Empire Rising

7

On the first floor of a four-story concrete, windowless building, Fleet Admiral Tsou Deshi stood in the shadows with his aide, off to the side of a large auditorium. Gathered in the headquarters of the PLA Navy’s East Sea Fleet this morning, fifty-four admirals sat in their dark blue uniforms, arranged neatly in sections representing the three fleets — the North Sea Fleet based in Qingdao, the East Sea Fleet headquartered in Ningbo, and the South Sea Fleet sortieing from Zhanjiang. All together, the three fleets fielded an impressive arsenal of ships, consisting of twenty-five destroyers, forty-seven frigates, fifty-eight diesel and nuclear-powered submarines, plus eighty-three amphibious warfare ships and over five hundred landing craft.

The PLA Navy was a formidable force indeed, except when compared to the American Pacific Fleet. But Tsou had toiled diligently to level the playing field and make America pay dearly for its righteous superiority and willingness to employ it. After years of honing carefully guarded plans, it was time to reveal them.

Tsou took a deep breath, then nodded, and his aide strode onto the stage, announcing “Attention on Deck” as he emerged. Conversation in the auditorium ceased as the admirals surged to their feet, standing at attention as Tsou followed his aide to the front of the auditorium. The aide departed, leaving Tsou standing in front of a twenty-by-forty-foot view screen towering above him, which would display every facet of the plan as it unfolded.

“At ease,” Tsou announced. “Be seated.”

Fleet Admiral Tsou surveyed the men assembled before him as they took their seats. Their mood was somber; they knew the upcoming battle would be difficult. In a few minutes, they would understand just how difficult.

“Good morning,” Tsou said. “Many of you have guessed why we are here today. The preparations made over the last week have no doubt indicated our intent, and I am sure you are confident in our ability. But there is more to our plan than meets the eye. The invasion of Taipei is merely bait, drawing our enemy close. For us to be victorious, not only must we defend our amphibious assault from the United States Navy, we must go one step further. Our real goal is to destroy the United States Pacific Fleet.”

Tsou listened to murmurings throughout the auditorium. Until this moment, the obvious goal of their assault had been the unification of the two Chinas. Now, with the true intent of their plan revealed, astonished expressions spread across the room. Admiral Tsou continued as the murmuring died down, “It won’t be easy, but this is how we’re going to do it.” Tsou paused for a moment before beginning the two-hour operations brief.

After explaining the last element of his plan, Admiral Tsou turned from the view screen and faced his admirals, waiting for the expected reaction. He wasn’t the only one who understood the Herculean task they’d been assigned. As the murmuring began throughout the auditorium again, a Vice Admiral stood to address Admiral Tsou. His ships were assigned the most difficult — and seemingly impossible — task.

He began by identifying himself and his command. “Vice Admiral Shao, Commander, 10th Submarine Flotilla, East Sea Fleet.”

Admiral Tsou acknowledged the flotilla commander. “Proceed.”

“Pardon me for being a skeptic, but after years of studying the American Navy’s capability, I have a different assessment of the outcome.”

Tsou had seen this coming from the moment the plan was conceived. “And your opinion is…?”

“My opinion,” Admiral Shao replied, “is that this plan is ludicrous! We cannot defeat the American Pacific Fleet!”

Shouting broke out throughout the auditorium, as some admirals echoed Admiral Shao’s sentiment, while others admonished him for both the disrespectful manner with which he voiced his disagreement and his lack of faith. Yet everyone in the room knew there was a kernel of truth in the Vice Admiral’s assertion.

Fleet Admiral Tsou stood with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently for the fervor to die out. Finally, he replied, “Well stated, Admiral.”

Tsou’s response took everyone by surprise; they had expected him to defend the battle plan vehemently. Instead, he agreed his plan had no chance to succeed. Tsou continued, “Under normal circumstances, you would be correct in your assessment.”

Admiral Tsou cast a glance across the auditorium. For the plan to succeed, his admirals must believe it can. The PLA’s new capabilities had been kept secret long enough. It was time to reveal them. It was time to reveal everything.

It was only a few minutes later when Admiral Tsou finished. Heads nodded throughout the auditorium, confidence radiating from the men within. They now believed they could defeat the American Pacific Fleet. And that, of course, was the most important ingredient.

With the operations brief complete, it was time to send his men on their way so they could make final preparations for tonight’s attack. Admiral Tsou stood at attention, and for today’s farewell, he decided to follow an American Submarine Force tradition. The PLA Navy’s new submarines, after all, would play a crucial role. His eyes scanned his men as they drew themselves to attention in response, then he uttered the time-honored farewell.

“Good hunting!”

8

Night was settling over the city, neon café signs illuminating pedestrians strolling the sidewalks as two black 7 Series BMWs, their armored frames riding low to the ground, wound their way through the center of Beijing. Joining Christine O’Connor in the back of the lead sedan was the United States ambassador to China, Michael Richardson, flipping through an appointment calendar on his lap. Christine could see the reflection of the sedan behind them in the security glass, which was raised between the front and rear seats, offering privacy for her discussion with Richardson.

Eighteen hours earlier, Christine had boarded an Air Force Boeing 747 waiting at Joint Base Andrews, the combined Navy and Air Force base southeast of D.C., landing at Beijing’s Nanyuan Airport. As she descended the staircase onto the tarmac, Ambassador Richardson, leaning against the black government sedan, had stepped forward to greet her.

The news he delivered was unexpected. There had been a change to her itinerary. Instead of heading to her hotel near the American Embassy, they would proceed to the Great Hall of the People. Tomorrow’s meeting had been moved up to tonight. No reason had been given for the change other than “schedule considerations dictate an immediate meeting.” Even more perplexing, the planned meeting with her Chinese counterpart, Vice Premier Wang Qui, had been replaced with a meeting with China’s president, Xiang Chenglei.

Richardson closed the appointment book as he looked up at Christine. “Nothing. I can’t figure out why they want to meet tonight, or why you’re meeting with the president instead of the vice premier.”

Christine had an inkling. “If China has decided to attack Taiwan, tonight’s meeting might include a formal request the United States refrain from interfering. Of course, they’d be just going through the motions, knowing we’ll come to Taiwan’s aid regardless.”

An astonished look spread across the ambassador’s face. “That would mean hostilities are imminent.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Christine replied. “I hope they’re still in the consideration phase and can be reasoned with.”

The sedan ground to a halt beside the Great Hall of the People, the entrance to the building framed by massive gray marble colonnades illuminated by bright white perimeter lighting. Standing at the base of stone steps leading to the entrance were five men — four in a single line, while a fifth man, taller than the rest, stood behind them. The two men in the center were dressed in charcoal gray suits, while the other three men wore black suits. Christine figured the men in black were from the Central Guard Bureau’s Cadre Department — the Chinese equivalent of the Secret Service — their wary eyes surveying the two cars that pulled to a stop.

Christine and Ambassador Richardson stepped from their sedan as two U.S. Diplomatic Security Service agents exited the second car, flanking Christine and the ambassador.

One of the men wearing a charcoal gray suit extended his hand. “Welcome to Beijing, Miss O’Connor. I am Huan Zhixin, chairman of the Central Military Commission.”

Christine shook the hand of the man in charge of China’s military, responding in Mandarin. “Jiǔyǎng.” She had memorized a few Mandarin phrases for her meeting with Wang Qui, and decided to try the standard Chinese greeting between professionals, hoping her pronunciation was correct.

Huan smiled warmly. “It is a pleasure to meet you as well.” He turned sideways toward the man behind them. “I’d like to introduce Yang Minsheng, head of President Xiang’s security detail.” Yang merely nodded as Huan continued, gesturing to the man beside him. “And this is Xie Hai, the president’s executive assistant, who will keep Ambassador Richardson occupied while you meet with the president.”

Christine exchanged a concerned glance with Richardson. “The ambassador won’t be joining us?”

“I’m afraid not, Miss O’Connor,” Huan replied. “We have several issues we would like to discuss with the ambassador tonight.”

“And the DSS agents?” Christine asked.

“They may accompany you to the conference room, but they’ll have to disarm at the security checkpoint.”

As Christine talked with Huan, Yang stared at her, completely ignoring Ambassador Richardson. Christine was an attractive woman and was accustomed to stares and glances from the opposite sex, but there was something odd about the way he studied her.

Huan turned and led the four Americans up the steps into the Great Hall of the People, where Xie Hai peeled Ambassador Richardson from the group. Christine and the two DSS agents continued on to a security checkpoint, consisting of a metal detector and baggage X-ray machine, where the two DSS agents disarmed.

After passing through the detector, Christine joined Huan at his side as they strode down a brightly lit corridor, their footsteps echoing off marble walls. Following closely behind were the two DSS agents, and behind them, Yang and the two Cadre Department bodyguards. Huan offered no further conversation. As they approached a pair of large mahogany doors, Huan pushed the heavy wooden doors inward.

The doors swung open to reveal a large circular chamber, just over one hundred feet in diameter. The Politburo Diplomatic Reception Hall was similar in design to the other thirty-three halls named after China’s provinces and regions, each chamber decorated according to the local style of the province it represented. Although the Diplomatic Reception Hall was frequently furnished with up to fifty chairs arranged in a semicircle, tonight it contained only two, positioned at the far end of the chamber beneath an imposing twenty-by-thirty-foot oil painting of the Great Wall of China, winding its way atop the mountainous region north of Beijing.

Sitting in one of the two chairs was Xiang Chenglei, with two additional Cadre Department bodyguards standing rigidly behind him, hands at their sides. Xiang rose to his feet as Christine entered with Huan, followed by the contingent of American and Chinese security agents.

Christine moved across the plush red carpet toward the most powerful man in China, extending her hand with a smile on her face in feigned exuberance. The unexpected change in itinerary, combined with an odd tension exuded by the two Cadre Department bodyguards behind the president, told Christine something was brewing.

“Good evening, Mr. President.” Christine greeted Xiang in Mandarin, as she had done with Huan.

“Aaah, nicely done, Miss O’Connor,” Xiang said in English as he shook Christine’s hand firmly. “Welcome to China. I hope you had a pleasant trip?” Xiang’s accent was strong, but his grammar impeccable.

“I did, Mr. President.”

“Call me Chenglei. May I address you as Christine?”

“Absolutely.”

Xiang gestured to the second chair. “Please, have a seat.”

Christine and Xiang settled into their chairs, and as Christine smoothed the skirt of her business suit, it was Xiang who spoke first.

“I apologize for the last-minute change to your schedule, Christine, but considering the topic of your meeting with Wang Qui, I thought it best we had a conversation tonight, while there is still time.”

“Time for what?” Christine asked.

“Time to reconsider.” Xiang smiled, but Christine sensed the frustration — even anger — boiling behind his pleasant facade. “That you are here tonight tells me America is aware, at least to some extent, of our preparations. Let’s be direct, shall we?”

Christine nodded and Xiang continued. “The United States has — how do you say it — painted us into a corner. Of course, we have plans we can implement to deal with the accord. But I am hopeful you bring news that will make those plans unnecessary.”

“Actually, Chenglei, that’s why I’m here. Any issues you have with the MAER Accord can be addressed peacefully. There is no need for military action.”

“There is no need for military action only if America agrees to modify the accord, granting China affordable access to the resources we require. Do you come here with that news?”

“I’m afraid not, Chenglei. It took over a year to forge terms acceptable to all parties—”

“The terms are not acceptable!” Anger flashed in Xiang’s eyes. “America deliberately negotiated terms that would harm my country. I will not stand by while forty years of progress are destroyed.” Xiang paused, gathering his thoughts. “I ask you again, Christine. Will the United States dissolve or modify the accord?”

Christine shook her head. “No, Mr. President.”

Xiang stared at Christine for a long moment, then looked up at Yang and nodded.

Yang barked out a command and the Cadre Department bodyguards pulled their firearms. Two of the Cadre bodyguards stepped behind the DSS agents, pressing a pistol into each man’s back. The two Americans raised their hands, surprise and consternation on their faces.

Christine stood, looking down at Xiang in his chair. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It’s unfortunate,” Xiang replied as he pushed himself to his feet, “but you will be detained. Relations between our countries are about to take a turn for the worse.”

“What do you mean?”

Xiang’s face hardened as he answered, “We are taking matters into our own hands and will obtain the resources we need by force. That begins tonight with the unification of the two Chinas.”

Christine’s thoughts began to swirl. China was launching an assault against Taiwan and America would respond. China and the United States would be at war. She wondered if she could talk Xiang out of his madness.

“We’re well aware of your preparations, Chenglei, mobilizing your military. Our military readiness has been increased in response, and I assure you any attempt to invade Taiwan will be defeated. The only thing you will accomplish is the murder of thousands of men and women, not to mention initiating scores of international economic sanctions.”

“I have no doubt your military is ready, Christine, but so is ours. As for economic sanctions, you have effectively invoked them by crafting the MAER Accord. You left us with no choice. So let us be clear on who is to blame for what is about to happen. The United States is the aggressor, and not China, who merely defends her right to prosperity.”

Christine pursed her lips together as she considered his words. Xiang had a point, and it appeared he and China were committed. There was nothing she could say to dissuade them.

“What now?” she asked.

“You will be detained until we decide what to do with you. Hopefully when this … issue is resolved, you will be released. Until then, you will enjoy the hospitality of the People’s Republic of China. He turned to Yang. “Take her away.”

Yang gave an order to one of the Cadre bodyguards, who motioned Christine toward the Reception Hall exit with a wave of his pistol.

9

In the darkened Control Room, Lieutenant Beck Burrell placed his right eye against the periscope, giving the Junior Officer of the Deck a break from the monotonous, circular sweeps. Burrell slowed each rotation as he passed the Chinese coast, scouring the dark shoreline in search of warships heading to sea. Two days earlier, as Jacksonville cruised the Taiwan Strait, the fast attack had received new orders. They were now operating just north of Taiwan, within visual distance of Zhoushan, one of the East Sea Fleet’s three major ports. Zhoushan was eerily quiet.

Two days and not a single warship heading to sea. Yet Burrell’s sixth sense told him something was brewing. The 7th Fleet Intel reports detailed an overall increase in China’s military readiness while the PLA Navy moved in the opposite direction, like a tidal wave gathering at sea, the water receding from the beach before the massive wave broke upon the shore. Burrell paused again on another circular sweep. He shifted to high power and kicked in the doubler, increasing the periscope magnification to twenty-four times normal, searching for the navigation lights of outbound warships.

Nothing.

Burrell continued his circular sweeps, planning to give the Junior Officer of the Deck a five-minute break. After almost six months at sea, they could all use a break. Fortunately, in another week Jacksonville would be surging east, toward family and friends waiting on the pier, waving excitedly as the submarine returned from its six-month West Pac deployment. This was Burrell’s last West Pac, and a month after returning to port, it was off to well-deserved shore duty on COMSUBPAC staff and time with his family.

Lieutenant Burrell shifted to high power as the scope swung around toward the coast. There were no stars or moon tonight, hidden behind an invisible cloak of clouds; the only illumination came from distant lights dotting the shoreline. He paused on the bearing to the main channel.

Still nothing.

He was about to continue to his right when something unusual caught his eye. Actually, it wasn’t what he saw — it was what he didn’t see. On a bearing of 260, the yellow lights along the shore that had been present every sweep were gone. Either the lights had been extinguished or something was blocking them. Burrell steadied on the bearing, and a moment later the lights reappeared.

With his eye still pressed against the periscope, he called out, “Sonar, Conn. Report any contacts on a bearing of two-six-zero.”

The Sonar Supervisor repeated back the order, “Conn, Sonar. Report contacts on a bearing of two-six-zero, aye, wait.”

Burrell waited patiently as another set of lights disappeared and then reappeared. An object was moving swiftly down the coastline. It wasn’t surprising he had picked up the contact before Sonar had. The noise coming from the electrical generators in the nearby power station ashore would mask quiet ships. But now that he had focused Sonar’s efforts, they should be able to pull the contact from the noise.

A moment later, Burrell’s assessment was confirmed. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, bearing two-five-eight, designated Sierra four-three. Analyzing.”

Burrell shifted left two degrees as another set of lights disappeared, reappearing a few seconds later. A ship was underway without navigation lights, attempting to slip out to sea undetected, its silhouette blocking the lights along the shore in the process. But what type of ship? A few minutes later, Sonar answered that question.

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-three is classified warship. Shang class nuclear fast attack submarine.”

With his eyes still pressed to the periscope, Burrell reached out in the darkness, retrieving the Captain’s Phone from its holder, pressing one of the buttons next to it, buzzing the CO’s stateroom. “Captain, Officer of the Deck. Hold a new contact, Shang class submarine, designated Sierra four-three, outbound from Zhoushan on a southern course paralleling the shore.”

The Captain acknowledged and entered Control a moment later, stepping onto the Conn. “Let me take a look.”

Burrell stepped back, handing control of the periscope to Commander Randy Baughman, who placed his eye against the scope. After a moment, Baughman spoke as he tweaked the periscope left in two-degree increments. “What do we have for a solution?”

Burrell glanced at the nearest combat control console. “Contact bears two-four-eight, range eight thousand yards, course one-eight-zero, speed fifteen.”

The Lieutenant’s answer was followed up by another report over the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra four-four, bearing two-six-zero, classified warship.”

Commander Baughman swung the scope around until the glowing red numbers on the periscope bearing display steadied up on 260. After a long pause, he announced, “Sierra four-four is also paralleling the coast, headed north instead of south.”

A moment later, Sonar followed up. “Sierra four-four is also classified Shang class nuclear submarine.” There was a slight pause before Sonar reported again. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra four-five, bearing two-six-zero, also classified Shang class submarine.”

Burrell was attempting to assimilate the data when Sonar called out again. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-three and four-four have zigged, both contacts turning toward us. Sierra four-five remains steady on outbound course.”

The hair on the back of Burrell’s neck stood up. All three Chinese submarines were headed toward them now, one directly at them and one on each side, sweeping the entrance to the port. Jacksonville was at periscope depth, at five knots only a few thousand yards away, and there was no way they could evade all three submarines. No matter which way Jacksonville turned, she would be caught between two of the outbound submarines.

Lieutenant Burrell’s thoughts were disrupted by another report from Sonar. “Conn, Sonar. Receiving Main Ballast Tank venting sounds from each contact. All three submarines are submerging.”

Commander Baughman stepped back from the scope, reaching up and twisting the periscope locking ring. The scope slid silently down into its well as he spoke. “Come down to one-five-zero feet and head east at ahead standard. Let’s buy some time while we figure out how to slip between them on their way out.”

Burrell relayed the Captain’s order to the Dive and Helm, and Jacksonville tilted downward, sinking to 150 feet, increasing speed as the submarine turned to an outboard course of 090. The lights in Control shifted to Gray, then White, now that they were no longer at periscope depth, and as Burrell stood next to the Captain, he assessed the solutions to the contacts with concern. The three submarines had increased speed and were slowly closing. They would detect Jacksonville unless she also increased speed. Unfortunately, any speed above standard would create cavitation on the propeller’s surface, giving away their presence.

That was their choice — kick it in the ass and get the hell out of Dodge, or take their chances passing between two of the Shang class submarines, the most capable variant in the Chinese fleet, undetected.

“Attention in Control,” Commander Baughman announced. “I intend to slow and let the Chinese submarines pass on either side of us, then return to monitoring Zhoushan. Carry on.” He ordered Burrell to slow to five knots, reducing the noise from their main engines and propeller, then spoke toward the microphone in the overhead. “Radio, Captain. Have the Communicator draft a message to CTF 74 concerning the three outbound contacts.”

Radio acknowledged over the 27-MC as Burrell analyzed the track of the nearest two Chinese submarines, determining the optimal course so Jacksonville would pass exactly halfway between them. Burrell was about to issue new orders to the Helm when he heard a powerful sonar ping echo through the hull.

The Sonar Supervisor’s voice came across the 27-MC a second later. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-five has gone active.”

Burrell turned his attention to the combat control displays. The center of the three Chinese submarines had just sent a ping into the water, searching the ocean for other submarines. Had they picked up Jacksonville on her passive sonar and were pinging to determine range?

A second sonar ping echoed through Control.

“Conn, Sonar. Another ping from Sierra four-five.”

“Dammit,” Commander Baughman muttered. “They’ll detect us for sure at this range. We can’t hang around here with three Shangs on our tail. We need to get out of here and come back once we’ve lost them.” Baughman shook his head. “This is going to be embarrassing when we get back—”

Baughman was cut off by the Sonar Supervisor’s voice, blaring over the 27-MC. “Torpedo launch transients, bearing two-six-zero! Sierra four-five is shooting at us!”

Lieutenant Burrell’s first reaction was disbelief.

Sonar must’ve gotten it wrong. There was no way the Chinese submarine had launched a torpedo at them. They must be blowing auxiliary tanks or operating other machinery — something that sounded like a torpedo launch. If Jacksonville initiated torpedo evasion maneuvers on a false alarm, they’d be detected for sure. But if it really was a torpedo, they’d better act fast.

Sonar followed up with another report. “Torpedo in the water! Bearing two-six-zero!”

Burrell swung around, staring at the sonar monitor on the Conn. A bright white trace at a bearing of two-six-zero was burning into the display.

Commander Baughman responded immediately. “Ahead flank! Left full rudder, steady course north! Launch countermeasure. Man Battle Stations!”

The watchstanders in Control sprang into action: the Helm twisted the rudder yoke to left full as he rang up ahead flank on the Engine Order Telegraph, sending the signal to the Throttleman in the Engine Room. The Chief of the Watch, seated at the Ballast Control Panel, ordered the crew to Battle Stations over the 1-MC, then activated the General Alarm. The loud bong, bong, bong reverberated throughout the ship as the Junior Officer of the Deck leapt to the Countermeasure Control Panel, launching a torpedo decoy into the water.

Commander Baughman followed up, “Quick Reaction Firing, Sierra four-five, Tube One! Flood down and open outer doors, all tubes!”

Men began streaming into Control, manning dormant consoles as red bearing lines to the torpedo appeared on the nearest combat control console every ten seconds. The torpedo was closing rapidly. Burrell did the mental calculations — they had less than two minutes before impact. Under normal circumstances with the crew at Battle Stations, that would be more than enough time to shoot back. But with the crew starting in a normal watch section and the torpedo tube outer doors still shut and weapons powered down …

It didn’t look good.

Even worse, the odds of them evading the incoming torpedo were slim to none. They’d been fired at from almost point-blank range. Even if their torpedo decoy was effective, the incoming torpedo would pass by it before it turned around, and in the process would likely lock on to the much bigger submarine speeding away. Jacksonville was a fast attack, but not fast enough.

“Torpedo bears two-five-zero, range one thousand yards!”

One minute left.

Sonar’s report echoed in the surprisingly quiet Control Room as the crew donned their sound-powered phone headsets and energized the dormant consoles. Maybe, if they were lucky and the incoming torpedo missed, they’d be able to take out one or more of the Chinese submarines. Jacksonville was an old 688 class submarine, but she was still superior to anything in the Chinese arsenal.

“Five hundred yards!”

Thirty seconds left.

Burrell’s eyes shifted nervously between the sonar display and the Weapon Launch Console. The Weapons Control Coordinator had finished assigning presets to the torpedo in Tube One, and was waiting for the torpedo tube to finish flooding down and the Torpedomen to open the outer door.

Nearby, the submarine’s Executive Officer was directing the three men on the combat control consoles, assigning each man to one of the three Chinese submarines, determining their course, speed, and range. Commander Baughman, standing on the edge of the Conn, monitored the progress of weapon preparation, contact solution generation, and the bearing of the incoming torpedo.

Both Baughman and Burrell’s eyes were glued to the Sonar display, trying to discern if they had fooled the torpedo and it was now passing harmlessly behind them.

The Sonar Supervisor’s report over the 27-MC answered that question. “Torpedo is homing!”

Sonar had detected a change in the torpedo’s ping pattern, signaling the torpedo had detected them and was refining its target solution.

Baughman responded immediately, “Helm, right hard rudder, steady course zero-nine-zero!”

Jacksonville kicked around hard to starboard, steadying up quickly on her new course. Everyone in Control waited tensely for Sonar’s report, wondering if the torpedo had detected Jacksonville’s turn to the east.

“Torpedo bears two-five zero. Range two hundred yards! Still homing!”

Ten seconds.

Their fate was sealed.

With ten seconds left, there was nothing they could do.

As Burrell counted down the seconds, the faint pings of the incoming torpedo echoed through the submarine’s steel hull. He had heard the sound many times from exercise torpedoes. The frequency of these pings were a bit higher, but unmistakable nonetheless.

When Burrell reached zero in his mental countdown, Jacksonville jolted violently forward, throwing him back against the starboard periscope. The wail of the flooding alarm filled his ears and the lights in Control fluttered, then went dark momentarily before the emergency lights kicked on. The Chief of the Watch initiated an Emergency Blow upon the Captain’s order, but the submarine soon slowed and its stern began to squat from the weight of the ocean flooding the Engine Room. As Lieutenant Burrell watched the red numbers on the digital depth detector swiftly increase, he knew Jacksonville would never surface again.

10

Beneath the Great Hall of the People, Christine walked down a narrow corridor lit by incandescent light fixtures spaced every twenty feet, bathing gray concrete walls in weak, yellow light. Behind her followed one of the Cadre Department bodyguards. She could sense the presence of his drawn pistol pointed at her back. As her mind raced, wondering what lay ahead, she hoped Ambassador Richardson and the two DSS agents would be treated well.

The bodyguard directed Christine down a narrow stairwell into the sublevels of the Great Hall, then down a musty corridor until they reached a metal security door with a twelve-by-twelve-inch plasma display located shoulder height on the right side of the door.

The bodyguard spoke in English, with a heavy accent. “Step aside.”

Christine complied, moving against the corridor wall. The man approached the plasma display and began to place his hand on the panel when he pulled up short, his hand going to his ear instead. He turned and faced Christine as he listened to the receiver in his ear, finally speaking into his jacket sleeve in Chinese.

He dropped his arm, addressing Christine. “We wait.”

Several minutes passed while Christine and the bodyguard waited in the dimly lit hallway, the silence finally broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. Christine looked down the corridor the way they had come, spotting Yang Minsheng, head of Xiang’s security detail.

Yang eyed Christine again as he approached, but said nothing as he passed both the bodyguard and Christine, stopping at the security door where he placed his right palm on the plasma display. The display lit up upon his touch, and a bright, vertical red light scanned his palm from left to right. After the scan was complete, the metal door slid open, revealing an identical corridor to the one they were in, except for several dozen doors spaced ten feet apart, lining the left wall.

Detention cells, no doubt.

Yang passed through the doorway, and the other bodyguard motioned for Christine to follow. Christine stopped when she reached the doorway, her anxiety increasing. Yang turned, and noticing her hesitation, gave a command to the other guard. A second later, Christine felt a firm hand on her back, shoving her forward.

She stumbled into Yang and he grabbed her, holding her against his body longer than was necessary, the musky scent of his cologne assailing her. She looked up, his eyes probing hers for a moment, then he shoved her against the wall with one hand. His hand remained on her chest, his palm between her breasts, his fingers touching her bare skin where her blouse parted. Then he ripped her blouse open, exposing the top of her breasts and her white lace bra.

He stepped back and spoke to the Cadre Department bodyguard. The guard retrieved a set of keys from his pants and unlocked the nearest door.

As the door opened, Yang pulled Christine away from the wall by her arm and shoved her inside the darkened room. The lights flicked on a second later and Christine took in the Spartan accommodations — a small cot against one wall and a toilet along the other. The door closed, leaving Christine inside the cell with the two men. Yang spoke to the other man, nodding in Christine’s direction.

There was no doubt what was about to happen. But she wasn’t going to take this lying down, so to speak. Even against two men, she could inflict a reasonable amount of pain. She knew she’d be on the losing end of a physical confrontation, but she really didn’t have much choice.

Yang spoke again, but the guard hesitated. Christine could see the reservation in his eyes and hope set in. Perhaps she could leverage his concern into a way out of her predicament. But then Yang leaned toward him and whispered into his ear, and the restraint melted from the guard’s eyes. He licked his lips as his eyes devoured her body, his leering gaze undressing her. He took off his jacket and handed it to Yang, along with his pistol and holster. Christine’s eyes went to Yang as the man handed him his jacket. Yang was watching the other guard with a sly smile. If she survived this ordeal, she would find a way to hunt Yang down and kill him.

Her eyes shifted back to the other man, and her thoughts returned to defending herself from the pending assault. Christine’s pulse began to race, her heart pounding as she backed up, pressing her body against the cold, concrete wall, putting as much distance between her and the two men in a futile effort to delay the inevitable.

The man dropped his hands to his waist, loosening his belt, and Christine’s panic crested and then broke, the fear flowing past her. She took a defiant step forward with her left foot, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet as she raised both hands in front of her in a defensive posture. She wasn’t going down without a fight. The man pulled the belt from his waist, wrapping it around his fist, the buckle tight along the outside of his knuckles.

Yang raised his pistol and pointed it at Christine. In clear, unaccented English, he said, “Let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be, Ms. O’Connor. I have no desire to hurt you.”

Christine almost laughed at the absurdity of his comment. “I suppose rape doesn’t hurt?”

Yang stared at her with dark eyes for a moment, then swung the pistol toward the other guard’s head. He pulled the trigger and a red puff exited the opposite side of the man’s head, the moisture splattering against the far wall of the cell. The Cadre Department bodyguard crumpled to the floor.

She stared in stunned silence as Yang stuffed the pistol inside the waistband of his trousers. He opened the cell door, then stepped into the corridor, turning back toward Christine. “Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

Christine stood frozen at the back of the cell, staring at the pool of blood spreading across the gray concrete floor, trying to make sense of what had happened.

“Come, Christine!” Yang called from the hallway.

The sound of his voice spurred her into action. Stepping over the corpse, Christine entered the corridor as she rebuttoned her shirt. Yang was busy at the security door, typing something into a touch-screen plasma display, identical to the one on the other side of the door. Christine stopped next to him, glancing alternately between his face and the plasma display, attempting to discern what he was doing and why he had murdered the Cadre Department bodyguard.

Yang finished tapping the display. “Give me your right hand.”

“What for?”

“There are other security doors you must pass through to escape. I cannot accompany you so I’m entering you into the security system.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I work for your country,” Yang said quickly, followed by something in Chinese. Christine sensed a reservation in his voice. Yang followed up in English, “One heart, one soul. One mind, one goal,” as if that explained everything.

Yang slipped his left hand into his pants pocket, retrieving what looked like a USB flash drive. “This flash drive contains the details of China’s military offensive. Without this, the United States has no chance of defeating the PLA.

“Now give me your hand,” he added.

Christine offered her right hand and Yang placed her palm on the plasma screen. A bright red light scanned across the display. After the scan was complete, Christine pulled her hand back and a menu screen appeared. Yang tapped several of the Chinese characters, stopping when the display blinked green. He tapped three more buttons, and the schematics of the Great Hall appeared. With two taps and sideways slide across the glass panel with two fingers, he shifted the schematics to their current location.

“We’re here,” he said, “and you need to travel this path.” Yang traced his index finger along several corridors, pointing to a set of stairs she needed to ascend two levels. “There’s a security camera above the exit door, which I’ve disabled. They’ll eventually figure out which exit you departed from, but it will gain you valuable time. You must move fast once you are outside the Great Hall, but not so fast that you attract attention. Understand?”

Christine nodded as Yang continued. “There’s a CIA safe house not far from here. After you exit the Great Hall, cross the street into Tiananmen Square, then head south through Zhengyang Gate onto Qianmen Street. Go three blocks and turn left into the first alley after Dajiang Hutong. Follow the alley and someone will find you.”

Yang placed the flash drive into the palm of her left hand and the dead bodyguard’s pistol into her right.

“When I learned of your meeting with the president, I planned to slip this flash drive to you after the meeting. The PLA will not discover the drive is missing until their inventory Friday afternoon. Until then, they will simply be searching for America’s national security advisor. You and this drive must be out of the city by Friday afternoon. If not, I fear you will not leave Beijing alive.”

“What about you?” Christine asked. “What are they going to do to you when they find out what you’ve done?”

“They will not find out,” Yang said. “The dead bodyguard is the only one who knew I came down here.” Yang folded Christine’s fingers into a fist, wrapping them securely around the flash drive in her hand. He offered her a warm smile before he added, “You don’t have much time. The security patrols outside will be heading past this part of the Great Hall in ten minutes. You must pass through the ringlet of trees and into Tiananmen Square before then. Go now.”

Things were moving too fast. A minute ago she was a prisoner in the Great Hall of the People, and now her escape was being orchestrated by the head of President Xiang’s security detail.

“Dajiang Hutong. Hurry!” Yang began entering commands into the plasma screen.

Christine’s mind and body were numb, processing what had happened in the last fifteen minutes. She turned slowly, then took a step forward, followed by another, willing her body into motion. It wasn’t long before she was jogging, then sprinting down the desolate corridor.

11

Her bare feet left deep imprints in the soft white sand, barely visible in the fading light before they were washed away by gentle waves breaking upon the shore. As day transitioned to night, Peng Weijie could barely make out the silhouette of volcanic cliffs rising a few hundred yards inland. Weijie enjoyed her walks along the sandy shore each day, and the scenery even more. On the northern tip of Taiwan, just forty minutes from Taipei City, Baishawan Beach offered spectacular views of both the east and west. In the early morning hours, the approaching dawn illuminated the horizon in an inspiring fusion of pink and orange hues, and in the evening, the crimson sun set upon her country, stolen by the communists.

Weijie was only five when her family fled the mainland. She could still recall the image clearly — peering over the rusty railing of an aging fishing trawler at the disappearing shoreline, clinging to her mother’s leg as they fled to Taiwan with Chiang Kai-shek and what remained of his supporters. As the trawler pitched in the rough seas, fighting its way across the Strait, the loss was almost unbearable. Their father had been killed by the Red Army in the waning days of China’s bloody civil war.

That was over sixty years ago, and Weijie remained proudly defiant. Her people would never succumb to their larger and more powerful neighbor. She feared the communists would eventually attempt to take their small refuge by force, but they would not be easily conquered. She cast a reassuring glance at the volcanic cliffs. The plateau was populated with dozens of early-warning radars and missile batteries, defending what remained of her homeland. Beneath her fierce defiance, however, Weijie harbored a glimmer of hope that their two countries would indeed be united, her children and grandchildren inhabiting a single, democratic China.

As Weijie’s thoughts turned to her family, she looked forward to tomorrow’s visit by her daughter and granddaughter. She and her daughter would swing Xiaotien between them as they walked along the beach, dipping the child’s feet into the ocean. Weijie’s rumination ended when she stepped on something hard in the soft sand. Stooping to examine the object, she unearthed a mollusk shell, its striated colors shimmering even in the dim light of dusk. Xiaotien would be thrilled to add it to her collection.

Weijie stood, brushing off the remaining sand, and was about to put the shell into her pocket when an unusual sound coming from the west captured her attention. As the sound grew louder, Weijie watched as hundreds of tiny, bright red lights streaked overhead. Seconds later, explosions rocked the peaceful shore, illuminating the plateau in a splattering of fire while hundreds of bright red dots continued inland. After a fearful glance at the darkening west, Weijie turned and ran toward home, dropping the shell onto the soft white sand. To the east, the horizon was alight in an orange glow.

12

A blood-red moon hung low over the city as Christine burst into the cool night air, her breath condensing into a white mist. Behind her, the security door swung slowly shut, clicking into place next to a plasma display matching the one on the other side of the door. Christine paused for a moment to catch her breath as she examined her surroundings, barely visible in the weak moonlight. As Yang mentioned, there was a camera mounted above the door, and the small LED light beneath the lens was dark. Surrounded by ten-foot-high granite walls, she stood in a small C-shaped alcove with the fourth side open. The night sounds around her were a strange contradiction; the high-pitched chirping of nearby crickets, almost masked by the sound of cars traversing a busy street not far away.

Christine was carrying an object in each hand: a flash drive in one and a semiautomatic pistol in the other. She searched for a place to hide both items. The flash drive slid into a slim pocket in her slacks, but there was no easy way to hide the pistol. Thankfully, she was wearing a business suit, and she folded her arms across her chest as if warding off the evening chill, tucking the pistol inside her jacket.

The events of the last few minutes jumbled though her mind as she stood in the small alcove, but there was only one item of relevance at the moment: the security guards who would sweep past this part of the Great Hall in a few minutes. There was no time to lose. She moved cautiously to the alcove exit, which opened to a twenty-foot-wide swath of concrete encircling the Great Hall, bordered by a ringlet of trees. Beyond that was the busy Guang Chang Boulevard and Tiananmen Square.

After verifying that no one was within sight, Christine hurried across the concrete path, slipping into the cypress and pine trees. She picked her way through the uneven terrain, reaching the far edge of the trees a minute later. Tiananmen Square was across the street. She hoped she could reach the CIA safe house without drawing attention. She was a Caucasian with auburn hair, but it was dark and if she kept her face down, perhaps she could blend in.

Standing a few feet inside the tree line, she scanned the busy street, searching for the best place to cross, spotting a crosswalk fifty feet to her right. She waited for a break in the pedestrian traffic, then stepped onto the sidewalk unnoticed. As she approached the crosswalk, the electronic crossing sign turned from a red stick figure to a green one, and Christine fell in a few feet behind a man and a woman engaged in conversation. After crossing the street and entering the west edge of Tiananmen Square, the couple turned left while Christine continued straight ahead, her eyes scanning the sparsely populated square.

There was a cluster of boisterous young men in the northeast corner of the square, with a few dozen other people traversing the concrete expanse, some meandering hand in hand while others hurried across. Directly ahead of Christine rose the Monument to the People’s Heroes, a 120-foot-tall granite obelisk bathed in bright white light. As she approached the lower of two tiers of white marble railing surrounding the monument, she turned right and headed toward the south exit of Tiananmen Square.

Between her and the exit was the two-tiered Mausoleum of Chairman Mao Zedong, surrounded by a thin strip of trees. The mausoleum was closed at this time of day, and there were only a few people milling around the perimeter of the square building; tourists by the look of things, taking pictures of the exterior. Christine hugged the edge of the green foliage as she passed by, proceeding toward Zhengyang Gate looming directly ahead. The gate and the Menjianlou behind it, both built during the Ming Dynasty in the fifteenth century, comprised the only gate complex in Beijing whose Gate and Arrow Towers were still intact, each tower traversed via a fifty-foot arched tunnel in its base.

Pedestrian traffic was sparse as Christine approached the four-story-tall Zhengyang Gate, passing peddlers at the entrance to the tunnel, their wares laid out on blankets spread at their feet. She eyed Mao lighters, DVDs, and socks of every color as she entered the tunnel, her footsteps echoing off stone walls until she emerged onto the sidewalk of a busy boulevard running between the Zhengyang Gate and Arrow Tower. Christine waited for a break in traffic, then crossed the street and entered another arched tunnel, this one passing beneath the Arrow Tower. After another fifty-foot trek, she exited the empty tunnel and pulled to a stop. Qianmen Street was teeming with people. Locals and tourists packed the busy pedestrian and streetcar thoroughfare.

Christine abandoned the idea of avoiding others on the way to the safe house. This was better — she would melt into the sea of tourists patronizing the upscale stores and famous restaurants lining Qianmen Street. She continued on, passing under a decorated archway painted in vibrant colors, marking the entrance to the district. Six wooden pillars supported the archway, each pillar framed by two stone lions facing opposite directions.

The buildings in the shopping district imitated the architecture of the Qing Dynasty. Along both sides of the street, pagoda-style roofs sat atop two-story buildings constructed of green tile and red pillars. Streetcars moved up and down the sixty-foot-wide boulevard, passing by artists performing acrobatics and vendors peddling candied haws on sticks, filling the air with their distinctive, sweet aroma.

Threading her way down the middle of Qianmen Street, Christine dodged the occasional streetcar, distancing herself from waiters standing outside the restaurants, men dressed in the robed attire of the Qing Dynasty who greeted passersby, bowing with their hands folded across their waist. As she moved down the boulevard, the buildings gradually transitioned from the decorative Qing architecture to boxy brick buildings more representative of modern Chinese design. Christine’s eyes flicked to the birdcage street lanterns lining the boulevard, wondering if they contained security cameras feeding images to government officials. She wondered if they were already searching for her.

Christine checked the street sign at each intersection, searching for Dajiang Hutong. Finally, rising above the mass of pedestrians, gold letters glittered atop a black background. After passing Dajiang Hutong, she turned left at the next alley, entering a twenty-foot-wide hutong. Following the hutong as it curved to the right, Christine increased her pace, passing narrow redbrick residences interspersed between storefronts constructed of cement blocks faced with white tile.

As the sounds of the busy shopping district faded behind her, so did the lights. The street was soon draped in shadows, lit only by storefront lanterns hanging near their entrances. Christine peered into one of the stores as she passed by — a hole-in-the-wall restaurant serving a different clientele than the upscale restaurants along Qianmen Street. Men seated in plastic chairs gathered around square metal tables. Construction workers by the look of things, their tanned and burnt faces tilted over their food, paying no attention to the woman passing by.

Christine returned her focus to the street as she approached a cluster of men; teenagers arguing loudly outside an abandoned storefront. One of them noticed Christine and the conversation ceased as every head turned in her direction. Christine moved to the opposite side of the street as she prepared to pass by, but that only spurred the group into action. In unison, the young men sauntered across the road at a pace that would intersect Christine’s path as she headed into the darkest section of the street. Christine slowed, evaluating her options.

She could turn around and go back up the alley toward Qianmen Street. But that was no guarantee the teenagers would leave her alone — and if they chased her, she doubted she could outrun them. Additionally, Yang had told her to keep going once she turned into the alley, and someone would find her. Christine decided she would have to go past these men.

As the teenagers approached, the group spread into a line that arched into a semicircle. Christine stopped near a street lamp hanging outside what looked like the entrance to an apartment complex — she had only a few seconds before she was surrounded. She moved to the side of the street, pressing her back against a redbrick wall rising four stories above her as the men completed their encirclement, stopping ten feet away.

Christine assessed her predicament. If the men’s intentions were nefarious, she had a pistol but didn’t dare use it — the gunfire would draw attention she could ill afford. But perhaps brandishing the weapon would frighten the men away, or at least generate enough respect to allow her to pass without harassment. After a moment of indecision, she pulled the pistol from underneath her jacket, letting her hand fall by her side.

The sight of the semiautomatic generated a reaction, but not the one she had hoped for. Conversation rippled through the teenagers, accompanied by derisive laughter.

As Christine faced the twelve young men, she wondered how many rounds were in the pistol’s magazine. But even if she had enough bullets, if the men rushed her, there was no way she could shoot them all.

A man in the middle of the semicircle spoke. “Where are you headed, lady? And why do you have a gun?” He seemed the oldest of the men, nineteen maybe, while the others appeared to range from sixteen to eighteen. He was five-feet, ten-inches tall, a Uyghur from western China by the look of things — brown hair, hazel eyes, and a broad face with high cheekbones, with a thin scar running down the right side of his face. Christine mentally tagged him as Scarface. His English was surprisingly good. Good enough to understand her response.

“None of your business.”

There was an assortment of catcalls and laughter from the men, accompanied by a few elbows to the ribs. Apparently they understood English and considered her response humorous. Perhaps she needed to clarify her answer.

“Clear a path for me, or I’ll clear one myself.”

Scarface took a step toward her. “There’s no need to be rude, lady. We just want to know how we can help.” His statement was accompanied by another round of jeers and catcalls, and it didn’t take much for Christine to imagine the kind of help these men had in mind.

“I don’t need your help.”

The man smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth, then spoke harshly in Chinese. From the periphery of Christine’s vision, she spotted men at each edge of the semicircle working their way toward her, the ring of men slowly contracting. Gripping the pistol with both hands, she raised it toward Scarface. “Tell everyone to freeze or I’ll put a bullet in your chest.”

The man lifted his hands out to his sides, palms facing Christine as he glanced at the other eleven men, who froze instinctively, waiting for direction. “We mean you no harm,” Scarface replied. “We are only looking for entertainment tonight, and we could not let an attractive foreigner pass by without…” his smile widened as he continued, “engaging in conversation.”

“We’ve talked enough. Now clear a path.”

Scarface stared at the weapon in Christine’s hands before replying. “There is a price for your passage. You hold a Type 92 Norinco, carried only by special units in the People’s Liberation Army or government. That you have this weapon means you are a special woman, so we will let you pass without further harassment. However, you must first give me your pistol.”

Christine considered the man’s proposal for a second before rejecting it. There was no way to know if he was telling the truth — once the pistol was handed over there was no guarantee she’d be allowed to pass unharmed. The odds of safe passage were better, she figured, as long as the pistol remained in her possession.

“No deal. And I’m running out of patience.”

The man’s smile faded. “I doubt you would shoot unarmed men.” He paused a moment before adding, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

As he spoke, the man on Christine’s right moved toward her again. He was dangerously close now — only three arm lengths away. She had to do something. She swung the pistol toward the advancing man and squeezed the trigger. As the shot echoed down the hutong, the man collapsed to the ground, clutching his thigh as blood oozed between his fingers.

Christine swiveled back toward Scarface, leveling the pistol at his head. “Now, how wrong do you want to be?”

The man uttered a harsh command in Chinese. The men withdrew to their original semicircle, with one man remaining behind to assist the injured teenager, stripping off his shirt and applying it as a tourniquet around his friend’s leg. Christine waited in silence as the injured man was pulled to his feet, his arm draped around the other man’s neck. Slowly, the two men limped back, joining the others.

Christine was about to demand passage again when the faint wailing of a police siren greeted her ears. Red and blue flashing lights reflected off white-tiled storefronts as the siren grew louder. Christine sucked in a sharp breath as she searched the hutong for someplace to hide.

Scarface pointed to the darkness on her left. “Into the shadows. Hide in a doorway.”

He turned to the other men and shouted in Chinese, and a path was cleared for Christine. After she passed through the gap, the men closed ranks and turned toward the street, forming a motley group with the injured man hidden behind them, standing now without the aid of his friend. Christine slid into the shadows just as a police sedan appeared around the curve. Feeling her way along the damp wall, she found a doorway. She stepped back into the one-foot-deep recess, pressing her body against the cold wooden door as the white sedan ground to a halt in front of the men.

An officer wearing a dark blue uniform stepped from the passenger side while the driver remained inside, eyeing the group of young men suspiciously. The officer standing outside the vehicle asked a question. Several of the young men offered short answers while others shook their heads. The officer repeated the same question, met again with negative responses. The alley fell silent as he scanned the faces of the twelve teenagers, eventually directing his gaze up and down each side of the hutong. His eyes stopped moving as they focused on the darkness where Christine was hiding, his eyes probing, staring directly at her.

Christine’s grip on her pistol tightened, wondering if the officer had spotted her. As his eyes probed the darkness where she stood, her pulse raced.

The officer’s gaze shifted back to the young men and he shouted a command, waving down the hutong in the direction Christine had come. The young men offered curt responses, then turned and shuffled down the hutong toward Qianmen Street. As the teenagers trudged off into the distance, the officer slipped back into the sedan. A moment later, the flashing lights atop the police car went dark and the vehicle did a slow U-turn, then sped down the street in the direction it had come.

Christine let out a deep breath. A minute after the sedan disappeared from view, she stepped from the shadows, moving down the desolate street in the same direction the sedan had headed. The hutong continued curving to the right and pedestrians began to appear along the sidewalks, the establishments lining the street growing brighter and louder.

As Christine hurried down the street, she had no idea how to determine when she had reached her destination. As she scanned both sides of the road, she spotted a black BMW 7 series sedan with tinted windows moving slowly toward her, the angel-eye headlamps illuminating the sidewalks.

Christine scanned the storefronts nearby, searching for a place she could slip inside to avoid detection. Up ahead, she spotted a red and blue neon sign marking the Matrix Game Parlor, occupying the ground floor of a six-story building faced with white and orange tiles. But it was a hundred feet away and the sedan was closing fast. Increasing her pace as quickly as possible, she traversed the hundred feet, slipping into the Matrix as the sedan’s headlights illuminated her profile.

Pausing near the entrance, she scanned her surroundings. The Matrix was a maze of arcade games and computer terminals, packed with teenagers clustered around game consoles, laughing and yelling over arcade game explosions and synthesized music. Smoking in public establishments in China was illegal, yet almost everyone was smoking. A multicolor haze drifted upward, illuminated by flickering arcade screens and strobe lights swiveling from the ceiling. Christine turned and peered out the entrance at the passing sedan, just in time to see it coast to a halt. A second later, the driver and passenger doors opened and two men in black suits stepped from the vehicle.

Christine pushed her way through the throng of teenagers, pausing at the end of the first aisle of arcade games, turning back toward the entrance just in time to spot the two men entering. Christine turned and ran deeper into the Matrix, searching for a back exit, bumping into boisterous teens as she weaved between the arcade aisles. Finally, Christine spotted what she was looking for: at the back of the parlor, above a metal door, was the Chinese symbol for Exit.

She hit the exit door’s metal release bar at a full sprint. It flung open and Christine stumbled into a dark alley lined with overflowing garbage cans. The only light came from the pale moon reflecting off dank, brick walls rising high above her. The alley curved in both directions, each end disappearing into the darkness. She decided to head left, continuing in the direction she’d been headed before entering the parlor.

Christine took off at a brisk run, the exit door disappearing in the darkness. Behind her, the door opened again, the sound of the metal door slamming against the brick wall echoing down the alley. She pulled to a halt and removed her shoes — she could run only so fast in heels, plus the sound clattering down the alley would be a dead giveaway. With her shoes in one hand and the pistol in the other, she sprinted down the dimly lit alley. To her dismay, the alley began to narrow. A hundred feet later, it was barely four feet wide. It continued to shrink and her shoulders began to brush against both walls.

Christine pushed on, gulping the cool night air as footsteps raced down the alley after her. The alley narrowed to barely two feet wide, forcing her to angle sideways until she burst into a large courtyard. She paused for a second, assessing her new surroundings. In the center of the square courtyard, lit by a small yellow lantern, was a garden encircling a six-foot-tall stone statue of a Mahāyāna Buddha. Along the perimeter of the courtyard were four exits — one on each side of the square. As she tried to determine which exit to take, a hand clasped around her mouth and an arm wrapped around her waist.

A man whispered in her ear as he dragged her toward the perimeter of the courtyard, deeper into the darkness. “I am here to help you. Do not resist.”

Christine decided it was wise to do as she was told.

As she melted into the darkness, two men rushed into the courtyard — the same men who had entered the arcade. She was fairly certain they were Cadre Department bodyguards, who would either kill her on sight or return her to the Great Hall.

She’d take her chances with the man holding her.

Christine felt his grip tighten as the two men scoured the courtyard, their eyes sweeping past the darkness where they stood. There was a quick exchange between the two men and then they split up, one heading out the exit to Christine’s left, the other departing via the opening on the opposite end of the courtyard.

As the two men disappeared from view, the man’s grip loosened and he whispered in Christine’s ear. “As I said, I am here to help you, Miss O’Connor. Do you understand?” Christine nodded slowly and she was released. She turned toward her abductor, his silhouette barely visible in the darkness. “Follow me,” he said, stepping back toward the alley she had emerged from.

Christine followed behind as he entered the narrow alley. He was maybe five-feet, eight-inches tall, with a wiry build; Chinese. She followed him only a few hundred feet before he disappeared. Christine slowed, approaching the spot where he had vanished, when a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her into a small side alley four feet wide. The man retained a grip on her arm as they worked their way slowly up the dank alley, eventually slowing to a halt. A moment later, a vertical seam of light appeared as a door opened. The man stepped inside, dragging Christine into the light.

13

Under a cloudless night sky, Jiang Qui gripped his assault rifle with both hands as he stood shoulder to shoulder in the cramped amphibious landing craft. The ocean spray, whipped over the front of the vessel by blustery winds, rained down on him and the other men in his platoon, soaking their dark green uniforms. Jiang heard a dull roar overhead and looked up. Fighter jets streaked toward shore, their white-hot afterburners illuminating the darkness; bright red plumes leapt from the jets toward their targets. Over the edge of the landing craft ramp, the black sky pulsed with orange glows, and muffled explosions grew louder and clearer with each passing minute.

Time crept slowly as the landing craft sped toward shore. As Jiang waited for the vessel to grind to a halt on the sandy beach, he thought about the dilemma he faced a year ago and the decision that had changed his life. Before joining the People’s Liberation Army, he had spent his entire eighteen years in a small village nestled below terraced rice paddies in the foothills of the Xuefeng Mountains, working his father’s farm. He had never held a rifle, never been at sea.

After turning eighteen, he had asked for Xiulan’s hand in marriage. Her father, wanting more for his daughter than a meager life toiling farmland, had refused. Only a man of sufficient station would be allowed to marry beautiful Xiulan, a stature Jiang could never hope to attain. Desperate, Jiang latched on to a brilliant plan. He would join the People’s Liberation Army, and with enough commendations, gain entrance to the Party. With Party membership came an urban registration permit. He would bring Xiulan to the city with him, away from the hardship of life in rural China.

Xiulan’s father agreed it was a good plan and gave Jiang three years. As Jiang prepared to enlist, he talked his best friend Feng into joining him on his adventure. Feng had accompanied him each step of the journey and was even now standing next to him in the landing craft. Up to this point, Jiang’s decision to join the PLA had been a wise one. Even as a Lie Bing, the most junior private in the PLA, he made twice what his family made working their small farm. He sent his money home each month, less a modest allowance for personal items and one night out each month with Feng and the other men in his platoon.

The landing craft began to rock between the ocean swells, peaking as they approached the shore. The tension combined with the pitching seas was too much for Feng. Bending forward, he retched noisily, his vomit splattering against the steel ramp. Jiang steadied Feng with a firm grip on his arm as the landing craft crested another swell, tilting forward and picking up speed as it rode the wave toward shore.

The amphibious landing craft ground to a halt and the ramp fell away, plunging into the dark water. Jiang was supposed to charge ashore immediately — it had been drilled into every soldier on the landing craft. Each second wasted before reaching the cover of the shoreline was a second in the open, exposed to strafing gunfire. But Jiang stood there instead, taking it all in.

Dark cliffs rising from the shore were illuminated in fiery red explosions. Missiles overhead streaked inland toward their targets while hundreds of red tracer trails streamed out from the shoreline, sweeping across the ocean. One of the red trails cut across his landing craft, and Jiang heard high-pitched zings accompanied by soft thuds. The side of his face was splattered with warm liquid. Feng lurched against him, crumpling to the deck a second later. A quick glance down told Jiang his best friend was dead.

The explosions along the shore provided enough light to see the fear illuminated in the faces of the men alongside him; to observe the Second Lieutenant in charge of Jiang’s platoon screaming at them. Jiang couldn’t hear his Lieutenant over the deafening explosions rocking the coast, the waves breaking upon the beach, and the bullets churning the water around them, but the sight of the officer pointing toward shore spurred him into action.

Jiang lifted his rifle above his head to protect it from the water, and after taking a deep, shaky breath, he leapt into the madness.

14

In the basement of the West Wing, the air was cold and the tension thick as Captain Steve Brackman preceded the president into the Situation Room. Seated on one side of the polished mahogany conference table was Secretary of Defense Nelson Jennings, followed by three members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff — the chairman and two of the four service chiefs. On the opposite side of the table were Vice President Bob Tompkins, chief of staff Kevin Hardison, and Secretary of State Lindsay Ross. As the president took his seat at the head of the conference table, Brackman slid into the last seat.

The situation couldn’t have been worse. Four hours ago, Chinese missiles had swarmed Taiwan, destroying defense batteries along the coast and military command centers inland. An hour later, the first Chinese troops began landing on the shore of Taiwan. The United States had well-formulated war plans to defend Taiwan, but it would take time to generate the forces required to repel the Chinese invasion. Time they might not have. The speed and ferocity of the Chinese assault were startling.

“What’s the status?” the president asked, looking toward his secretary of defense.

Jennings answered, “China has landed two army groups along the western shore of Taiwan, pushing inland from six beachheads. Taiwan’s navy and air force have been destroyed, along with the bulk of their anti-air batteries, so China has uncontested control of the sky. With the PLA Air Force providing ground support, the outcome is inevitable unless we intervene.”

“How long do we have?”

“Our best estimate is the last Republic of China pocket will collapse in ten days. We’ll have to land Marines or cut off the Chinese supply lines from the mainland before then.”

“What’s our obligation to intervene? Are we committed or do we have a choice?”

“Technically, we have a choice, Mr. President. Under the former Sino-U.S. Mutual Defense Treaty, we were obligated to defend Taiwan from Chinese aggression. But when we recognized the People’s Republic of China in 1979 and terminated formal relations with Taiwan, the Mutual Defense Treaty was replaced with the Taiwan Relations Act. The wording is purposefully ambiguous as to what our obligations are, but Congress’s intent, as well as the position of every administration up to ours, has been clear. The United States will defend Taiwan.

“However, not only has China invaded Taiwan, it appears they have also attacked the United States. We had three fast attack submarines stationed off the Chinese coast, monitoring each of the PLA Navy’s three fleets, and all three of our submarines have likely been sunk. Our SOSUS arrays detected three underwater explosions off the coast where our submarines were stationed, and all three fast attacks have failed to report in.”

The president’s eyes clouded in anger. “How do we respond?”

Jennings answered, “I’d like to refer your question to the chairman, who will outline the current status of the Chinese offensive, then to General Williams and Admiral Healey, who will detail our response.”

After a nod from the president, four-star Army General Mark Hodson, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, seated next to SecDef Jennings, picked up a remote control on the conference table, energizing an eight-by-ten-foot monitor on the far wall, displaying a map of Taiwan overlaid with red and blue icons. “China has committed two army groups, represented by the red squares with Xs through them, to the invasion of Taiwan, landing over one hundred thousand men so far. Opposing them, represented by blue icons, are seventy thousand ROC combat troops. Chinese forces have made substantial progress, completely encircling Taipei City, with China controlling fifteen percent of Taiwan as of 10 A.M. this morning.” Red borders appeared on the screen, outlining the progress of China’s invasion.

“On the naval front,” General Hodson added, “China has sortied seventy-two surface combatants and fifty-eight submarines to sea, with several hundred landing craft ferrying troops across the Strait. In response, we have five carrier strike groups at our disposal in the Pacific — George Washington based in Japan, the Nimitz Strike Group currently eight hundred miles east of Taiwan, with the LANT carrier Lincoln in the Persian Gulf. Vinson and Stennis are departing from their homeports of San Diego and Bremerton. Additionally, every available submarine in the Pacific is heading toward Taiwan.”

Hodson handed the remote control to the Marine Corps four-star General to his left. “General Ely Williams will discuss our amphibious response.”

General Williams pointed the remote at the back wall, and the monitor shifted to a map of the Pacific Ocean. “We have two Marine Expeditionary Forces in the Pacific, ONE MEF based in California and THREE MEF in Okinawa. THREE MEF is loading aboard their amphibious assault ships and should be underway by tonight. ONE MEF will be headed across the Pacific by tomorrow.”

Williams pressed the remote again, and the display zoomed in on the island of Taiwan. “To avoid significant losses to our MEFs as they land, it’s imperative the Republic of China retain control of at least one beachhead.” Eight beachheads on the eastern side of the island illuminated in green. “To ensure Taiwan holds out long enough, we need to provide air support, slowing the Chinese advance. We also need to clear Chinese submarines from the approach lanes to the beachheads. Admiral Grant Healey is responsible for both of those efforts.”

General Williams handed the remote to the four-star Admiral seated next to him, who zoomed the display back out to the entire Pacific Ocean. Another click and red and blue icons appeared, with Chinese units indicated in red and American naval forces represented by blue.

“Our initial goal is to provide air support to ROC ground forces,” Admiral Healey began, “and we’ll do that with Air Force fighter jets from Kadena Air Base on Okinawa, plus the Nimitz and George Washington Carrier Strike Groups operating east of Taiwan. Unfortunately, that places both carriers within range of the Chinese DF-21 ballistic missile, which can disable an aircraft carrier with a single hit. To protect our carriers against the DF-21, Admiral Vance Garbin at Pacific Command has decided to wait until the Nimitz Strike Group joins George Washington, so we have enough Aegis cruisers and destroyers, with their SM-3 missiles, to provide an adequate ballistic missile defense. Of course, their success will depend on the density of the incoming missile barrage.

“As far as submarines go,” Admiral Healey continued, “we have thirty-two fast attacks in the Pacific, but with two in deep maintenance and another three sunk, that leaves us with twenty-seven fast attacks to counter fifty-eight Chinese submarines. The first three fast attacks — Texas, which was already on her way to the Persian Gulf, plus two more submarines surging from Guam, will support George Washington and Nimitz, with the remaining submarines arriving with the other three carrier strike groups. Our submarines will clear a path to Taiwan for the Marine Expeditionary Forces while the carriers provide air cover — and once the MEFs have landed, our strike groups will sweep inside the Strait, cutting off supplies streaming across from the mainland. Without resupply, it will be only a matter of time before the Chinese ground forces are defeated.”

There was a long silence as the president considered the military’s plans. Before he spoke, Captain Brackman broke in. “Sir, there’s one wild card in play.”

The president looked down the table toward Brackman. “What’s that?”

“Christine was detained after a meeting with President Xiang, but escaped to a CIA safe house in Beijing with the assistance of a CIA agent in the Central Guard Bureau’s Cadre Department. In the process, the CIA agent gave her a flash drive we hope contains information about China’s military offensive. We haven’t been able to access the information on the drive, so we’re going to transport it out of Beijing to a facility with the ability to extract the information. We’re hoping we can use that information to our advantage.”

The president said nothing for a moment, reflecting on the detainment and subsequent escape of his national security advisor. “How are we going to get Christine out and obtain the flash drive?”

“One of our guided missile submarines, Michigan, is on its way to Taiwan. She’ll insert a SEAL team into the coastal city of Tianjin while the CIA escorts Christine to the port, where she’ll meet the SEAL team and be brought aboard Michigan. Hopefully, we’ll be able to extract the data from the flash drive using the submarine’s onboard systems. If not, Michigan will launch one of her UAVs with the flash drive aboard.”

Brackman fell silent and the men around the table waited for additional questions from the president. After none were forthcoming, SecDef Jennings spoke, his voice subdued. “Mr. President. Request permission to engage the People’s Republic of China.”

As Jennings waited for the president’s response, the only sound in the Situation Room was the faint whisper of cold air blowing from the ventilation ducts above. On the wall across from the president, the display flickered silently.

Finally, the president gave the order. “Engage the People’s Republic of China with all conventional forces at our disposal.”