2034: A Novel of the Next World War(63)

After a long silence, Hendrickson cocked his head skeptically. “‘Wedge?’ What the hell kind of a call sign is that, anyway?”



* * *





09:37 July 20, 2034 (GMT+8)

Beijing

His wife and daughter were happy to see him, but home felt unreal to Lin Bao. He was living in the shadow of what was to come.

The Zheng He had already gone dark when Lin Bao returned to Beijing. He monitored it daily from the Defense Ministry as it made creeping progress toward the West Coast of the United States, its complement of stealth technology fully employed, its communications under a blackout. Lin Bao, better than anyone, understood the capabilities of that battle group. All they needed was a target set, which the ministry would transmit to Lin Bao’s replacement, a younger admiral of high competence, once the Zheng He was in position. Although Minister Chiang hadn’t lived to see his plan’s implementation, Lin Bao recognized the plan when it came across his desk. It arrived preapproved by the Politburo Standing Committee in a single manila folder. Lin Bao took it into the secure conference room in the bowels of the ministry, the same conference room where Minister Chiang had once triumphantly received him with heaping bowls of M&M’s. Lin Bao missed the doughy old bureaucrat; he missed his exuberant scheming and his odd sense of humor. Perhaps what Lin Bao missed most of all, as he tucked into Minister Chiang’s old armchair at the head of the conference table, was his boss’s company, the assurance that he wasn’t engaged in this madness alone.

But he was, at this moment, very much alone, by design.

Although the Politburo Standing Committee had approved the plan Lin Bao was about to put into action, he would be the senior-most officer tasked with its execution—the only person in the room. All responsibility fell on him.

Tensely, he collected himself and opened the folder.

It contained two envelopes. The two target sets.

One or another of the junior staffers had left a letter opener on the table for him. He slid the dull blade into the first and then the second envelope. Inside each were four paper-clipped pages, exhaustively stamped, certified, and serialized. On the top was a signature line, confirming receipt. He wrote his name, the only actual name that would appear on any of these documents. Then he skimmed over the authorizations, a labyrinth of anodyne operational language with whole passages that he himself had drafted on behalf of Minister Chiang.

Every detail was accounted for.

Which was to say with Lin Bao’s signature alone on the document, he was accountable for every detail: from the selection of the launch platform (whether it be surface-based, submarine-based, or aircraft-based), to the loading of the fissile material, to the readiness of the crews, to the accurate delivery onto the targets—

The targets . . .

For Lin Bao, this was the single unknown aspect of the plan. He imagined that Zhao Leji had chosen them himself. After their exchange on the golf course, Lin Bao half expected the old man to consult him as to their selection, to allow him again to assume the role of caddy. If given that chance, Lin Bao would’ve advised him not to overplay. A strike against the largest US cities—such as Los Angeles, or New York—would be too ambitious, the equivalent of choosing the 3-wood that day on the course. It should be two US cities for Zhanjiang, so an escalation. A parity should exist in the choice. Their South Sea Fleet had been based at Zhanjiang, so a similar military target would be appropriate, at least for one of the cities. The other target should be more industrial. Lin Bao thought of the advice he would have given had he been asked. However, Zhao Leji hadn’t needed another advisor. What he’d really needed was a receptacle for blame if his plans unwound.

A fall guy.

A patsy.

Which is what Lin Bao had been reduced to. In that moment, he made himself a promise: This would be the last order he ever followed. He would retire from the Navy.

But for now, he had a job to do.

He flipped to the final page of each document, where he found the coordinates that would serve as ground zero:

32.7157° N, 117.1611° W

29.3013° N, 94.7977° W

He plotted the first on a chart: San Diego. Then the second: Galveston.



* * *





08:17 July 20, 2034 (GMT+5:30)

New Delhi

Traffic in the city didn’t follow any logical pattern, or at least none that Chowdhury could decipher. During rush hour he’d find the roads empty and during the laziest parts of the day he’d find the roads congested to a standstill. He struggled to arrive at appointments on time. He would either show up awkwardly early, or woefully late. As was the case now, at nearly twenty past eight in the morning, as he struggled to navigate his way to his uncle’s house for a breakfast appointment that the vice admiral, using his military vernacular, had set for 08:00.

Business with his uncle needed to remain “unofficial”: retired Vice Admiral Patel didn’t technically represent his government in any formal capacity, which was why Chowdhury found himself crossing to the east bank of the Yamuna in the back of a taxi as opposed to an embassy car. Chowdhury couldn’t deny that his mother and daughter were safer now, staying with his uncle. But this placed him in an increasingly conflicted position, with the interests of his country not necessarily aligning with the interests of his family. So he reflected as he approached his uncle’s home for the 08:00 breakfast that was now closer to 09:00. And if Chowdhury was tardy to this meeting, he was equally tardy when it came to figuring a solution to his conflicted interests. However, he accepted that certain things, like the traffic, moved with a logic all their own.