Chuck DeVore, Steven Mosher
China Attacks
To the American fighting men and women who may be called upon to defend us from the coming storm…
Prologue
Belgrade, May 7,1999
The American B-2 Spirit Stealth Bomber pilot suppressed a small wave of anxiety and concentrated on his radar imaging display. He knew he and his mission commander were as close to invulnerable as American science and engineering could make them — but he still had a tinge of fear. An Academy classmate of his was shot out of the sky in an F-117A Nighthawk Stealth Fighter only six weeks before. Thankfully, he was rescued. The incident made the tight-knit brotherhood of pilots based in Central Missouri’s Whiteman Air Force Base somewhat circumspect during their nighttime bombing raids “downtown.”
There—the headquarters building of the Yugoslavian Federal Directorate of Supply and Procurement came into view on his radar imager. Every building around the target checked out — this was the one, the building that housed the bureaucrats who worked to supply the Serbian genocide in Kosovo. Not that he needed to double-check the target manually, given the precise capabilities of his aircraft and weapons.
The two-man bomber crew had been in the air for 16 hours now. Three times they took manual control of the giant black flying wing: at take-off and during two mid-air refuelings. The rest of the time the bomber flew itself. The actual bombing run was no different. The GPS-Aided Targeting System perfectly pinpointed the aircraft’s location as well as the target’s. The system fed the data to the 2000-pound GPS guided glide bombs that were to be dropped on the target. The pilot simply validated the computer’s work and toggled the switch to release the bombs.
Somehow, killing people seemed a little easier when a computer did it. The human in the loop was there only to veto an error in targeting. There were few errors. This system — highly trained pilots, B-2 Bomber, and GPS guided bomb — rarely missed. More accurate and reliable than the robotic cruise missile, or the older F-117A Stealth Fighter, the B-2 was used by NATO to reduce “collateral damage” (that euphemism of war referring to the undesired death and destruction caused when bombs fall astray or damage a wider area than intended). Less collateral damage would mean less opposition to the war back home and less international pressure to end it before forcing the Serbs to their knees. Amazingly, the B-2s had inflicted no collateral damage at all. The heretofore unattainable ideal of a “surgical” air campaign had finally been realized.
Fu Zemin had never been in a war before. At first, he was terrified. The haughty Americans and their European NATO henchmen had been bombing targets in Belgrade for several weeks now. Almost every night Fu was held captive by the hammering explosions about the city. During the day, Fu tried to fight back, to even the score with the arrogant Americans by diligently exchanging intelligence with his Serbian counterparts.
Fu Zemin was a dedicated member of the Chinese Communist Party — so was everyone else in a position of power in his country. Of course, being a Communist did not necessarily mean that he believed in Communism. Communism was a dead ideology in China — as dead as Chairman Mao, as dead as Lenin. It was a convenient tool to justify control of the masses, no more. On the other hand, Zemin believed in the Party — or rather, the Party’s power. The Party made his father important. The Party made it possible for his father to advance his career. It provided him perks and authority. He owed the Party everything. In return for his good fortune, he devoted his life to the Party. This was why he now found himself in the middle of a war zone, frightened for his life.
Fu was working late with a military attaché and three female Chinese intelligence agents (accredited to Belgrade as journalists and housed in the embassy’s “press” offices). The quintet was finalizing an agreement to buy the crashed remains of an American Stealth Fighter from the Yugoslavians. They were almost ready to place the proposal’s final terms and attached technical and political analysis in the next diplomatic pouch bound for Beijing when Fu stretched and said, “I’ve had so much tea that I’m ready to burst.” The operatives tittered as Fu stood up to head to the restroom. Normally, a woman wouldn’t dare laugh at Fu’s comment — he was a man and a Party official. But, these women, spies all, were also part of China’s elite. “We are all very tired. I want to review the final proposal and attachments one more time before it goes out under my signature. I’ll be right back.”
Fu walked down the nicely appointed embassy hall and ducked into the restroom. He decided to take out a cigarette (he smoked casually, and then usually only very late at night to help himself stay awake). He sat down on the toilet and lit up.
Fu inhaled a buzz-inducing drag and simultaneously relieved himself. He began to think of how China might soon counter America’s unchallenged global domination. He exhaled, slowly letting the smoke curl out of his nostrils. As if in a dream, the bathroom door blew off its hinges, the hallway flashed a bright white-orange, and the lights went out. Fu’s cigarette burned a hole in the palm of his hand before he yelped from the corner of the bathroom where he cowered. A moment later another explosion ripped at the building, knocking the wind out of Fu’s lungs and filling the air with a choking, hot dust.
Slowly getting to his feet, Fu heard muffled cries for help. They came from the direction of where his comrades were working. He saw flames swirling around the doorframe of the intelligence center and “press” room. He hesitated. Rescue operations were for military personnel and fire fighters and maybe bureaucrats — not up-and-coming Party officials. Fu turned his back on his countrymen and ran down the hallway illuminated only by emergency lighting and the spreading fire.
American B-2 Bomber pilots always hit their targets. The night of May 7th was no exception. The problem was not that the bombs missed, it was that the target moved. The Chinese Embassy in Belgrade had occupied the former offices of the Yugoslavian Federal Directorate of Supply and Procurement for more than a year. Unfortunately, no one in charge at the CIA or NATO headquarters knew this. And it was this point that really irked the Chinese — not that the Americans could have purposefully killed their spies and destroyed their intelligence center (the Chinese would have done the same thing in similar circumstances). The American explanation that the bombing was a “mistake” was deeply offensive to the Chinese — it showed the contempt that the West held for the Chinese — could anyone imagine the Americans “mistakenly” bombing the Russian or the British embassies? Never.
The American bombs that stained China’s honor also stole Fu Zemin’s honor (although his cowardice was known only to him). Fu returned to Beijing more committed than ever to restoring China’s proper place in the world as its premier power — its hegemon. China’s restoration would be Fu’s and Fu wouldn’t rest until both assumed their rightful places.
1
The People’s Commando
Major Chu Dugen remained motionless in the predawn calm, the moon lay low in the west to his right. Small puffs of icy steam leaked out from his black ski mask, it was the only evidence of life coming from his carefully camouflaged position. He and three of his best men were high on a ridge overlooking a small, Muslim village in extreme western China near the borders of Afghanistan and Tajikistan.
The sniper next to Dugen shifted his weight and sighed slightly. The man had been in position for an hour now. The cold was beginning to bite into his muscles. Dugen put his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. He said in a low, barely audible voice, “Huizi, relax. They won’t move until the moon sets. Give your rifle to me and slowly stand up. Stretch. Just keep your movements slow and fluid.” The commando officer knew there would be a period of total darkness for about 37 minutes before the dawn began to break.