2034: A Novel of the Next World War(41)
“Like what?” Farshad asked skeptically.
Dong, dong, a couple more ice floes glanced against the hull.
“Like a bell, tolling out a change in the time.”
* * *
23:47 May 22, 2034 (GMT+8)
South China Sea
A knock on his door.
Middle of the night.
Lin Bao groaned as he sat up. What can it be now? he wondered. Such interruptions to his sleep had become routine. Last night, the commanders of two destroyers in his battle group had a dispute as to their order in formation, which Lin Bao had to resolve; the night before that there had been an unexpected weather advisory, a typhoon that thankfully never materialized; then a missed communications window with one of his submarines; before that an excess of hard-water moisture in one of his ship’s reactors. The list blurred in his sleep-deprived mind. If Lin Bao stood on the cusp of a great moment in his nation’s history, it didn’t feel that way. Lin Bao felt consumed by the minutiae of his command, and convinced that he might never again enjoy a full night’s rest.
He did, however, feel a small surge of satisfaction that the complex mix of cyber cloaking, stealth materials, and satellite spoofing had kept his fleet well hidden. While the Americans surely suspected them of heading for the vicinity of Chinese Taipei, their old adversary had been unable to develop the precise targeting data required for a counter-maneuver. Eventually, the Americans would find them. But by then it would be too late.
“Comrade Admiral, your presence is requested in the combat information center.”
Lin Bao awoke to another knock. “Comrade Admiral—”
Lin Bao flung open his door. “I heard you the first time,” he snapped at the young sailor, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, and who looked as sleep-deprived as the admiral. “Tell them”—he coughed—“tell them I’m coming.” The sailor nodded once and hurried down the corridor. As he dressed, Lin Bao regretted his outburst. It was a manifestation of the strain he was under. To exhibit that strain to his crew was to exhibit his weakness to them, and they were under a similar strain. For the past three weeks, ever since they had gone dark, the Zheng He Carrier Battle Group—along with the Navy’s three other strike groups, elements of special forces from the People’s Army, strategic land-based bombers, and hypersonic missiles from the air force—had all converged in a noose around Chinese Taipei, or Taiwan, as the West insisted on calling it. Although Lin Bao’s command remained cloaked, he could almost feel the massive American global surveillance network groping for his precise location.
The operation, as designed by Minister Chiang and approved by the Politburo Standing Committee, was playing out in two phases, each of which adhered to one of Sun Tzu’s famous axioms, the first being, Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt. As dramatically as the Chinese fleet had vanished, it would soon reappear around Taiwan, moving like that proverbial thunderbolt. Never before had a nation concentrated its military strength with such stealth. It would take weeks, or even as much as a month, for the Americans or any other power to position combat assets to counter it. The second phase of Minister Chiang’s plan was likewise based on Sun Tzu: The supreme art of war is to subdue your enemy without fighting. Minister Chiang believed that the sudden revelation of his forces off the coast would present the Legislative Yuan, the governing body of so-called Taiwan, with only one choice: a vote of dissolution followed by annexation into the People’s Republic. Not a single shot would need to be fired. When Minister Chiang had proposed his plan to the Politburo Standing Committee, he had argued that surrounding Taiwan so suddenly would result in a bloodless checkmate. Although skepticism existed among certain committee members, including Zhao Leji, the much-feared octogenarian secretary of the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection, ultimately the majority placed its confidence in Minister Chiang.
Lin Bao entered the combat information center and found Minister Chiang waiting for him via secure video teleconference. “Comrade Minister,” Lin Bao began, “it is good to see you.” When the Zheng He had gone dark, the two had continued to email, but because of security concerns they hadn’t spoken. Upon seeing each other again there was an embarrassed silence, as if each were taking a measure of the other’s strain.
“It is good to see you too,” began Minister Chiang, who then proceeded to laud Lin Bao and his crew on their exceptional conduct, not only in maneuvering the Zheng He Carrier Battle Group into position—a complex task to be sure—but also for repairing their ship while underway, so that it stood poised to achieve a great victory. On and on the minister went. The more congratulations he heaped on the crew of the Zheng He, the more it unsettled Lin Bao.
Something was wrong.
“Late last night, the Legislative Yuan scheduled an emergency session,” said Minister Chiang. “I expect a vote for dissolution in the coming days. . . .” His voice began to peter out, to choke even. “Our plan seems to be coming together. . . .” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He took a long, heavy breath, and then, in a more defeated tone, he added, “However, there is a concern. The Americans have threatened a nuclear strike—no doubt you’ve heard.”
Lin Bao hadn’t heard. He shot a glance at one of his intelligence analysts, who sat an arm’s length away. For the last twelve hours they’d been in a communications blackout. The young sailor immediately pulled up the New York Times home page on an unclassified laptop. The headline was in the largest, boldest font: with red line drawn, nuclear weapons an option, says president. The story had been filed several hours earlier.