The introduction of this bill meant that the Kuomintang s basic philosophy of one China, introduced by Dr. Sun Yat-sen as he and Nationalist General Chiang Kai-shek fought to liberate China from the grasp of the Japanese empire after World Wars I and II, and proclaimed ever since the Nationalists were pushed off the mainland to the island of Taiwan by the Communists in 1949, was effectively dead. There had always been a hope that the Nationalists could somehow liberate the mainland from the dark clutches of communism, now the government and the people were saying that hope was moot. Mainland China could someday join in the prosperity and power of the Republic of China — but until then, Taiwan was in control of its own destiny.
The cheering in the Assembly hall was deafening; the applause and demonstrations in the aisles lasted for nearly ten minutes. There was still a small group of KMT members opposed to the amendment, and they tried to start another fight on the Assembly floor, but their anger and outrage could not undo years of Lee’s gentle persuasiveness and coalitionbuilding efforts.
But it was more than releasing an improbable dream. It was an assertion, a declaration to the world, and especially to the gargantuan presence known as the Peoples Republic of China, that the Republic of China on Taiwan was taking its rightful place on the world stage. Taiwan was no longer a breakaway republic of China; the ROC was no longer a rebel government. It had the strongest economy in Asia, the ninth-largest economy on the planet, and the largest deposits of foreign currencies in the world. Now it was a sovereign nation. No one was going to take any of that away from them.
It took an entire hour for the votes to be cast, but the results were finally tallied and the announcement was made, soon for all the world to hear: independence.
As he had done for the past thirty-two years of his life, the retired U.S. Air Force general was up at four A.M., without the assistance of an aide, an operator, or even an alarm clock. He was a man who had always set the agenda, not followed those of others. He was accustomed to having everyone else get moving on his timetable.
But now no one in a base command center was waiting for him, there were no “dawn patrol” missions to fly, no world crisis that had to be analyzed so a response could be planned. His uniform now was not a green Nomex flight suit or freshly pressed blue wool class As, but a flannel shirt, thermal underwear — one of innumerable pairs he had used in his flying days, in aircraft where keeping the electronics warm was more important than keeping the humans warm — hunting socks, hip waders, an old olive- drab nylon flying jacket, and an old Vietnam-era camouflage floppy “boonie hat” with spinners and lures stuck in it. He didn’t know that all those things in his hat had nothing to do with open-sea fishing, but it didn’t matter — it was part of the “uniform.”
By force of habit, he put the hardened polycarbonate Timex aviator’s watch on his left wrist, although his own internal body clock was all he needed now; and he plucked the cellular phone from its recharging cradle, turned it on, and stuck it in his fanny pack, although no one ever called him and he had no one to call. For a long, long time, since assuming his first command more than twenty years before, leaving his quarters without a portable radio or a cell phone and pager had been unthinkable, and such habits die hard. The cell phone was something of a link to his old life, his old base of power. The old life had been stripped away from him, but he would not let it go completely.
The weather in Oregon’s central coast matched the man’s mood— gray, cloudy, and a little depressing. The man had spent many years in the Southwest, especially southern Nevada, where they had more than three hundred clear, sunny days a year. Many times he cursed the sun and the oppressive heat it brought — one-hundred-degree days in April, lots of ninety-degree midnights, terrible jet performance especially in the high deserts — but right now a little sun and warmth would be very welcome. It was not looking good — typical low overcast, drizzle with occasional light rain, winds out of the southwest fairly light at ten knots but threatening to increase, as they usually did, to thirty to forty knots by afternoon.
Not ideal fishing weather, but what the hell — nothing else to do except sit around and look at the mountain of unpacked boxes still cluttering his little mobile home in Southbeach, an isolated vacation and retirement village on Oregon’s central coast, about eighty miles southwest of Portland. The Air Force-contracted movers had delivered his household goods seven months before, but there they sat, virtually untouched. He saw a small hole the size of a pencil in the corner of one box marked “Memorabilia” and wondered if the mice were enjoying nibbling on the plaques, awards, photos, and mementos he had stuffed in there. At least someone was enjoying them.
The man decided just to get the hell out and do what he had planned to do, and to hell with the bad memories and bitterness. Concentrating on his boat, the sea, and staying alive on the cold waters of coastal Oregon in freshening breezes would take his mind off the neglected remnants of the life that had been taken away from him. The prospect of catching a glimpse of a migrating pod of whales filled him with a sense of excitement, and soon he was speeding down the long gravel driveway, eagerly looking forward to getting on the water.
It was a short drive north on Highway 101 to the marina, just south of the Yaquina Bay bridge. The marina’s general store had just opened, so he had his thermos filled with coffee, his cooler packed full of orange juice, fresh and dried fruit, and some live sardines for bait — he didn’t have the money to buy live mackerel or squid, which would really improve his chances. What he knew about fishing would embarrass himself if he tried to talk about it, but it didn’t matter — if he caught anything, which was unlikely these days in the fished-out waters of central Oregon, he would probably let it go. He filled out a slip of paper that explained where he was headed and how long he was going to be out — somewhat akin to filing a flight plan before a sortie — stuck the paper in the “Gone Fishin’ ” box near the door on his way out, and headed for the piers.
His boat was a thirty-year-old thirty-two-foot Grand Banks Sedan, bought with most of his savings and the sixty days’ worth of unused accumulated leave time he had sold back to the United States Air Force. Made of Philippine mahogany instead of fiberglass, the heavy little trawler was easy enough to handle solo, and stable in seas up to about five feet. It had a single Lehman diesel engine, covered flybridge, a good-size fishing cockpit aft, a large salon with lower helm station, settee, and galley, and a forward cabin with a head/shower and a V-berth with decent but fish-smelling foam cushions. He turned on the marine band radio and got the weather and sea states from WX1, the Newport Coast Guard weather band, while he pulled off the canvas covers, checked his equipment and made ready to get under way — he still called it “preflighting” his ship, although the fastest he’d fly would be ten knots — then motored over to the pumps, filled the fuel and water tanks, and headed out of the marina into Yaquina Bay and then to the open ocean.
There was a very light drizzle and a fresh breeze blowing, but the man did make his way up to the flybridge to get a better feel for the sea. Visibility was about three to five miles offshore, but the Otter Rock light was visible nine miles north. The waves were maybe a foot, short and choppy, with the first hint of whitecaps, and it was cool and damp — again, typical weather in Oregon for early summer. He headed northwest, using an eyeball bearing off the lighthouse to sail into the fishing area. When he’d first started sailing, he’d brought an entire bag full of electronic satellite navigation gear, backup radios, and charts for almost the entire West Coast with him, because that’s how he had prepared for a flying mission. After ten trips, he’d learned to navigate by compass and speedometer and left the GPS satellite navigation gear at home; after fifteen trips, by compass and tachometer and currents; after twenty trips, by compass alone; after twenty-five, by bearings off landmarks; just off feel and birds and whale sightings thereafter. Now, he could sail just about anywhere with confidence and skill.