After the call, she returned to her report. She wondered about including a passage on her idea about the military utility of motorized hang gliders in China’s People’s Liberation Army (PLA). Open source articles from the PLA itself discussed their military potential. She even saw a classified report detailing small-scale maneuvers. One of her male counterparts with military training (ten years in the Air Force) ridiculed the idea that motorized hang gliders could make any significant contribution to the modern battlefield — it was simply a low-tech stunt with toys, he snorted. Donna wasn’t so sure — in her experience the PLA wasn’t much interested in toys. She decided to include a small passage about the hang gliders to illustrate how the Chinese often adapt common and inexpensive commercial technology for military uses.
The remainder of the day at work passed routinely. Donna placed her working papers and research in her desk and locked it. She changed out of her black high-heeled shoes (with heels neither too tall nor too thin) and put on her running shoes. She signed the security checklist hanging inside her cubicle doorway, and headed down the hall, towards the doors of the SCIF (Special Compartmented Information Facility) she worked in. It was 7:47 PM and she was tired, having put in another 12-hour day.
The drive home along George Washington Parkway was uneventful. She decided there was one thing she didn’t much like about working in the late fall and winter months — the lack of sunshine. When she arrived at work in the early morning, she could sometimes see the sun. In the evening, forget it. George Washington Parkway’s scenery outside her windshield was about as close to a park as she got these days. Sadly, this time of year, her view time was cut in half by the early hour of darkness and her habitually late departure from work. That was the toughest part about moving to D.C. from San Diego. Of course, then there was the East’s infamous summer humidity…
Donna was too tired to catch the news about the suicide bombing in East Timor.
3
The People’s Prince
Fu Zemin propped his feet up on his expansive, darkly rich wooden desk. Other than a phone, a half-full ashtray (he started smoking more earnestly after the American bombs almost killed him in Belgrade) and a picture of his wife and only son, the desktop was clean. On a small table to the left of his desk sat a personal computer. A manila envelope lay across his lap. Fu’s door was closed — the privacy a perk of his high-ranking Communist Party status. His star had risen high since his “heroic” brush with death — all the more so because it was the hated Americans who almost killed him and he accomplished his mission: the remains of the F-117A Stealth had been carefully dissected and studied for any secrets China did not already know. Life was good. He smiled at the photo on his desk, but the smile slowly turned to the frown of a driven man.
Fu lit up a prized Marlboro cigarette (he never saw the irony in his favored vice) and settled in with the classified report he asked one of his underlings to generate two days before. He knew the man stayed up late to produce the report. His lips curled up a little bit. He had done his time in the rice fields and now it was someone else’s turn. If the report was particularly useful he would see to it that the man was recognized in due time. Fu read down the summary list of current American foreign military interventions:
1) Yugoslavia, provinces of Bosnia-Herzegovina, Kosovo, and Macedonia
2) Iraq, northern and southern no-fly zones
3) Kuwait
4) Republic of Korea
5) Western Europe/NATO
6) East Timor
7) Haiti
8) Sinai Peninsula
9) Counter-narcotics operations in South America
Fu’s eyes narrowed with interest at the list—there were vulnerabilities hidden away in these troop deployments. An unwelcome rap at his door jerked him away from the report. “Comrade Fu?”
“Yes, what is it?” He did his best to sound impatient, Fu recognized the voice as an underling liaison with the internal security forces.
“Sir, I have some interesting news for you.”
Fu flipped the report over, quickly combed his slicked hair, and said, “Enter.”
“Sir, I have news about that special operation you recommended to the Party’s Chief Representative to the General Political Department of the PLA.”
Fu looked at the man with open contempt. “Shut the door and keep your voice down!” Fu brought his cigarette to his mouth and inhaled deeply. Exhaling, he lowered his voice and said, “You may tell me what you know. Leave out no detail, but be fast.”
The man looked for a place to sit, then decided the safe course of action would be to remain standing. “A week ago a certain Muslim cleric was killed by a sniper about 10 kilometers from the Afghan border. Three days later an entire village of about 100 people, all Muslims, were killed in apparent retaliation. Yesterday, PLA commando forces intercepted a Muslim guerrilla force of 300 fighters preparing to exact revenge for the village massacre. The guerrilla force was destroyed.”
Fu slowly sucked on his cigarette then suddenly crushed it out in the ashtray while letting smoke curl out of his nose. His face betrayed no emotion. “You have done well to tell me,” Fu paused, trying to remember the man’s name, “Comrade Chung. Cigarette?” Fu extended his pack of prized American smokes.
Chung’s eyes lit up. Fu didn’t think the man smoked, but that mattered little right now. Fu’s small favor would keep the man reliably energized for at least a month.
The man bowed to Fu and turned to go. Once again alone, a toothy grin extended across Fu’s face, revealing teeth stained by years of tea drinking.
4
East Timor
Colonel Mike Flint was a Marine’s Marine. He relished command. He loved his Marines as much as he loved his wife and two children. He figured he wasn’t likely to get promoted to general and sent to the Pentagon — he’d insulted too many people for that, even for a Marine. Freed of the need to pay homage to political correctness, he was a better combat commander and his Marines loved him for it.
Colonel Flint commanded the 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit (Special Operations Capable). Based on Okinawa in southernmost Japan, the 31st had a storied history, including the final evacuation of Saigon in 1975 and the Beirut barracks bombing in 1983. Colonel Flint was with the unit in that day of pain and peril. He was a captain. His most vivid military memories were of pulling the broken and tangled bodies of Marines from the shattered barracks. That was the only time he cried in uniform. He almost cried a second time, when he was a company commander and his unit was deactivated in 1985. The 31st Marine Amphibious Unit, as it was formerly known, was reborn as the 31st MEU in 1992. He was its third commander since reactivation.
The colonel wasn’t surprised when the warning order for East Timor came. He saw this one coming a mile away, especially since the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF) already had communications and reconnaissance assets in East Timor supporting the Australian-led peacekeeping force. It was only a matter of time before some crazy got lucky and killed a bunch of peacekeepers.
Last Friday Flint had ordered his staff to prepare a contingency plan and brief it to him the following Wednesday. Tuesday morning (Monday night in Washington, D.C.) he saw the President’s speech on TV about East Timor explaining why the, “United States has a compelling interest to help the people of East Timor achieve peace and security.” Since the 31st MEU was the closest, fastest reacting and most capable unit in the region, he figured they were going. The warning order’s arrival was anticlimactic.