide, waiting in the car below, for the long trip to Ningbo, headquarters of the East Sea Fleet.