When Totems Fall (8 page)

This primary assumption, while understandable, made the day all the more unpalatable for men like Zeb. He knew better, having seen firsthand there were always reasons for these things, often with evil at their very core.

One thing was certain: this day's tragedy would level the community in ways its casual and laid back nature didn't really know how to process. And so it was doubly saddening that these would only be the very beginnings of their troubles; early birth pains with a long, hard labor still ahead.

ELEVEN

Undisclosed location: Western Pacific Ocean,

off the Coast of China

Like an Orca coming up for air the sleek, dark hull breached the uneven surface of deep, green waters.

With ballasts blown, sea foam spilled
across her topside. A curtain of water parting her midsection fell gracefully overboard to both starboard and port. The surf was heavy, unforgiving, yet the Type 069 Tang Class nuclear submarine made staying upright seem little more than a child's game of balance and finesse. Surfaced and on station, she awaited orders like any other faithful crew member of the Chinese People's Liberation Army Navy (PLAN).

The Tangs presented a series of deadly upgrades over the former Jinn Class SSBNs. For starters, they held twenty vertical missile tubes as opposed to sixteen. The increased number of rockets were not her most troubling asset. Rather, the issue was more the question of
from how far away
she could throw a punch.

Tubes sixteen through twenty housed China's newest sea-borne offensive weapons, known by their class name: J-2. Thirteen meters long and two in circumference, these second-generation missiles carried a striking distance of eight to ten thousand kilometers. Plenty enough to do the job from here. This was the one improvement that mattered, and it was quite an upgrade. Currently positioned not far off China's eastern seaboard and targeted east over the Pacific, these birds carried everything necessary to devastate the west coast of the U.S., laying waste to vast economic and agricultural corridors and its 50 million residents.

For decades the American Navy had held the strategic high ground in this contest, garnering no real competition to speak of from anyone, including their massive Asian-Pacific neighbor. Everyone understood: nuclear provocation from China would come by two means only; long-range ballistic missiles or the near-impossibility of a closer reach strike via bombers over U.S. sovereign territory. The presence of the J2s had changed everything, advancing the threat into the younger nation's back yard.

American intelligence services identified the new sub and its corresponding missile production in early 2009 as ongoing satellite surveillance confirmed all suspicions of Beijing's progress. Washington then communicated its concerns through both front and back diplomatic channels.

These dispatches were received, duly noted, and routinely ignored.

The U.S. Department of Defense, for all its influence, had no answer other than a promised retaliatory strike. Pointless and ineffective, this kind of international rock throwing only ratcheted up the already tense economic and diplomatic environment of modern Sino-American relations.

As it stood the Tang and her J2s were an irremovable pebble in the Pentagon's shoe. Given a complement of 85 sailors, provisions, and ordinance, this boat could stay at sea undetected for months at a time. Her belly was filled with nuclear-tipped rockets and her nose housed a full array of torpedoes—six bow tubes stacked for conventional warfare. The 069 was fit for both the ordinary and the unthinkable. She was present and she was formidable.

On board the sub a solitary figure
made its way forward from aft, through narrow passageways, heading toward the control tower. From body language, even without seeing the insignia on his uniform, it was clear this person moved with bearing and purpose. Foot pace increased but not rushed as darkened shadows in cramped spaces gave way to the eerie glow of a red light above the conn.

A narrow, chrome handrail marked off the boundary of the small, elevated area. Not unlike the chancel in a traditional church setting, the space itself designated authority, office. No man or woman took this platform casually. Anyone breaching its borders did so purposefully, to assert control with the weight of command resting on themselves alone.

Into the red glow. Bars and stripes on chest and shoulders.

Captain
Ghouzi Chan
held the conn.

The corded microphone came off its cradle and the senior officer surveyed the anxious expressions of the twenty or so crew members in close proximity. A look of assurance and a slight nod from their leader reminded them of who they were, what they were about, as Chan's directives landed with an authority earned over twenty-five years of solitude and trial at sea.

The "talk" button produced an audible click. With the intercom opened, his next words were brief yet ominous.

"Fire control, this is the captain. Ready missile tubes sixteen through twenty. Await launch. This is not a drill. Repeat, not a drill. Live fire on my orders."

The captain released the button on the hand unit and awaited the required verbal reply. Confirmation of his directives came back swiftly.

"Fire control, aye. Missile tubes sixteen through twenty. On captain's orders. We are live-fire ready on your orders, sir."

The Tang stood her post with a posture of moral neutrality toward the horrific scenario unfolding in these expansive, forbidding waters of the Pacific. And with this short technical exchange the People's Republic of China was ready to launch a nuclear attack on the continental United States.

__________________________________

US Embassy Compound—Beijing, China

The metallic black BMW Series 3 Touring Sedan
strode through the steel and brick gates of the American Embassy compound without incident. Led to the diplomatic entry around back, it displayed only a small, hood-mounted flag of the People's Republic; nothing to distinguish it as anything other than a routine official vehicle. Nothing to indicate that inside rode one of the most powerful men in the Chinese Communist Party and by extension, the entire government.

This appearance of everyday business was shattered, and abruptly so.

The Beemer glided to a stop. Both sets of doors opened as heavy, Kevlar-reinforced mechanisms swung forward with surprising heft and an eerie near-silence. Three large men exited first, surveying and securing the immediate surroundings for their charge. With hands near sidearms and eyes roving behind aviator glasses they assessed potential threats with the loyalty and intensity of a pit bull protecting its master. They signaled for him to exit the vehicle, all the while still scanning for changes in the unfolding environment around them.

The small entourage entered the classic Italian portico of the late nineteenth-century structure, forming a blocking maneuver with their persons. Once inside, the mysterious passenger took the symbolic lead out front of his team, moving forcefully down the long, ornate hallway.

Wang Lieu
's face
would not be recognizable to most Americans yet he was about to change the lives of millions of them forever in a few, brief moments of international relations. As Foreign Minister of the People's Republic—Chinese counterpart to the American Secretary of State—he held the legal-national power to both sign treaties and declare war on behalf of his country.

This evening he was hand delivering something in-between the two.

Once through the side lobby he proceeded to the inner office core of the ranking diplomatic officer in China: the U.S. Ambassador. As the bold, next steps of this Asian nation would require heavyweight geopolitical leadership, anything less than senior cabinet authority would not suffice.

U.S. Ambassador to China
Gary Locke
had received word of the minister's coming only minutes prior. Such a hasty, unannounced visit did not conform to protocol. At present, Locke was still raking over his five o'clock shadow in the private washroom connected to his office. Though minimally presentable for the meeting, he could not have prepared himself professionally for what he was to hear next.

Locke entered the room just before Lieu and two of his protectors and then took a standing position beside his antique Baroque-era desk, right in front of the American flag. High drama was the required subtext for major international players such as these.

Formal, measured handshakes. A slight bow at the waist, followed by an invitation to be seated.

Lieu declined the offer and remained upright; neither had he removed his dark gray overcoat. Apparently he didn't intend to be here long.

A confused look from Locke to his diplomatic colleague invited further explanation. The Chinese minister supplied it, all the while standing a mere three feet from his counterpart.

"Mr. Ambassador, I am here to inform you
of the actions of the People's Republic of China in annexing American territory south of the Canadian province of British Columbia, bordered on the east by the Cascade Mountain Range, west by the Pacific Ocean, and to the south by the Columbia River."

Shockingly, he continued.

"This area, so designated, will become a new province of the PRC, ceasing to exist as sovereign territory of the United States and requiring the removal of American governmental and military personnel within seventy-two hours of acceptance of these actions. The civilian population will come under the laws and purview of the PRC and enjoy the rights and privileges of citizenship in our great nation. Refusal to comply with orders given here and those to come will result in a nuclear attack via our strategic fleet in the Eastern Pacific upon the western coast of the United States."

Lieu looked up. The gravity of the moment settled as everyone in the diplomat's office experienced both its weight and resulting disorientation. Ambassador Locke stared back, unblinking. The minister returned the same unflinching gaze as before.

Locke wished he were joking. His mind raced at the implications for his nation and people yet his words came measured, slow and careful.

"Minister Lieu, if I am to understand you correctly, the United States of America is to hand over the most populous portion of Washington, its forty-second state, without reprisal to your country. A state that has been a part of our union since 1889 and one fair state, I might add, that I was privileged to serve as Governor for eight years. Is this what I am hearing from you, Minister?"

Lieu's next words—so cold, sterile—rocked even the experienced diplomat.

"You are accurate in your assessments, Mr. Ambassador."

Locke paused before asking the obvious next question.

"So please help me understand then," he said. "Why we wouldn't launch a preemptive nuclear attack to stop this provocation? If this is only a race to mutual destruction then I have a direct line to the White House. We will not hesitate to act unilaterally. You of course know this, Mr. Lieu."

The minister, knowing he held a superior hand, smiled ever so slightly.

"You will comply Mr. Ambassador, because we have taken control of your weapons systems. They are no longer an option for you. The airliner crash in the city of Seattle yesterday? Tragic, but necessary. Simply the first example of our ability to re-purpose your communications networks across both civilian and military arenas."

Locke, equally stunned and angered by the assertion, immediately realized it to be true, understanding that no systems were ever truly independent and protected. Highly secured—yes, but all systems based on computer code essentially came down to ones and zeros. And when someone came up with a better arrangement of those digits all bets were off.

The minister enjoyed watching these thoughts play out on the ambassador's face. It was time to press the issue, so he did.

"Consider this event and all those lost a grave warning. You have no other options. Our superior military and technical resources have seen to it."

Lieu closed the black leather notebook. With message delivered, he took the first step away from the visibly shaken ambassador and then turned back for one last, critical statement.

"In case you are thinking of applying conventional armed tactics, please be advised the PRC
will
use its nuclear advantage. If you truly value the lives of the three million people in this region you will comply without delay. You may find me at the Central Committee offices, ready to receive your formal and unconditional surrender."

The minister's eyes narrowed, driving the timetable home one more time.

"You have three hours, Mr. Ambassador. I would advise that you not waste one minute of it on anything other than compliance and communication."

Lieu exited as unexpectedly as he'd entered a mere ten minutes before. For his part, Locke stood there wondering how his world had changed so horrifically in such a brief span of time. Then he got on the phone.

TWELVE