Empire Rising (22 page)

Brackman shifted the display and zoomed in until icons representing the Chinese missile launchers appeared. The
Hongqi
missile batteries were located sporadically in Taiwan and densely along China's east coast, with the DF-21 missile launchers farther inland. Brackman watched as the blue symbols representing Tomahawk missiles and GPS-guided bombs reached their targets, each red symbol blinking in response. Unfortunately, destruction of those batteries couldn't be confirmed immediately; the flashing icon simply indicated ordnance had arrived at the missile battery location. Whether the launchers had been destroyed would be determined via optical satellites. Unfortunately, that assessment would take several hours.

Now that the carriers and their air wings had weathered the initial onslaught, the men and women around the conference table settled in for the long haul. Tension eased from their bodies as they leaned back in their chairs. It was going to be a long night.

*   *   *

Brackman took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, placing the white Styrofoam cup onto the conference table where it joined another two dozen partially full and empty cups. The tension and silence of the first few hours had been replaced by the murmur of quiet conversations, loosened ties, and unbuttoned shirt collars as the men and women around the table monitored the battle's progress and awaited word of the underwater conflict. So far, the SOSUS arrays on the ocean floor and the towed arrays deployed from SURTASS ships had reported thirty-one underwater detonations: eleven in front of the carrier strike groups and ten each along the north and south entrances to the Taiwan Strait. Only three American submarines had been confirmed sunk. The other twenty-eight detonations were presumably the demise of a Chinese counterpart.

As the American submarines advanced, a path was being cleared for the Marine Expeditionary Forces. On the monitor in the Situation Room, the ocean between the carrier strike groups and Taiwan was divided into twelve squares—four columns wide by three rows deep. The first two rows had turned a solid green, 7th Fleet confirming that the eight operating areas had been cleansed of Chinese submarines. One of the nine American submarines in that sector had been sunk, and four of the remaining fast attacks had moved into the last row of operating areas while two loitered on each flank, ensuring no Chinese submarines slipped in behind the front line. Finally, the indication everyone awaited appeared on the monitor.

One of the squares in the third row turned green, and a minute later, a second one adjacent to it also illuminated a matching color. A safe path to Taiwan had been established. Within minutes, the two Marine Expeditionary Forces would begin surging toward beachheads on Taiwan's coast.

But that was only half of the battle. As long as China maintained their supply lines intact, time was on their side. To defeat the Chinese invasion of Taiwan, the Pacific Fleet had to cut off the flow of supplies across the Strait. Unfortunately, the Fleet couldn't do that with the carriers stationed east of Taiwan.

It was a simple numbers-and-distance problem. With the carriers stationed east of Taiwan in deep water, it would take time for the aircraft to make the trip inside the Strait, locate and destroy their target, and return to their carrier for refueling and rearming. If the Chinese had been supplying their troops on Taiwan with only a few large supply ships, this wouldn't have been a problem; their supply lifeline would have been severed within hours.

But China had built thousands of small supply ships, most only twenty feet long and powered by a single outboard motor, ferrying supplies across the Strait in a dizzying array of activity. As a result, the Pacific Fleet could not take out the supply ships fast enough. They needed to shorten the fighter turnaround time—they needed to get the carriers inside the Strait. The United States knew it, and so did China. They had blockaded the Strait with a dozen submarines on both the northern and southern entrances. The Pacific Fleet had its work cut out for it.

As Brackman wondered how their effort to break through the blockade was progressing, a small window appeared in the lower right corner of the monitor, displaying the image of a Navy Admiral. Brackman manipulated the remote control in his hand, and the Admiral appeared full screen. It was Admiral Vance Garbin, in charge of Pacific Command.

“Good evening, Mr. President.” The Admiral's voice warbled over the long-distance encrypted video feed from his command center in Hawaii.

“Evening, Admiral. What have you got?”

“Satellite recon of Chinese missile battery sites confirm ninety-eight percent of the missile launchers have been destroyed. What remains can be easily handled by our carrier strike group cruisers and destroyers. Also, I have confirmation from 7th Fleet that our submarines have broken through both ends of the Chinese blockade of the Taiwan Strait. With your permission, Mr. President, I will order the Pacific Fleet into the Strait to cut off the Chinese invasion.”

The president glanced at SecDef Jennings, who nodded his concurrence. Turning back toward the monitor, the commander-in-chief spoke firmly. “Order the carrier strike groups inside the Taiwan Strait.”

 

32

BEIJING

In the South Wing of the Great Hall of the People, Admiral Tsou strode briskly down the corridor, his lone footsteps echoing off marble walls. At the end of the long corridor, urgently assembled in the conference room, Huan Zhixin and the eight members of the Politburo awaited his report. Although Admiral Tsou would normally have been flanked by two Captains—his aide on one side and his chief of staff on the other—he would deliver the news alone today. It was only fitting; the amphibious assault on Taipei had been his plan. His and his alone, convincing the Politburo it was the only path to success.

Tsou reached the end of the corridor, pausing momentarily with his hand on one of the two immense wooden conference room doors. He found it difficult to contain his emotions. For any man, especially one in his position, it would not be proper to display such a lack of control. Straightening his back, he pushed the door firmly. It swung noiselessly inward, revealing the impatient faces of President Xiang and the other seven Politburo members seated around the conference table, plus Huan Zhixin, seated along the perimeter.

Taking his place at the front of the conference room, Admiral Tsou faced the eight men in China's Politburo. Their faces were difficult to read. As was his, he supposed. After clearing his throat, he began.

“As you are aware, the American Pacific Fleet launched a counteroffensive with four carrier strike groups and twenty-seven fast attack submarines. The Americans were able to discern the malware in their Aegis software and implement a fix, and as a result, our
Dong Feng
missiles have been rendered ineffective. Their submarine force has proven extremely capable, clearing a path to Taipei for their Marine Expeditionary Forces, and has broken through our blockade of the Taiwan Strait. We've lost all submarines assigned to the blockade, with confirmed kills of only three American submarines.

“The United States has dealt equally well with our
Hongqi
missile batteries, destroying all but seven launchers. There is nothing left to deter the American carrier strike groups from entering the Taiwan Strait, cutting off supplies to our one hundred thousand troops on Taipei. Even now, satellite reconnaissance reports the four American strike groups are entering the Strait, two through the northern entrance and two from the south. Their air wings are now within striking distance of all resupply nodes.”

Admiral Tsou paused, waiting for the Politburo to absorb the information and its implications. His eyes met President Xiang's for a moment, then passed over each man in the room. Finally, Tsou could no longer contain the emotion. A broad smile spread across his face, matched by wide grins displayed by Huan and the eight men around the table.

The smile faded from Admiral Tsou's face as he continued, his features returning to their normal, stoic state. “Everything is proceeding exactly as planned.”

 

EN PASSANT

 

33

PANAMA CITY, PANAMA

Seated alone at a table for two on the patio of the Miraflores Café, Daniel DeVor leaned back in his chair, a drink in his hand, admiring the crimson sun as it set into the lush green canopy of the Arraiján rain forest. He wished instead he could have watched the sun sink below the waters of the nearby Pacific Ocean, hoping to observe a rare flash of emerald green as the last light of day slipped beneath the horizon. According to legend, one who has seen the Green Ray is able to
see closely into his own heart
and
read the thoughts of others
. To Daniel, only the first part mattered. He didn't care what motivated his Asian friend. Understanding why he had agreed to the man's plan was where his thoughts dwelt tonight.

The decision had been a difficult one, and even now Daniel struggled with his conscience. Three years ago, the family farm in West Virginia was about to go under. The rising price of fuel, combined with four summer droughts, had wiped out what little savings his father had squirreled away and no bank was willing to extend additional credit. Fortunately, an opportunity arose from an unlikely source. Chris Stevenson was a complete stranger the day he pulled up a chair at this very café three years ago. But while Daniel knew nothing about Stevenson, the thin Asian—with a fake American name, no doubt—knew everything about Daniel's dire situation.

A pact had been proposed and after much consideration, Daniel had accepted. No one would be injured and his family would benefit. That's what mattered, he told himself. His father's debt was paid and a comfortable annuity established for Daniel's parents. In return, Daniel had agreed to complete a predetermined task.

Three years had passed without hearing from Stevenson and Daniel had slowly convinced himself he would never be asked to complete the task. But Stevenson had been waiting in his car by the curb when Daniel stepped from his house today. The conversation was short and Stevenson left behind the brown satchel currently at Daniel's feet, along with a clear warning of what would happen should Daniel fail to fulfill his end of the bargain.

Daniel finished his drink, placing the glass onto the thin cardboard coaster on the table. Pulling a ten dollar bill from his wallet, he placed it next to his glass, then stood, grabbing the brown satchel firmly. With one last glance at the Panama Canal stretching before him, he turned and headed toward the café's exit.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, Daniel approached the security checkpoint to the Panama Canal's Miraflores Locks. With his heart racing, he emptied his pockets into a small container and placed it on the X-ray machine conveyor belt next to his satchel, then stepped through the metal detector. The technician monitored the display as the briefcase exited, sliding slowly toward Daniel. As he reached for his satchel, he froze when the technician spoke.

“Bag check.”

The conveyor halted, Daniel's satchel only a few inches away from his outstretched hand. A second security guard stopped across from him, retrieving the satchel from the conveyor belt. With feigned disinterest, Daniel looked past the guard toward the lock entrance, only twenty feet away.

After taking the satchel to a side table, the guard opened the case. Daniel's heart hammered in his chest as the guard eyed the contents suspiciously, tilting the case as he examined the assorted items, finally pulling out an old iPod, one of two Chris Stevenson had given Daniel earlier that day. Both were filled with an explosive supposedly ten times more powerful than C-4.

The guard glanced at the iPod in his hand and the matching device in the satchel. “Why do you have two iPods?”

“They're older versions and don't have much memory. I need two to hold all my songs.”

The guard studied the iPod in his hand. “Yeah, these are pretty old. Why don't you buy a new one?”

“Easier said than done, with what they pay us around here.”

The guard grunted in commiseration. “Don't I know it. You should get a new iPod Touch. You can even watch movies on those things.”

“Already on my list.” Daniel smiled.

After a final examination, the guard started to return the iPod to the satchel when it slipped out of his hand. Daniel watched the iPod fall, almost in slow motion, toward the concrete floor. He lunged forward, his hands closing around the iPod just before it hit the ground.

“Sorry,” the guard said sheepishly. He took the iPod from Daniel's hands and placed it back into the satchel. “Thank you,” he said as he handed the bag back to Daniel, the guard's eyes already shifting to the next person in line.

Daniel took the satchel and exited the security checkpoint, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal.

*   *   *

Fifteen years ago, Daniel had been hired by the Panama Canal Authority to oversee maintenance of the canal's elaborate lock system. Ships entering the canal on either end were raised eighty-five feet as they passed through the locks, and lowered back to sea level after their transit. Each set of locks had gates, which, when closed, formed a chamber within which the water level could be adjusted. Each gate was over six feet thick, with some as tall as eighty-two feet, weighing over seven hundred tons.

Instead of heading to his office, Daniel crossed over one of the Miraflores Locks' massive gates, headed toward a center causeway separating the dual lock system. After stepping onto the causeway, Daniel descended a narrow staircase. The smell of damp, century-old concrete greeted him as he continued down the steps leading to one of two tunnels that ran the length of the locks. Daniel stopped where East Gate 3 was attached to the center causeway on a pair of two-foot-diameter pintle hinges. Destroy one of the hinges while there was a water level imbalance, and that half of the gate would shear away, disabling the lock for weeks, if not months.