2034: A Novel of the Next World War(67)

What if he had retired early? What if he had taught and reached a few of them?

Would there have been a Zhanjiang? A San Diego? A Galveston?

Probably so, but he allowed himself to conjure an alternative history, one in which the miscalculations of the past four months had not occurred, one in which incidents like the Wén Rui and battles like Mischief Reef and Taiwan had never happened. Perhaps a single dissenting voice, properly applied, had prevented this collective madness. The historian in him couldn’t resist placing these events into a causative order, in which each became a link in an otherwise interruptible chain, one that had bound them to this moment, where Lin Bao—seated at the conference table, staring at the live feed—was witnessing the single greatest act of destruction in the history of mankind.

But there was nothing he could do about any of this.

The task before him was simple: to observe the last of the live feed and to pass along to the Zheng He the order that sat in front of him on the table. It tasked the carrier and its escorts to return from the Pacific to the South China Sea at best speed to “defend against the American threat in our waters.”

Another fifteen minutes had passed.

The drone operator continued to survey the blast-scape. Then, with fuel running low, he announced that he’d be checking off-station in seven minutes. With his hollow, disembodied voice, the drone operator radioed to the Zheng He, asking whether they had any further taskings.

The Zheng He had none.

Next, the drone operator called to the Defense Ministry and asked if they had any further taskings. Lin Bao picked up the handset on the satellite uplink, connecting him directly to the drone operator. He said the Defense Ministry had no further taskings.

There was a moment of silence.

The drone operator again asked if the Defense Ministry had any further taskings. Lin Bao repeated himself into the handset.

Nothing.

There’d been some breakdown in communications. A member of Lin Bao’s support staff rushed into the conference room, untangling wires beneath the table, toggling switches on and off at the back of the satellite uplink, while Lin Bao repeated over and over again that he’d seen enough, that he had no further taskings, that he didn’t need to see any more.

There was no response.

Lin Bao kept repeating himself. He was frantic to deliver his message, frantic to hear a response on the other end of the line from that hollow, disembodied voice.



* * *





11:49 July 20, 2034 (GMT+5:30)

New Delhi

Vice Admiral Patel immediately ordered two taxicabs, one for Farshad and the other for his nephew. The three of them hardly spoke as they waited. Farshad never considered himself a prejudiced man—in his mind bigotry was a safe harbor for weaklings. However, all through his life, he’d noticed how on the few occasions he’d met an American he’d immediately recoiled at their presence (he had a similar reaction to Israelis, though had an easier time self-rationalizing this response as something other than bigotry). But when Farshad witnessed Chowdhury’s palpable grief as the first reports came in from San Diego and Galveston, he couldn’t help but feel something akin to pity. What he did next not only surprised his American friend but also surprised himself. As the two sat next to each other on the love seat in the admiral’s den, Farshad reached over and placed his right hand consolingly on the American’s left arm.

The first taxicab arrived. There was no question that Chowdhury would be taking it instead of Farshad. The American’s need was more urgent. As his uncle shuttled him to the door, he turned to Farshad and said, “Thank you.” Farshad said nothing in return. He suspected that the American was thanking him for the gesture from before, but he couldn’t be certain. He reminded himself never to trust an American.

Farshad asked Patel when the second taxicab would arrive. Instead of answering, Patel invited Farshad to sit with him a little longer in the den. Farshad made a slight protest—he, too, had to check in with the officials at his embassy—but Patel ignored him. “How about a cup of tea?” he said.

Farshad’s patience was running low, but he gathered up enough composure to accept the invitation. Somehow, despite himself, he trusted this old admiral. Patel disappeared into his kitchen and returned with the pot of tea. He sat next to Farshad on the love seat, their knees almost touching as Patel prepared Farshad’s cup and then his own. Patel exhaled heavily. “A tragedy, this.”

Farshad frowned. “Inevitable,” he replied, and then blew curlicues of steam from the surface of his cup.

“Inevitable?” asked Patel. “Really? You don’t think this could’ve been avoided?”

As he thought of the annihilation of two American cities, Farshad considered the ancient antipathies that existed toward the United States, deep antipathies, not merely those of his own nation but those of all the world. It was America’s perpetual overreach that had led to today’s events. How long could one country continue stoking up resentment before someone eventually struck a mortal blow? His word choice had been correct: inevitable.

He checked his watch and again asked about the cab. Patel ignored the request. “I can’t say that I agree with you,” he began. “This conflict hasn’t felt like a war—at least not in the traditional sense—but rather a series of escalations, each one greater than the last. But a single break in this chain of escalation could defuse the entire conflict and halt this cycle of violence. That’s why my word is tragic, not inevitable. A tragedy is a disaster that could otherwise have been avoided.” Patel took another sip from his tea, and Farshad could feel the old admiral’s gaze from over the rim of his cup. If Patel was searching for agreement, he would have none. Farshad sat rigid in his seat, his shoulders swept back, his hands in his lap. His face expressed nothing. Patel continued, “You above all others should know that today could have been avoided. You were on the bridge of the Rezkiy when the Russians sabotaged the undersea cables. The Americans never would have launched at Zhanjiang had that accident not occurred. That’s another word for you: accident.” Instead of three syllables Patel spoke it in one, spitting it out, its falseness in his mouth like a bite into spoiled fruit.