And, as they’d shown in Korea, the ChiCom commanders knew a few more tricks than the Iraqis, like slipping a division or two — over twenty thousand men — right under your damn nose. They’d wait for a thunderstorm to trip off all the ground-movement sensors, then move. And PLA officers, while paid more, were much closer to their men than the Iraqi officers had been to theirs. In this respect the Chinese were more like their traditional enemies, the Vietnamese. Still, Freeman was confronted by the brutal reality of the missiles. A massive attack on Second Army could take out its heart. The problem would be to get permission for a bombing mission to try to take out the missiles. It was so deep into China—2,300 miles — that if the bombers were to stand a chance of getting through to the target, the flight, given the fractures found in more Stealths, would have to consist of B-52s originating out of western Europe.
But most likely France wouldn’t allow it — just as she’d refused permission for the U.S. to overfly French soil in the raid against Qaddafi in Libya. There was nothing for it but to ask the White House to ask the Brits. Still, Maggie Thatcher was long gone, and elements of the leftist Labour party opposition were bound to oppose such a flight as they had in the case of Libya.
In Beijing, meanwhile, the extent of General Beatty’s unexpected response had made it clear that China was now de facto in a war with the United States. Both Premier Nie’s and General Cheng’s forcefully stated determination to defend China’s borders “against imperialist U.S. aggression” immediately gave way to reawakening Asian memories of the humiliating defeat inflicted upon the Americans in Vietnam.
The Chinese hated the Vietnamese, who were continually arguing over border areas and the resource-rich islands in the South China Sea, but nevertheless Nie and Cheng had no qualms about invoking the Vietnamese victory over the Americans to remind the PLA that a much smaller Asian country had defeated the mighty U.S.A. Besides, the PLA was many times the size of the North Vietnamese army, and for the PLA to be victorious over the Americans along the Black Dragon River in the north would enhance China’s reputation in all Asia, particularly given the vacuum left by the demise of the USSR.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The minister for defense, Stanley Wright-Attersley, was sitting at the long cabinet room table at 10 Downing Street, a battered-looking red box of ministerial documents in front of him on the green baize-covered table. When the P.M. entered, Wright-Attersley rose. “Prime Minister.”
“Is my information correct, Stanley — the French won’t come on side?”
“Afraid so, sir. Elysée Palace issued a secret memo earlier this morning that the French cabinet deem it ‘an inappropriate response to the misunderstanding along the Black Dragon River.’ “
“Is that what they actually said — a misunderstanding along the Black Dragon, not the Amur?”
“Yes, Prime Minister. They’re afraid that an American bombing mission would, to quote their president, ‘inflame the situation further.’ “
“Misunderstanding?” the prime minister huffed. “My God, the Chinese attacked the U.N. line. Any schoolboy could understand it.”
Wright-Attersley nodded. “Quite so, Prime Minister. But we’re dealing with the French.”
The P.M. grunted, pulled out a chair, and his aide knew it would be a pot-of-tea decision.
“Darjeeling, Prime Minister, or Earl Grey?”
“Darjeeling,” the P.M. said without turning, putting on his pince-nez to read the remainder of the French communiqué. “They’re a fractious lot, the frogs. Sometimes I think it’s against their principle to say yes to anything. They simply cannot tolerate any idea that doesn’t originate with them.”
“They no doubt feel,” Wright-Attersley said, “that French-Chinese trade would be damaged if they allowed bombers to use French airspace.”
“And do they think,” the prime minister asked rhetorically, “that our trade with China would not be affected? And never mind the retaliation that the Communists may very well wreak on British passport holders in Hong Kong now that it’s under the benevolent rule of Beijing — those of Tiananmen Massacre fame.”
The defense minister said nothing. There was nothing more he could say about the French. In the world of self-interest theirs was the most self-interested. The French had always had a love-hate relationship with America — a love of Hollywood and a contempt for everything else.
The P.M.’s private secretary entered as tea was being poured. He had the latest poll results — the government was fifteen points behind Labour. He said nothing but merely laid the message slip alongside the secret French communiqué refusing to assist the Americans.
“Does Labour know?” the P.M. inquired. “I mean, has the U.S. request leaked?”
“No, Prime Minister,” the private secretary answered. “Though I can’t answer for the next twenty-four hours.” Wright-Attersley sipped the Darjeeling and placed the cup down without a sound. “Be that as it may,” he said, looking over at the prime minister, “I feel obliged to tell you that this kind of thing is extremely difficult to keep under wraps. Bound to get out sooner or later, Prime Minister.”
There was a long silence. It was a trying decision for the British P.M. — already down in the polls and shortly to face a general election. A decision to assist the Americans could cost the prime minister not only personal popularity. He could well lose the entire election to Labour — a prospect infinitely more worrying to the government than French displeasure.
The P.M. took tea and thought upon the matter. His mind went back to the time during the Falklands War when he was but a junior in Whitehall. He remembered the clandestine operations made necessary by the Americans Haig, Secretary of Navy Lehmann, and U.N. envoy Jeane Kirkpatrick— especially by Kirkpatrick’s hostility toward Britain and her support, along with that of Assistant Secretary for Latin American Affairs Thomas Enders, for Argentina against the British. The American who had saved the day was Caspar Weinberger, the U.S. secretary of defense, who arranged, at great personal political danger, secret transfer of U.S. weapons and spy plane intelligence on Argentinian positions to the British.
The air-to-surface Stinger missiles, which the SAS had used to such good effect in the Falklands, were just part of the massive aid supplied by Weinberger, which included everything from air-to-air missiles to KC-135 tanker aircraft used for the midair refueling of the British Vulcan bombers. The prime minister knew that without American help the British, with only one carrier, could not have defeated General Galtieri.
“Of course we’ll help the Americans,” he said, taking up his tea again. “I should never be able to look at myself in the mirror again if we didn’t.” He looked directly at the defense minister. “We’re cousins after all.”
“Quite so,” Wright-Attersley answered.
“The polls, Prime Minister,” the private secretary suggested, one eyebrow arched apprehensively.
“Damn the polls!” He turned to his defense minister. “A friend in need, Stanley. Isn’t that right?”
“Absolutely, sir. Absolutely.”
“Don’t tell me the details, Stanley. Less they’re discussed, the better. And perhaps they won’t have to go after all. Media types get wind of this — slap a ‘D’ notice on ‘em. That’ll shut them up.”
“Very good, Prime Minister.” A Defence Ministry notice would mean anyone who published anything about the planned raid would be immediately prosecuted.