Shadow of Eden (39 page)

Dr. James had become the biggest burr under his saddle and he wanted to know everything he could about this adversary. Trident’s PR firm had compiled a sizeable stack of newspaper articles and broadcast transcripts with or about Dr. James. Morloch had budgeted an extra hour this morning to read it all in a single sitting.

First, there were a few local Phoenix newspaper articles about his research in Alzheimer’s and obesity. Dr. James was reasonably articulate, Morloch concluded, to the extent one could tell from the few quotations and statements, but he gleaned little else. He had been, in his interviews about his Eden research, an effective advocate of the drug.

Saving the airliner from crashing brought Dr. James widespread press, national as well as local. Reading through that coverage took more time, but after a few interviews and reports, it became repetitive. Amazing, Morloch thought, how little imagination reporters have when writing a print or broadcast story. Dr. James had portrayed himself as lucky and in the right place, with a lot of the ‘aw shucks’ modesty Morloch despised. It was a remarkable characterization, especially when Morloch knew that it was no accident James was able to pull the plane out of its dive. He had a clear head when it mattered.

Morloch sat up when reading Jacob Castell’s eyewitness reports. He had forgotten Castell had been aboard the aircraft, personally witnessing James saving it. That’s why, Morloch realized, James had called Castell to meet him and why Castell had acceded to the request.

The most recent articles were the result of Mallis’s handiwork. ‘Dr. James crashes and burns,’ one headline announced and another proclaimed, ‘747 hero flames out.’ The articles described Dr. James’s multiple unexplained troubles, including a sexual abuse suit, malpractice allegations—with the Arizona Medical Board scheduling an urgent hearing on his license—followed by allegations of Dr. James trying to commit suicide with his son in the car, and speculations that he had set his own house on fire with his family inside. Although there were the usual disclaimers of the unconfirmed nature of the reports from unnamed sources, Morloch saw that Mallis had done his job of discrediting the esteemed Dr. James quite thoroughly.

Judging from the pictures of the damaged freeway ramp and the rubble of his house, Dr. James should be dead—twice. There were even some mentions of Dr. James’s troubles on some national news outlets, but surprisingly, and to his credit, Dr. James had never allowed an interview. Apparently, following the house explosion, he had not been recognized publicly. He had indeed vanished.

Morloch put the folder on the table and picked up his now lukewarm tea. He was sure that Dr. James was now planning to tell Castell about Eden. That would have serious ramifications. Castell, as Secretary of Health and Human Services, could order the FDA to investigate Eden. As much as he trusted Perera to keep quiet, with enough pressure from prosecutors and offers of immunity, he probably would talk. While Morloch was certain that nothing could be connected to him personally, it would tank his company and his billions of stock, Paradise or no Paradise.

And with Dr. James in hiding, Morloch had no expectation that Mallis would find him before the scheduled Castell meeting. Since Mallis and his team knew the time and place of the meeting, they had an opportunity to get James either before or afterwards. The timing could be critical to the suppression of Dr. James’s story and Morloch needed to carefully think everything through.

Apprehending Dr. James just before the meeting seemed to be Mallis’s plan, but the more Morloch thought about it, the less he liked it. The wild card, and the factor he couldn’t eliminate, was the possibility that James had already sent Castell information and data about his Eden allegations. Killing James right before the meeting, would give his allegations credence. But killing him afterwards would give James the chance to make his case in person. There had to be a third and better option.

Chapter 83

S
ecretary Resnick sat down at the polished elm wood table in Defense Secretary Mark Painter’s office and nodded at the other attendees at this early morning meeting, CIA head, George Bingham; the National Security Advisor, August Crusoe, and Secretary Painter. Resnick covered a deep yawn, tired and stiff from a night that had stretched into the early hours. Called by Painter last evening for this six o’clock meeting, she hadn’t gone home, choosing to catch a couple of hours on her office couch. Vice President Sullivan knocked softly on the door before letting himself in.

“The seventh fleet is on their way to Taiwan,” Painter began. “The Eisenhower and the Stennis battle groups are converging and will get there in three days, but I can tell you, my chiefs are giving me hell about the mission. It’s like Afghanistan all over again, only the stakes are higher.” He leaned forward and forcefully tapped his index finger on the table to emphasize his point. “We have to limit the commitment, narrow the nature of our involvement, or even abandon the commitment altogether. Otherwise, we might have a disaster on our hands.”

Crusoe asked, “You really think China would attack? We all know they can’t invade Taiwan.”

“If we are behind Taiwan and out of the Straits, I think we would be fine—but interposed,” Painter shook his head, “we’re in full range of China’s missiles, not to mention their navy and air force. They could cause major damage.” Painter shook his head. “Admiral Havelind’s extremely unhappy at his deployment. It’s a no win for us.”

Sullivan spoke. “Did anyone see Dick Samuels on
Meet the Press
?” They all nodded except Resnick. “I think the Speaker coming out as strongly against this as he did indicates the sense of his party. Last night, I got my ear chewed off by my staff and more of the same today by members of the congressional leadership. The President’s staff is in a tizzy about how to sell this.”

He looked around the table. “Congress can give us a lot of trouble, both financially and politically. We must make a case for the defense of Taiwan or this issue will sink the President in the next election,” he paused as he looked at the group, “which may give him a reason to significantly moderate his position on this.”

Crusoe leaned forward resting his elbows on the conference table. “I thought the President was clear. And unless I miss my read, he’s fully committed. I believe we should act in accordance with his wishes unless and until we’re instructed otherwise. Our current deployment is the right one and a significant deterrent to the Chinese. Our intimidation is much stronger in the forward position.”

Sullivan looked at Secretary Painter. “Do you agree?”

Painter pursed his lips. “They can inflict significant damage, but can’t defeat our forces combined with Taiwan’s. Conventional analysis says their problem is their lack of a navy of sufficient size to punch through Taiwan’s costal defenses and ferry enough troops across to capture the island. But, and it’s a big one, their air and missile capability can hurt us a great deal, even sink some ships. For example, they can numerically overwhelm us by air simply because of the close range in the Taiwan Straits.”

Crusoe nodded. “I agree as far as that goes, but you haven’t addressed the psychology. China is much more likely to be intimidated by the show in their own front yard, in their face, as it were. That will pressure them to capitulate much faster than with a carrier fleet in some obscure location on the other side of Taiwan. If you do that you are looking at an unlimited open-ended commitment that pins down your resources indefinitely.” He looked at Painter. “Do you want that?”

“You’re convinced they won’t attack?”

“Quite sure. It’s the strategy that will most likely bring about a rapid conclusion and China’s recognition of Taiwan. Besides, they’re too tied up economically with Taiwan to want to take her militarily. The faster we sew up the agreements, the faster we can get on with something else. It’s the logical thing for them to do.”

“It depends on how logical they are thinking right now.” Resnick said. “I believe the hard liners to be in ascendance, which makes aggression much more likely.”

Crusoe smiled and tapped his pipe in his hand. “I guess we agree to disagree.”

“Look, all this military activity has me nervous.” Painter thumped the stapled report on his coffee table. “It says that their apparently random activity continues unabated. It’s disorganized—moving supplies by truck and train to all corners of the map. There’s a net flow of materiél away from the bases, it says, but it’s not concentrating, particularly not near the coast. There are massive troop movements, but in no particular direction. It goes on . . .” He threw up his hands in frustration. “It’s like they’re shuffling the deck.”

“Lots of effort and energy, but for what?” Crusoe asked. “The pattern should tell us something, which it doesn’t.”

“But the military’s on the move in a big way and we don’t know the objective. Why not Taiwan?”

“Can’t,” Crusoe replied. “There’s no massing of military power across from Taiwan, plus they cannot invade for reasons we’ve already discussed.”

Bingham added, “We have a list of possible objectives, Mark. Hong Kong, Taiwan, Russia, India, and so on, but there is insufficient information to—”

“Look, George, Augie,” Painter said, “If they invade Russia or India, I don’t give a rat’s ass. We don’t have a defense pact with them. But we do with Taiwan. And Taiwan has to be their target, given the stalled negotiations. They started their movements within hours of the President’s announcement of support, as though we turned on a switch.”

“It’s still no,” Crusoe said. “Especially with the fracture at the top, they can’t possibly mount a major offensive. Besides, the Seventh Fleet and Taiwan’s coastal defenses stand in their way. That’s a formidable barrier. That’s why Taiwan cannot be their objective. It’s unrealistic.”

“Why is it so formidable?” Painter challenged. He had learned this lesson during a sharp lecture from his Joint Chiefs.

“Because it has tremendous offensive power,” Crusoe shrugged, as if it were obvious.

“Which we can’t use because we are not at war,” Painter rejoined.

“However, it can prevent ships from invading Taiwan. But,” Crusoe added, pulling his pipe from his sweater, “you’re right, its best use is in projecting force at a distance.”

“Which we don’t have,” Painter said, like the professor he once was.

“Which? Force or distance?”

“Neither. The Taiwan Straits is about a hundred and fifty miles wide. We’re in range of China’s coastal defenses and their missiles. We need more than a two-hundred mile radius in open sea for optimal security and flexibility.”

“Hmm, possibly,” Crusoe allowed.

“Even pulling back close to Taiwan, we have at most a hundred miles open sea to China, a point that has been made crystal clear to me by the Secretary of the Navy, who’s also getting an earful. That’s my problem. If we stay out of the Straits, we have room to operate, but the President wants the force interposed, which gives the Chinese a huge juicy target. We’re sitting ducks out there.”

Crusoe shook his head in disagreement, sticking his unlit pipe into his mouth. “It’s the right deployment, Mark. China cannot launch any invasion force with our battle group out there. It’s a
force majure.
They can’t.”

Painter thought a moment before responding. “I have the feeling they have some confidence in their plans for reasons we don’t understand. This is another peacekeeping mission with our men in the crosshairs of someone who wants us to get the hell out of Dodge. I will apprise the President of my concerns.”

After the meeting broke up, Painter sat on his couch a long time reflecting on their conversation. If China was preparing for an invasion of Taiwan, how would they organize it? All the military movements looked disorganized.
Maybe we’re supposed to think it’s disorganized.

On inspiration, Painter got up and walked over to his bookshelf. He had to hunt a minute, but there it was, a slim, red paperbound book, almost invisible between two larger volumes. He pulled it out and walked over to his desk.

The Art of War,
by Sun Tzu. He had not read it since his undergraduate years, nearly forty years ago. If Chinese generals were reading it, he should too. It still had corners turned down on the pages of immutable truths he had wanted to remember, but had long forgotten. Why it had traveled with him through all the years and countless moves, he could not say. Looking at it flooded him with old memories.