2034: A Novel of the Next World War(60)
Zhao Leji flagged down a member of his security detail, who appeared swiftly alongside them in a golf cart. The wily old man surely knew that the loss of Lin Bao’s command would be a demoralizing blow, which is why he didn’t wait for his reaction. As Lin Bao climbed next to the driver, Zhao Leji said his goodbyes, telling Lin Bao only, “I will see you in Beijing before long.” He turned to study the fairway and began to select the next club from his bag.
When Lin Bao arrived at reception, the hospitality associate seemed almost surprised to see him again. The member of Zhao Leji’s security detail spoke a few words to her and she escorted Lin Bao back to his room. As she had checked him into Mission Hills, Lin Bao now asked what he would need to do in order to check out. She seemed confused, saying only, “I’ll look into that,” as if she were unfamiliar with the procedure herself and Lin Bao was the first person she had ever needed to check out. When she left him at his door, she asked if he required anything else. Lin Bao reminded her about his dry cleaning, the uniform he’d sent out that morning. He couldn’t make the return trip in his golf clothes. The young woman again seemed unsure and repeated, “I’ll look into that.”
While Lin Bao packed up his few possessions in a shapeless bag, his mind began to wander. Despite Zhao Leji’s obvious frustration with Minister Chiang, he and the Politburo Standing Committee agreed with Chiang’s assessment of the situation. An American blockade off their coast was unacceptable. A counterstrike was the only option. But what form would that counterstrike take? Lin Bao understood that he would be required to have an opinion on the matter as he advised Zhao Leji. And like Minister Chiang, he would be held accountable for that opinion if it proved incorrect. The idea unsettled Lin Bao. He would be in Beijing soon and perhaps he would seek out Minister Chiang. Perhaps his old boss could quietly advise him, even if he had fallen out of favor with the Politburo Standing Committee and Zhao Leji. Perhaps Chiang could help him navigate his new role among these powerful and dangerous men.
A knock at the door interrupted these thoughts.
A young valet stood in the threshold. “This is the dry cleaning I have for your room.”
Lin Bao thanked him and took the hangers covered in transparent plastic. He laid them on the bed next to his bag. As he tore off the plastic, he noticed that the first uniform seemed a larger size than what he wore. It was wider in the stomach. The sleeves extended almost to the jacket’s hemline. When he read the embroidered name tape sewn above the breast pocket, it wasn’t his own—but it was familiar, nevertheless.
It read, Chiang.
What a coincidence, thought Lin Bao—but he only thought this for a moment. He suddenly felt utterly alone. He wouldn’t have his old boss to rely on for advice when he returned to Beijing. It was no coincidence that he and Minister Chiang had stayed in the same room. Nor was it a mistake that Minister Chiang’s uniform had been left behind.
* * *
13:03 July 17, 2034 (GMT+5:30)
New Delhi
By any objective measure Farshad had witnessed a spectacular success. His Russian naval counterparts had in a two-week period supported a land campaign conquering several hundred square miles, thus fulfilling a multigenerational strategic imperative: Russia now had direct overland access to its Baltic ports. Atrophied bodies of international governance and alliance, the United Nations and NATO, decried this “aggression,” but Farshad suspected that woven between their declamations was grudging respect. Decades of miscalculation in Washington and Beijing had sown discord into the world order; all the Russians had done was reap the harvest. That other nations—namely Farshad’s own—would try to reap a similar harvest in other locales seemed unsurprising. Equally unsurprising was that his countrymen would bungle it.
While Farshad was immersed in Russia’s advance into Polish territory, pleased to have found himself useful to naval commanders supporting a ground invasion, a hawkish faction of the Revolutionary Guards decided it was time for Iran to assert control of the long-contested Strait of Hormuz. The Revolutionary Guards, using their smaller fleet of speedboats, had brashly chosen to seize the first large international ship making the transit, a freighter owned by TATA NYK, the company’s name being an alphabet soup of meaningless letters that proved relevant to Farshad in only one way: the ship was Indian.
It was a particularly foolish choice for the Revolutionary Guards, who’d acted without the express approval of the chief of staff of the Armed Forces, Major General Bagheri, although his detractors speculated he’d known all along. Now Farshad’s government was in the unenviable position of having to de-escalate tensions while also not losing face or delegitimizing its long-running claim over the strait. In short, what General Bagheri needed was someone who had ties to both the Revolutionary Guards and to the regular military. Someone who could speak credibly for both. And who was a naval officer. Farshad knew, before the message ever arrived for him from Tehran, that he was the single person who fit this description.
He had flown commercial out of Moscow direct to New Delhi. This wasn’t because the Russian or Iranian military lacked the resources to fly him officially, but because neither his government nor the Indians had officially acknowledged they were willing to negotiate. He would, ostensibly, be traveling to New Delhi as a private citizen. Farshad’s mission was a delicate one. He understood that India’s old adversary, Pakistan, would be more than willing to aid his country if asked, and he also understood that the Indians could potentially throw their weight behind the Americans if pushed too far. The slightest misstep by either party could lead to a further escalation of what was already a global conflict, or, put another way, a world war.