The President raised his hand, waving away the assault of words. General Sun fell silent immediately.
“I understand our national honor,” Chen said, more contemplative than angry. “And I am more than aware of the tactics the US will use in an air-sea battle. What I need are options — and a cogent plan of what to do in the face of this open hostility from the US. I cannot understand what is going on in the American President’s head. It seems to me as though he is bent on war. The President is practically in bed with the Japanese. Two of the most notorious terrorists in our nation were handed over to the Pakistanis — who conveniently let them escape.” He gazed out of the floor-to-ceiling windows to his left, breathing deeply, thinking on each word. “I wonder what the Americans would have done if we’d had bin Laden and handed him over to France. I have to tell you, gentlemen, even if I did not want a war, there are plenty in the Central Committee who think it is the wisest course of action — blood and treasure notwithstanding.”
Wen had no love lost for the United States, but chose to look at things as they were, rather than as nationalist fervor wished them to be.
“Sir,” he said, speaking evenly, mirroring the President’s demeanor. “I agree with the general’s point that after decades of fighting in the Middle East, Americans have no stomach for war — but I assure you, they have much less stomach for defeat. Even if our strikes disable US communications satellites and cripple their naval assets with the first salvo of nuclear missiles — a relatively blind and wounded United States would counterstrike with enough force from their surviving submarines and carriers that our losses would be in the millions.”
“Perhaps it would be millions.” General Sun sniffed dismissively. “But are those lives not a small price to pay to chase the US out of our waters for good?”
“Any victory would be a Pyrrhic one,” Wen said, “At the cost of so much blood and treasure that our economy would crumble—”
“Or perhaps the economy would grow.” Admiral Jiang nodded thoughtfully. At sixty-six, he was the oldest man in the room by a decade. He was fit for his age, had a square jaw and military bearing — but he parted his jet-black hair in the middle, a habit that Wen found off-putting and distinctly un-Chinese. “The Americans flaunt their perceived power in our noses at every turn,” the admiral said. “They appear to want a war. I do not need to remind you that though the side that shoots first, so to speak, may be judged the aggressor in the court of public opinion, that side will also have a considerable advantage in the fight.”
General Sun leaned farther forward. “In an air-and-sea battle with the United States, first strike would be a necessity, sir. I believe, as do many of my colleagues, that we could endure the heavy losses sustained in such a conflict — even a nuclear war — as long as we make the primary move.”
“Are these colleagues that agree with your assessment the same wise men who allowed a sensitive prototype weapon to be stolen from a poorly guarded warehouse in Penggu?” The President tipped his head slightly to one side, eyes locked on the general while he waited. This was not a rhetorical question.
Wen decided to step in, more to let the President know the status of the stolen weapon than to let the bloviating general off the hook. If Sun had his way, nuclear missiles would arc westward by nightfall.
“We have information that may lead us to the Black Dragon, sir,” he said, careful not to give himself an impossible deadline to find something that was lost because of the military’s inept security measures.
General Sun glared at the interruption and the news that MSS possessed information that had not been shared with the army.
“This thing you’ve lost.” The President leaned back in his chair addressing the question to anyone with an answer. “This Black Dragon. It’s not nuclear, correct?”
“That is true,” General Sun said. “But thermobaric weapons are sometimes called the ‘poor man’s nuclear device.’ The effects are devastating.”
Chen Min gave a thoughtful nod. “I understand the Americans do not have such a device.”
“Not as such,” Minister Wen said. “The US arsenal includes many thermobaric bombs. Their Javelin for instance is a shoulder-fired missile much like this one. But for its size, the Black Dragon is much more powerful. An ugly weapon.”
“Ugly and useful,” the general said.
“Ugly, useful, and small enough to make it difficult to locate, I’d imagine,” the President said. “Please work in concert on this, gentlemen. I do not need to tell you what sort of problems it will cause if our own Black Dragon, say, made its way here to Beijing. There are those who would be happy to see such a thing deployed against this very office.”
“Understood, sir,” General Sun said. He took a deep breath, holding his hat in both hands. “Mr. President, I must speak frankly. I hold Minister Wen in the greatest of all possible esteem, but regarding our clear victory over the United States during a possible conflict, I have more faith in our country than he does. The minister’s world is one of spies and deceit — which, I freely admit, is necessary for the security of our nation. The admiral and I operate in a world of honor and duty — a world of direct attack. We have a plan in place that will allow China more than any Pyrrhic victory.” He looked at Jiang, who nodded in forceful agreement.
“Even as we speak, Mr. President,” the admiral said, “if the Americans want war, we have assets in position to crush them.”
“Very well,” Chen Min said. He gave a flick of his hand as he stood, knocking a silver teapot off his desk in the process. All three men moved at once to pick up the pot, nearly knocking each other over in the process. The President stopped them with a look.
“Tea and blood are both impossible to retrieve once they have been spilled,” he said. “Trust that I am not above spilling either if I see that it is the right move. In the meantime, someone find out what is going on in the mind of that fool America has for a President. And while you are at it, capture the Feng brothers and locate our missing weapon.”
Wen did not say it in front of the others, but he had someone working on that very plan. He looked across the spacious office at the fallen teapot. The admiral caught his eye and gave him a pleasant nod. There was no doubt that he and the general had a plan of their own.
Chapter 7
Quinn swerved the stubby Wuling microvan to avoid a broken donkey cart and took the left lane to keep moving forward. Known as mianbao che or a breadbox car, the miniscule van was hardly larger than a compact car. Thibodaux had the passenger seat shoved back as far as he could and threatened to bust the thing off its rails to keep his knees from digging into the beige plastic dash.
They had come up from the isolated Chinese outpost of Tashkurgen on the Karakoram Highway from the southwest, leaving the drifting sands of the Takla-man Desert for the lush oasis-fed orchards of pistachios, walnuts, and almonds that began to spring up the closer they got to Kashgar. Great fields of millet and watermelon stretched on either side of the road in a patchwork of varying shades of verdant green as they drew nearer the city.