Zhen dissented in disgust. He scanned the old men. He despised their obediently raised hands and pudgy faces that looked to the president like submissive pets awaiting their master’s praise. In that moment, deep beneath the ‘August 1st’ building, General Zhen decided China could no longer wait for those lapdogs to become men.
Having retired for the evening to his government apartment, Zhen settled into an over-stuffed couch. He lit an unfiltered cigarette, spit a bit of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, and then gulped the last of his glass of Scotch. He looked out at one of the Sea Palace’s two lakes, and, beyond, the Imperial Palace and the Hall of Harmony. With wisps of blue smoke still curled about him in the still air, he stared far, as though in a trance. The general swirled the golden alcohol about the crystal glass before he took another sip. With a deep breath and sigh, he reached for a cellular telephone and dialed a memorized number.
Zhen reached one of his ‘Four Fiends’—a loyal cadre comprising three men and one woman. All were equally devoted to China becoming the planet’s supreme power, and each possessed a unique authority or skill. In a loose hierarchy beneath the ‘Four Fiends’ also awaited ‘Nine Dragons’—a rogue’s gallery with the power and will to change the world. Zhen took a deep, wheezy breath and uttered a single code word: “Qiongqi,” the Chinese word for deceit. With preordained plans set in motion, the general hung up and refilled his crystal tumbler with single malt.
Northeast of Beijing, in Hohhot, was a cramped and dingy apartment. Within, a thin, greasy-haired man sat before a jury-rigged collection of hard drives, multiple flatscreens, racked boards, and humming processors. A skilled hacker, he was one of the Nine Dragons. Having received his go code, the hacker put down the telephone and typed frantically at the computer’s keyboard. He held a finger over the keyboard’s [Enter] button, and the dragon tattoo that adorned his forearm stared; egging him on. Lowering the finger with a click that resonated, the computer screens flashed as lines of code streamed across them. His program had been irretrievably launched, and began to worm its way into cyber-space.
Dongyin Island lay northwest of Taiwan proper and just a veritable stone’s throw from the Chinese mainland. Atop its rocky cliffs sat the Dongyong lighthouse that broadcast a cone of light that pierced the sea fog and the black night. Near it lay ‘Sea Dragon Cave,’ across from Reclining Alligator Islet, a flat-topped rock that Taiwan’s engineers had chosen, to drill 50 evenly spaced silos into its solid schist. Within these silos, the air force had placed Sky Spear short-range ballistic missiles. Overlooking the missile field, two Taiwanese airmen sat in a bunker.
They worked a panel of lights and switches, and monitored ‘Strongnet,’ Taiwan’s command and control computer network. One airman looked to the bunker’s small armored window and the dark sky beyond. It was 0400: time for the delivery of a breakfast of hot soup. A buzzer sounded to indicate someone at the other side of the blast door. Authenticating their identity on a video screen, the supervising airman unlocked the door and swung it open.
An attendant entered and placed a covered tray on a table. He poured glasses of cold water, and then exited the bunker. The heavy door swung closed and locked with an echoing click. The airmen uncovered the bowls of soup and began to slurp it down greedily. But then, an alarm shrilled and interrupted their feast. A red ceiling light began to strobe. One airman spilled soup into his lap, and cursed and grimaced in pain as his superior rolled his chair to the Strongnet terminal and read the order. Blood drained from his face as he noted the words. He scurried to a wall safe and spun the tumbler. He threw the unlocked safe door open, grabbed a binder from inside, returned to his still-spinning chair, and matched the Strongnet code with that listed within the binder.
“I have a valid launch code,” he yelled, and handed the order to his colleague. “Verify.” The subordinate complied and double-checked the numbers.
“Sir, this is a valid launch code. We are in launch mode,” his voice trembled.
The superior ordered the control room into lockdown, isolating the room from outside air. In a cave deep beneath their feet, a generator kicked on, and took over from the island’s grid. Both men removed revolvers from a second safe, holstered them, and returned to their control panels. As in a hundred previous exercises, the Taiwanese activated missiles one through 50. Unlike in training, however, the telephone began to ring, and there was an urgent clanking rap at the thick steel door. Although one man was seemingly disturbed by this, the other ignored the noise and proceeded by the numbers.
“Green lights. All missiles are ready to fly,” the supervisor said. The rapping at the door became ever more insistent. “Shoot anybody who comes through that door,” he pointed. The unanswered telephone continued its plea for attention. Floodlights came on and washed over the missile field where silo covers slid open and exposed the red tips of the ballistic missiles within. A soldier approached the control room window. He screamed, but the men inside could not hear his pleas. Frustrated, the soldier frantically waved his arms, gesturing that they should discontinue the launch. The airmen ignored him and proceeded with their duty. The soldier then pointed his assault rifle and sprayed the window with bullets. Although it remained intact, the window became an opaque web of unitized shards.
“Sir, they’re shooting at us,” the subordinate stated the obvious.
“They are traitors,” the superior said, with a glare at his colleague. “We expected saboteurs. Stay focused, lieutenant. We will fire our missiles as ordered. Now, report all missiles or I will shoot you.” The supervisor drew and cocked his revolver.
“Yes, sir,” the man stuttered, and regained his focus. “Missiles one through 50: silos open and clear.”
“Acknowledged. Prepare to launch.” Both men inserted keys into their panels. With a cracking voice that momentarily revealed the human behind the cold professional, the supervisor counted down: “Three, two, one, launch.” With both keys turned, that which could not be stopped, began. Mere spectators now, they sat back. The control room began to shake as the missiles started their launch sequence.
A large explosive detonated outside the control room’s door, and a rocket-propelled grenade blasted through the window, killing both men inside instantly. The door jumped off its bent hinges and slammed to the ground with a clank. A flash-bang grenade was chucked into the room. An assault team stormed the room, and the beams of gun-mounted flashlights swept the smoke-filled space. A Taiwanese officer followed the team and strode to the missile control panel. He evaluated the read-outs, and, understanding any efforts to stop the launch would be futile, pounded his fist in frustration. A hiss and suction emitted from the nearest Sky Spear silo.
A column of sparks and flame erupted; a manmade volcano. A Sky Spear burst from its protective hole and began to climb into the sky. The missile in the next silo ignited, and within minutes, all 50 climbed from Taiwan’s Dongyin Island. The missiles pierced low-level clouds, illuminating them from within as they arced west toward the Chinese coast.
Minutes later, the Sky Spears dove over the shipyards, skyscrapers, and temples of Fuzhou, China. Chinese surface-to-air missiles climbed to meet them, and claimed three of the 200-pound high-explosive warheads. Forty-seven Taiwanese missiles slipped through the defenses and impacted. Several blocks of downtown Fuzhou were carpeted with destruction and death. The supersonic bombs shattered and collapsed one commercial high rise, and with occupants tucked between sheets, immolated several residential ones.