“There’s no activity at the Dinghai or Nantong naval bases. None at all. It’s the opposite of business as usual. It’s the same at the air bases in Shanghai Longhua and Wuhu.”
“Suggesting what?”
“You ever watch police put down a riot?”
“No,” Viens admitted.
“The frontline guys come in to try to control the perimeter. They use hoses, maybe some gas, nightsticks. That takes some of the steam from the rioters. Then the heavy-duty troopers arrive from vans with shields, body armor, rubber bullets. They don’t slip that stuff on in public. They do it in private, then they really tear into the main body of the assault.”
“You’re saying these other bases are arming in hangars and dry dock?” Viens asked.
“I am saying they could be,” Herbert suggested. “Considering how I’ve been mucking about the last two days, getting nowhere, I would not put a whole lot of faith in that.”
“What kind of action would primary and secondary military strikes be considering?” Viens asked. “Who would be the rioter?”
“I don’t know. But now you’ve got me thinking the rocket could be a precipitating event somehow.”
“Or at least a participating event,” Viens suggested. “If it isn’t the trigger, it could be a distraction. Like a magician getting you to look the wrong way when he does a trick.”
“Possibly.”
“Well, it seems worth presenting to the new chief,” Viens said. He leaned closer. “How is she?”
“You haven’t had your audience yet?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Is that what it is? An audience?”
“When a grunt meets with a general, you don’t call that a meeting,” Herbert said. “We shook hands, but it might as well have been a salute.”
“Formal?”
“Rigid and commanding,” Herbert said. “I get the impression that until proven otherwise, we’re all grunts.”
“Without the job security,” Viens said.
“I think Madam Director wants to test our mettle under fire before she makes any decisions,” Herbert said.
“Madam Director,” Viens repeated. He chuckled anxiously. “You remind me of my grandfather Jacques.”
“How?”
“He used to tell me stories about the Reign of Terror and how the instrument of justice was called ‘Madame la Guillotine.’ It was a title of respectful fear, not genuine regard.”
“Let’s just hope your analogy is a bad one,” Herbert said. He was still looking at the photographs. “This is good, Stephen. I’m going to bounce these scenarios off Paul and Mike and see what they say.”
Viens lingered. “It sucks,” he said.
“What does?”
“We’ve got surveillance in space, we’ve finally got HUMINT resources in the target area, Op-Center is lean and focused and fully functional — and we’re worried about our future.”
“No. We’re
“Good point,” Viens said. “Well, I’m all thought out. I’ll keep an eye on the satellites and see what else they can tell us.”
The NRO liaison left, and Herbert tossed the pictures aside. He was frustrated, not just by the Chinese game plan but his own distraction with office politics. There was conflict and occasional drama under Hood, but that was easier to manage than not knowing where you — or the boss — stood.
It was the difference between democracy and tyranny.
It was the primary reason people rioted.
And it occurred to Herbert then, with a realization that chilled his neck, that General Carrie might only be the first wave of whatever was coming here.
FORTY-THREE
The People’s Liberation Army Naval Flight Unit was based at the Shanghai Dachang Airbase. Thirty-one- year-old Lieutenant Commander Fa Khan was proud to be here, though he knew that assignment to Dachang was considered less prestigious than deployment at the Shanghai Jiangwan facility.
The two airfields were neighbors. Their importance had nothing to do with proximity to the coastline or to the heart of Shanghai. Jiangwan received more funding and the newest aircraft and radar because of ancient family ties between key military officers and members of the government.
Prestige was much less important to the pilots of each base. They saluted one another whenever they flew close enough to have cockpit visual contact. To them, the pride was the shared honor of being the homeland’s first line of defense.
Dachang was a staging area for the PLANFU while Jiangwan was primarily used by the People’s Liberation Army Air Force. Fa Khan was an eleven-year veteran of the PLANFU and knew this as well: the sharpest fliers were stationed with him at Dachang, where the technical and logistical facilities were the weakest. Though that kept him from piloting the newest fighters like the J-13, with its stealth capabilities, Fa Khan and his squadron could nurse miraculous maneuvers from the aging MiG-21s at Dachang. As he once explained it to his father, who repaired automobiles in the city, pilots recognized every groan and hesitation, every burp in the engines or response time variance from the stick. The Dachang pilots knew just how to compensate and how to get the most from their machines. The MiG was flown by a man, not by a computer. It had been designed for quick and cheap construction, like the earliest biplanes. It was the ideal craft for an air force that wanted to throw overwhelming numbers at an enemy. That concept of war had been the Russian and Chinese mind-set for centuries. The MiG-21 was simply a mechanical expression of that tactic.
Besides, he had joined the PLANFU to fly, and he had achieved that goal. He experienced renewed joy each time he pushed himself into the sky. The takeoff and flights were never the same. Indeed, change was something very keenly felt by Fa Khan and his fellow fliers. The clouds changed from second to second, the colors changed from minute to minute, the air currents changed from hour to hour. The landscape below changed from day to day, and the political situation shifted from week to week. The preflight briefing indicated that there was tension with Taiwan now. In a few days it could be South Korea or Vietnam, Japan, or even the United States. These struggles always played out in the air or upon the sea to the east.
He was a part of all that, and he was also apart from it, like one of the gods of old China. He had insight into what was coming and the tools to affect it. He was also vulnerable to these events. The thrill was constant.
As long as all the gear worked, Fa Khan was happy. Not many men got to sit where he was. As he prepared to take off into a sun-drenched morning, he did what he did every day: he cherished his life and work.
Fa Khan’s patrol sector was Sector Seventeen. That took him northwest for 200 kilometers and then east 150 kilometers over the Yellow Sea. He returned via a southward course over the East China Sea, then east again in a long loop that brought him west to return to base. It was a 1,400-kilometer round trip, 200 kilometers within the MiG’s maximum range. If Fa Khan spotted uncharted sea traffic — smugglers were a primary target — or if he faced an engagement with the enemy, he would be able to meet them, hold them until reinforcements could arrive, and still return to base.
These patrols were vital to national security. China did not yet have the satellite capabilities of the United States, Russia, and their allies. That would begin to change later this morning with the launch from Xichang. If he was lucky, he might be in a position to spot the flames of the launch and the mighty contrail as the rocket sped into the heavens.
Lieutenant Commander Fa Khan had only been aloft for a few minutes, his heart still racing from the G forces he took during his sharp climb, when he received a coded communique from the tower. It was a series of five
