Lethal Trajectories (3 page)

Thus, his listeners would be pleased to know that he’d agreed to make a rare television appearance this coming Sunday as a panelist on Nelson Fitzwater’s
Financial Issues and Answers.
He was delighted to learn that Clayton McCarty, a man he despised, would be the cannon fodder for panelists. It would be a genuine treat for his adoring fans to hear and
see
him launch an audiovisual nuclear attack on the hapless McCarty—the VP half of the team he took delight in referring to as the BM movement.

After one last look in the mirror, he entered the broadcast studio, adjusted the microphone, and said in his deep, authoritative baritone voice, “Good afternoon, my friends and fans, and welcome to
Wellington’s World.”

Prince Mustafa ibn Abdul-Aziz was in a foul mood as he prepared for a clandestine meeting with his coconspirators. The malfunctioning air-conditioning unit did little to improve his disposition as he waited for his team to arrive, but that was but one price to be paid for anonymity.

For the past two years, his small but powerful group had met in this nondescript office in south Riyadh to plot the overthrow of the royal Saudi government. His eclectic team was united by a common hatred of the decadent Western values inundating their society, the growth of the apostate Shiite movement in the Middle East, and the royal government’s benign neglect and unwillingness to confront the issues. These threats were a direct assault on the teachings of Allah, and Mustafa would not rest until the infidels were eradicated from his country, the region, and eventually the world.

Mustafa ibn Abdul-Aziz was a study in contradictions. At age forty, he had a muscular body on a six-foot frame but loathed the idea of working out or pampering himself with self-indulgences. He had the square-jawed good looks of a young Omar Sharif but spent little time in front of the mirror. Although a member of the monarchy by virtue of his place in the royal lineage of King Abdul Aziz ibn Saud, he despised everything about the monarchy. He had the fabulous wealth and power afforded the ruling members of the Council of Ministers, but he detested the sinful way in which the oil-driven economy picked away at the proper ways of Islamic society.

Still, he maintained a veneer of good cheer and impeccable manners that fooled all but a few in his inner circle. Mustafa hated Zionism and the corrupt Western culture that contaminated mankind. There was no other way but that of the Monotheism he faithfully practiced as a cornerstone of his daily life. There was comfort in the well-structured Islamic fundamentalism outlined in shari’a law, and he longed for the day it would be universally practiced and enforced as it was meant to be.

His coconspirators shared his driving passions, and together they planned for the ultimate jihad. The planning was all but done, and they were now only waiting for the right set of circumstances to come about. They were all on edge, and Mustafa, an impatient and bitter man, was a time bomb ready to explode.

I
t was not unusual for the most powerful man in China, Chairman Lin Cheng, to be working at his desk in the Zhongnanhai—China’s equivalent of the White House—into the wee hours of the morning. In fact, it was the rule as he prepared for the weekly Politburo Standing Committee meeting scheduled for 8:30 on Thursday mornings.

Lin Cheng’s nocturnal habits were legendary, so it came as no surprise to the duty officer in charge of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy night watch that he was able to get through to Lin Cheng immediately.

“Chairman Lin Cheng,” the PLAN watch officer reported nervously, “I regret to, ah, inform you, sir, that a naval engagement with Japan occurred less than an hour ago, resulting in the loss of the
Dragon II
oil platform at Chunxiao.”

“Yes, Admiral, please give me all the details,” Lin Cheng responded in a dispassionate voice. Though outwardly calm, he was angry to hear that this marquee symbol of China’s technological prowess had been destroyed—not to mention the delay in access to the precious oil and natural gas that it was designed to extract.

The admiral gave a detailed report of the engagement, noting losses incurred and current disposition of forces in the area. “Sir,” he said, sounding more confident, “we have sufficient firepower in that area to handle anything the Japanese can throw at us.”

“Thank you, Admiral, for your report. This was an unprovoked attack, and clearly our navy responded in an exemplary manner. Please pass that on.”

“Yes, sir, and thank you, Chairman Lin,” said the admiral, plainly relieved.

“Let me be clear, Admiral, that you are not to pursue offensive actions against the Japanese navy unless fired upon. Is that absolutely clear?” Lin Cheng hung up the phone after the admiral acknowledged his command.

Lin sat for a moment to collect his thoughts. He had to resist the tug of war between his heart and his mind and work the problem. He was saddened by the loss of the
Dragon II
and its crew and outraged by Japan’s inexplicable sneak attack. In contemplating his next move, he wondered,
What could they have been thinking?

True to form, he pulled out a pad of paper, colored pens, and yellow sticky notes in preparation for his one-man brainstorming session. Sitting at the desk in his stark and unpretentious office—almost devoid of personal memorabilia—he focused his brilliant analytical mind on the problem at hand. Working backward from his desired endgame, layer by layer, he systematically laid out the tactics and operations needed to meet his desired objectives. He completely lost track of time and was surprised to see it was almost four o’clock in the morning when he finally felt comfortable with the situation. The scrawled notes, torn-out pages, and reams of hard-copy report data surrounding his desk gave testament to the great intellectual battle that had just taken place.

Even at age fifty-seven, Lin still enjoyed the ability to recuperate from such exertions with a shower and two good hours of sleep. He looked forward to the regularly scheduled 7:00 a.m. meeting he would have with his trusted chief of staff, Wang Peng, in preparation for the Politburo Standing Committee meeting. He would have to be in top form to manage the heated debate ahead, as the hardliners in the PSC would be anxious to take on Japan—or worse, the United States.

Lyman Burkmeister, president of the United States, was not having a good day. There were no bright spots in the gloomy economic picture. Gas prices now exceeded $6.00 per gallon nationwide, his popularity ratings had fallen another three points, and the contentious meeting earlier in the day with congressional leaders over budget cuts and healthcare costs reminded him of the challenges that lay ahead. To top it off, the indigestion and stomach cramps that had plagued him for weeks were worsening.

Burkmeister was not uncomfortable with the “workaholic” label ascribed to him. As a former military officer, CEO, and governor of Ohio, he seldom slept more than five hours a night, but he clung to a magic formula that worked wonders for him: a midday nap. His favorite getaway was the small private office off the west wall of the Oval Office, which he affectionately dubbed
Shangri-la.
His chief of staff, George Gleason, and everyone else understood the reenergizing value of Shangri-la and went to great lengths to preserve this respite for the president. It was considered an unwise career move to disrupt his reverie in any way.

Unfortunately, the magic of Shangri-la was not working today. Instead of resting, he was doubled over in pain from his ever-worsening stomach pains. He took a few deep breaths and diverted his attention to his two favorite pictures next to his sofa. The first was of his beloved wife, Karen, taken shortly before her fatal aneurism while celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in Bermuda. The second was of him and his running mate, Clayton McCarty, waving victoriously at the 2016 Republican National Convention after accepting their call to duty. He smiled, recalling the fury of the party hardliners when he selected Governor McCarty, an Independent, to serve as his running mate. Good memories, he thought, as he closed his eyes to rest.

Outside Shangri-la, George Gleason was in a complete stew over the tsunami of urgent messages coming in from intelligence sources. It was an unwritten rule that the president’s personal hour was not to be disturbed. Gleason, however, always the historian, recalled how Hitler’s generals had refused to wake him upon hearing the allies had invaded Normandy, and the delay had most definitely affected that battle at a crucial time. He didn’t want the same footnote next to
his
name in the history books.

With trepidation, he knocked on the door to Shangri-la, entered, and said, “Mr. President, I’m so sorry to bother you, but there’s been a development you need to know about before you get calls from foreign leaders.”

Still hurting from his violent stomach spasms, Burkmeister was more than a little annoyed. “It must be awfully serious for you to come here and roust me, George. What is it?”

“The code-red lines from the CIA and other sources are ringing off the hook, Mr. President. They are picking up some very unusual messages from both the Chinese and Japanese navies in the East China Sea suggesting that a major naval battle has just occurred between the two countries.” Gleason took a deep breath before continuing.

“We don’t know the extent of it yet, but I suspect we’re in for a barrage of new intelligence and media inquiries—maybe even calls from the Japanese and Chinese leaders. We thought it vital to get a jump on this immediately, Mr. President, but I do apologize for the intrusion.”

A surge of adrenaline overcame the latest round of stomach pains and, sensing Gleason’s concern, Burkmeister graciously let him off the hook.

“You were absolutely right to wake me, George. Please call whoever you can get to the Situation Room for a meeting at six o’clock tonight. What else do I have scheduled for the day?”

“You have a meeting with the vice president and Secretary Canton for a progress report on the new ETCC department plan, plus a few photo-op meetings with large campaign contributors. Other than that, it’s remarkably light.”

“Please cancel all appointments with regrets and get whatever intelligence you can from the usual sources. In the meantime, I’ll be doing a little digging on my own.”

The president then went into his private bathroom, washed his face, took a hefty dose of antacids, and said a prayer. He hoped he would be up for whatever might happen. He often felt like a triage nurse trying to decide which critical case took precedence over the other. It was difficult to follow an orderly schedule when dealing with a new crisis every hour. Japan squaring off with China? He had a gut feeling that this could be a defining moment in his presidency.

W
ang Peng enjoyed the give-and-take strategy sessions with his boss that preceded the weekly Politburo Standing Committee meetings. They were comparable, he thought, to a boxer’s physical and mental preparations for a championship fight, and like the boxer, he and Chairman Lin Cheng usually had cuts and bruises to show for their efforts after a PSC battle.

While Lin Cheng chaired the nine-member Politburo Standing Committee charged with making the important decisions in China, it was by a consensus arrangement. Lin never forgot this, even though he controlled the other levers of political, military, and party power by virtue of his positions as general secretary of the Communist Party and chairman of the Central Military Commission. Lin had been reluctant to take the title of
chairman
instead of
president,
but he had agreed at the insistence of the PSC. A sign, Wang felt, of his boss’s humility and pragmatism.

“Good morning, Mr. Chairman,” said Wang cheerfully, noting that his boss looked a little tired. Together, they had scaled the labyrinth of the Communist Party, and Wang sensed that something big was in the air today.

“Good morning, comrade,” Lin said quietly. He poured Wang a cup of tea with the deference of a servant and not the leader of almost one-fourth of the world’s population. He took a sip himself and then continued.

“An extraordinary and terrible thing has happened early this morning. For reasons we don’t understand, our
Dragon II
oil platform at Chunxiao was attacked and sunk by Japanese naval forces. We retaliated by sinking two Japanese naval ships, two platforms, and one auxiliary vessel.” Wang was stunned, but remained silent as Lin continued.

“We will scratch our PSC agenda for today and turn our full attention to the Chunxiao issue. I was in my office when the first call came in, and I have therefore had time to think through some of the implications.” After recounting the key features of the attack, he said, “Frankly, I’m more concerned about the United States than I am about Japan, and I would like your feedback on my thinking.”

Hiding his astonishment at the news, Wang answered, “I am most interested to hear your analysis, Mr. Chairman, and I am particularly interested in why you’re more concerned with the United States than Japan.”

“Of course, that is a good question,” the chairman answered, pleased to test his hypothesis on his trusted aide. “China and the United States have been engaged in a cold war for two decades, though few acknowledge it as such. Unlike the Cold War of the twentieth century, this one is being fought over control of resources and markets rather than ideology. Publicly, we have de-emphasized global competition in favor of common efforts and interests with the West, but both sides know the reality of the situation.”

Wang nodded.
Classic Lin Cheng thinking,
he mused.
Start with the big picture and work backward.

“In this so-called cold war,” Lin continued, “time and momentum are on the side of China. A senseless war over Chunxiao would disrupt our timetable. China has a huge advantage over the United States in the long term, thanks to our disciplined and flexible followthrough, but we are more vulnerable to short-term issues requiring quick fixes. The Americans operate on abbreviated timeframes tied to quarterly earnings or the next election. Their mindset, accordingly, precludes them from investing as they should in their longer-term financial and physical infrastructure, and it’s eroding their superpower status. Strangely, they don’t seem to recognize this.”