HER office was on the E Ring, considered the most prestigious. But she was on an upper floor, and the windows faced inward. All she could see was a wall, the offices of the next ring in, and the asphalted road between.
But since the war had started, Blair hadn’t had much time to enjoy views anyway.
She was wrapping a meeting with her staff, and getting the ominous feeling Plans and Policy was being outrun by events. A television in her outer office was on 24/7. The screen on her desk linked direct to the “War Room”—formally, the Alert Center for Intelligence Fusion in the National Operations and Intelligence Watch Officer Network. Every half hour, the watch officer came on for an update. Even on a fast day, she was at most only fifteen minutes behind the White House Situation Room.
“Overall, it reminds me of the defeat of the Qing in the Opium Wars,” one of her staffers was saying.
“The Opium Wars,” she said flatly.
He nodded. “From 1839 on. Britain and France attacked in south China to protect their sales of opium. Which Peking was trying to stop. Ultimately, they invaded. China was forced to accede to unequal treaties, and cede land to the colonial powers.”
“And this was a good idea?” she said. Humiliation often seemed like justice to the victors, but seemed rarely to lead to lasting peace. Reconstruction and Versailles, as examples. “All right, thanks for the update. Next issue—oculars?”
Another staffer unlimbered her tablet. “Ma’am. The enemy employed a vehicle-mounted pulsed ocular interruption system in Vietnam and Taiwan. The Army reports over four thousand troops blinded in Taiwan. We don’t have Vietnamese figures. A 50-kilowatt-class unit was captured south of Hanoi and shipped to ARL. R&E contracted with General Atomics, Electromagnetic Systems Group, to reverse-engineer it into a squad-based system. It’s completed tests and gone to contract award.”
Four thousand blinded … she blinked, and forced her mind back to specifics. “The contract? And how soon can we field these systems?”
“Three hundred million with options up to nine hundred million, for fifty systems initial buy. First delivery in two months.”
Two and a quarter million each, to blind enemy soldiers. She massaged her forehead. “Don’t we issue some kind of goggles, something to protect the troops?”
The staffer said the Marines had fielded a cumbersome system adapted from a German welding mask, but the British had come up with a better one, polycarbonates coated with a dye that absorbed light in certain wavelengths. “They can be tuned for the precise frequencies the enemy system uses. It’s effective, but at night it’s like wearing sunglasses. And that’s when the Chinese have been beaming our troops.”
“We need something better, then. Ping DARPA, see if it’s on their agenda. Anything else?”
They shook their heads. She nodded and thanked them. Her people flipped binders closed, slid tablets into briefcases. She waited until her door closed. Then shut her eyes and sank back into the padded chair with a sigh. Four thousand blinded … over fifty thousand Allied casualties taking back Taiwan, with no count at all yet on civilian deaths and woundings. Thirty thousand dead and wounded so far for the invasion of Hainan. A national debt so high it was a state secret.
The cost of war. And what had this one started over? Hardly anyone remembered now. A terror attack in Mumbai. Or had it been the shootdowns of satellites? Then Zhang’s invasion of Taiwan. Like a greased slide downhill, rather than the single blazing jolt of Sumter or Pearl Harbor or 9/11. Some said it had been inevitable, the predestined conflict of a rising power with a legacy one. A clash as old as Athenians versus Spartans, as described by Thucydides.
But just now, there might be a lull. A hiatus as the scales vibrated, so delicately balanced a breath could disturb them.
“Dr. Titus? Call for you. From Europe.”
Probably the Swedish defense ministry. They were worried about Russia again. Indications seemed to foreshadow some kind of military move. From time to time someone would call her, either from their Defense Commission or Parliament, and try to find out what the Americian reaction would be if the Russians came across the border. Or, more generally, asking about “coordinating defense plans,” which amounted to the same thing. Each time she told them that if they wanted joint planning, they’d have to bite the bullet and join NATO. The EU Defense Community was great, but if they wanted security, NATO was where they wanted to be. Article Five would protect them. The EU might not.
What she left unsaid were her own doubts about how much the US could help in Europe, given that ninety percent of American forces were already engaged or on-call in theater in case the Hainan invasion turned into a disaster.
She picked up the phone. “Blair Titus.”
“Blair. Liz McManus here.”
She glanced at her door. Still closed, but she turned her chair away from it and the window anyway. “Um, Liz. Hello. What time is it in Dublin?”
“I’m actually in Tangier at the moment, but I wanted to let you know, your friends from Zurich want to talk again.”
“Friends from Zurich” would be the Chinese. She glanced at the door again. “Um, I don’t know how we could—”
“They’re willing to undertake more substantive discussions. Would your Dr. Petrarka be available to talk?”
She hesitated, confused. There was no “Dr. Petrarka.” Then she realized who they meant.
General Ricardo Petrarca Vincenzo.
“I think, um, Dr. Petrarka would be open to … a conversation,” she said cautiously. “When would they like to call?”
“As soon as possible.”
“It will take a little time to set up.” She had Vincenzo on her cell, but maybe it wouldn’t be smart to give it out over the phone. “Can I have a number?”
McManus supplied one, but said again that they wanted a swift response. Blair said she couldn’t promise anything but would try. They chatted for fifteen more seconds, then McManus rang off.
Blair stared down at the phone, then hung up slowly. She looked at her cell again. Then thumbed up the contact for the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
VINCENZO was in the J-3 spaces. Yes, he could make himself available to take an important call. She wondered, as she walked the corridors toward the NMCC, why the Chinese had decided to approach via the US military. But the question answered itself. The clique trying to negotiate were military themselves. This was a generals’ revolt. Though the deputy minister for foreign affairs seemed to be involved too.
Reaching out must take brass balls, as Dan would have said. Zhang had ordered generals shot for much less.
Regardless, this was a huge development. She just had to make sure it didn’t get derailed somehow.
Vincenzo was in short-sleeved greens. When he threw a beefy arm over Blair’s shoulders his breath smelled of Tic-Tacs. “A huddle. Okay, what’s going on?”
As she explained in terse sentences his eyes narrowed. “You’ve been doing this offstage? Who else knows? SecDef? CIA?”
“The national security advisor’s in the picture. State knows a little. No one else.”
“Not SecDef?”
“Not that I know of. It was important to—”
“I get it. The fewer ears, the fewer leaks.” He drew back and regarded her quizzically. “But it could’ve been risky for you. Could still be, actually.”
“I had to take the chance.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
A colonel stuck his head in. “General? Call for you. From Zambia.”
They exchanged glances. “Zambia?” Vincenzo muttered. “What the—”
“—Sorry, sir; correction; from the embassy of Zambia in Beijing.”
A DIA officer spoke up. “China has significant investments in Zambia, General. A special trade and economic cooperation zone.”
“They’re using an embassy phone. From a friendly ambassador,” Blair said. “To avoid the official networks.”
The stocky general stood immobile for at least four seconds, frowning down at his hands. He glanced at the clock, then headed for the door. “In the annex,” he snapped. “I’ll take it in the MOLINK room. Get the translators. The J-2. The congressional liaison. Get the command historian in here too.”
“We may not need translators,” Blair told him. “If it’s the contact I talked to, he speaks good English.”
“I’d rather have the backup. Just in case. And yeah, get the JAG in on this too.” He rounded on the astonished staffers. His shout “Let’s go, people!” sent them into a flurry of activity.
The Moscow Link room was a walled-off cubicle with a table, one chair, and a dedicated computer for the old DC–Moscow hotline. One whole wall was stacked with bulging red-striped burn bags. Obviously, its main function these days was storage. A colonel said anxiously, “Shouldn’t we call the White House, General? If they—”
Vincenzo hand-chopped him into silence. “I don’t have anything to tell NCA yet. Let’s see what they want first. But yeah, call the duty officer at the Sit Room and ask him—or her—to stand by.” The colonel stood back after fussily centering a phone on the table. “This isn’t a covered circuit, is it?” the general asked, grabbing the single chair.
“No sir. UNCLAS mode.”
“Can we record this?”
“Already set up, General.”
Vincenzo studied the phone, then the wall clock. He glanced around at the others crowding into the room. “Clear out,” he snapped. “Ms. Titus, DIA, J-2, and JAG when she gets here. Everybody else, vamoose. And close that fucking door!”
When the chairman pressed a button for speakerphone the labored breathing of whoever was on the other end filled the little room.
“General Ricardo Petrarca Vincenzo here,” Vincenzo said, enunciating clearly and speaking slowly.
A heavy deliberate voice came on the line. “This is Deputy Minister Chen Jialuo.”
Vincenzo shot Blair a raised eyebrow. Shielding her mouth, she whispered, “The principal to the UN conference. We had a shouting match with him in Dublin. He ignored us in Zurich. Sent a junior guy to talk to me. But I think he’s who we’re dealing with. Or the channel to them, anyway.”
Vincenzo nodded. A woman came in, looked around, and leaned against the wall. Air Force blues, with the silver-scales-and-laurel-wreath insignia of the Judge Advocate General Corps on her chest. “A reachout from China,” the chairman told her, covering the mouthpiece. Then said into the phone, “Good morning, Deputy Minister. How can I help you?”
“Chairman Zhang has asked me to gain some idea of mutually acceptable terms.”
Blair suppressed a gasp. Maybe she’d been wrong all along, about Yun fronting a resistance faction. Maybe he represented Zhang himself. But in the next moment she realized that couldn’t be right. If so, why was he calling from a foreign embassy? Keeping this conversation from the rest of the governmental apparatus? Something wasn’t kosher here.
Vincenzo glanced at the JAG rep, who shook her head, frowning.
He said slowly, “This is General Vincenzo. I certainly do not want to be negative, sir. We would welcome any chance to talk. But shouldn’t such an approach be made through diplomatic channels? Rather than the Joint Chiefs. We try to keep military and political separate here.”
Blair noticed the gleam of perspiration on Vincenzo’s thick neck. The strain had to be terrific. One wrong word could derail the exchange. Extend the war. Cost hundreds of thousands more lives.
The lawyer was scribbling on a scratch pad. She shoved it in front of him. He frowned and nodded curtly. Pushed it away.
“Deputy Minister Chen here. Yes, I understand unorthodox way to contact. But necessary. China will never surrender. Invade, and you will lose millions of troops. Your country is riven by strife. Rioting. You cannot continue this war much longer. Again, what terms?”
Vincenzo took a slow deep breath; his shoulders rose and fell. But his voice remained steady. “Sir, your country is bleeding too. Allied terms were set out by the Jakarta Declaration. I have no authority to modify it. If I may, I would like to transfer this call to the White House.”
The other’s tone turned dire. “We wish to stop suffering on both sides. Chairman is reaching out to you, General. I would not reject his overture.”
“This is not a rejection, sir.”
“Then let us know what terms we can settle on.”
“I would rather have you propose them, sir.” Vincenzo shot Blair a look. Questioning, or uncertain?
She tried for an encouraging smile. “That’s good. Keep him talking,” she whispered as two more men stepped in. A junior officer followed, toting folding chairs which she snapped open across from where Vincenzo sat hunched over the phone.
“We have discussed acceptable terms with Dr. Titus. Is she there with you?”
Vincenzo glanced at her. “Yes, she is.” His contracted frown asking: What the hell did you agree to, Blair? She shook her head furiously. Spread her hands and whispered, “I agreed to nothing. Just listened to what they had to say.”
Chen spoke again. “I have General Pei and Admiral Lianfeng here. We are entering fourth year of this war. We have given proof of our indestructible strength. So have you. But at enormous cost.
“Therefore, we propose an armistice. All territory conquered on either side, to be returned. All China’s territories to which we have historical rights, you must cede back. A return to the status quo ante bellum.”
Blair and Ricardo exchanged glances. Pei had commanded on Taiwan, but escaped before the island’s fall. Lianfeng was China’s naval chief of staff. If this feeler was being undertaken behind Zhang’s back, it was from the highest level of the military establishment.
The J-2, the intel officer, leaned down to murmur in Vincenzo’s ear. The general batted him away. “Please convey my greetings. However, those terms are not acceptable,” he said into the phone, and a droplet of sweat rolled down his neck into his collar. “Your ally Korea has succumbed to our forces. We are firmly established on Hainan and preparing to take Hong Kong. It is time for you to capitulate.”
Silence on the other end of the line. More heavy breathing. Then another voice, deeper, broke in, speaking in rapid Chinese.
“He says, the People’s Empire will never surrender,” the interpreter said. “You will regret not … uh, not accepting this extended hand of peace.”
Vincenzo twiddled his fingers. The J-2 handed him a pen. He jotted on the scratch pad, signed it, and shoved it over. Blair caught a glimpse. It read SACOM: DEFCON One Charlie. The staffer cleared his throat, scanning it, then rushed out.
She shivered. Despite the bodies crowded into it, the temperature in the little room seemed to have fallen twenty degrees. Was this how the world ended? And what was One Charlie? The nuclear first strike Szernci had described? She put a hand on Vincenzo’s shoulder. He clasped his free one over it, as if grateful for the reassurance. So she bent and murmured, “Keep him talking, Ricardo. At any cost, keep him on the line.”
But the legal rep was muttering too, from Vincenzo’s left. “You need to kick this upstairs, General. End the conversation! Tell them the White House will call back.”
Vincenzo said levelly, ignoring her, “Sir, let me make clear that I welcome this initiative. We are open to the idea of an armistice. The United States, the Allies, would be glad to pause hostilities.
“But this decision is not a matter for generals. It’s time to involve our president.” He gestured to the interpreter. “Tell him we’ll have the White House call back. Immediately. Will that be all right?”
The conversation shifted to Chinese. Blair hugged herself, afraid to breathe. The clock on the wall jerked steadily forward. More people kept crowding into the room, until Vincenzo angrily hissed, “Nonessential personnel, get the fuck out.”
A subdued hubbub bled in from outside each time the door opened. She glanced through the crack into the command center. A throng hovered there, looking somber and frightened, though a few countenances seemed to glow with nervous hope. Sort of how she felt right now … if only they didn’t drop the ball … but DEFCON One Charlie … and what about the Russians? They’d facilitated the contact, maybe pushed the Chinese toward making the call, but had their own irons in the fire.
She didn’t know what to think, or how to feel. Only that the world seemed to have suspended its breath. And that she herself found it hard to keep on breathing.
The interpreter held up a hand. All their gazes shifted to her. “Sir, they are agreeing to talks with the White House,” she said.
“And the armistice?” Vincenzo said.
“No armistice until an agreement is reached. Sorry, sir. I—”
“That’s okay. I understand.” He leaned toward the phone again. “Deputy Minister? Are you still on the line?”
“I am, General.”
“I understand we have a path forward. The White House will call you back. At this number?”
“We will wait for the call. But cannot do so for long. Events move without us. The call must come soon.”
Vincenzo nodded to the colonel who’d set up the room. “Sit Room on the line?”
“Yes, sir, and they’re getting the chief of staff there. Mrs. Madhurika.”
Vincenzo said, “Deputy Minister: You’ll hear back within minutes. Thank you for reaching out. It’s time we went forward together.”
“I hope so as well. Goodbye, General.”
“Goodbye, Deputy Minister. General. Admiral. Goodbye.”
The chairman hung up, the handset rattling just a bit as he did. For a second no one spoke.
Then he glared around. “No one discusses this outside these rooms. Is that clear? The White House makes the next move. This was just preliminary. Setting up the call. I said, is that understood?”
Reluctantly, they all nodded. Blair did too.
Vincenzo got up and stretched. He patted her arm. Gave her a tired smile. “Let’s hope this works out. No. Let’s pray it does.”
She nodded, unable to reply. And sank into a chair as soon as he left.
SHE was back in her office that night, unwilling to leave the building, when the Sit Room logo flashed on her official screen. She sat up straight, suddenly quickened with hope. This could be it. The armistice, put out to the government before the public announcement. Tonight crowds would celebrate in Times Square, in every city and hamlet in America. Would they call it V-C day?
Instead the logo dissolved to a map. “From national reconnaissance assets. Troops and armored forces of the Russian Federation have crossed the northern Chinese border at three points. This is a major movement. It was possibly rehearsed in advance by the Vostok operational-strategic exercises Russia conducted last year.
“Seven army brigades, along with airborne troops and tactical air forces, took part in that joint exercise, staged by the Far Eastern and Siberian Military Districts. This incursion is on an even larger scale. Chinese forces are falling back. DIA estimates they were denuded of advanced weapons and drawn down in numbers in response to the Allied offensives in the east and south, as well as internal unrest in Xianjiang and Tibet.
“Stand by…”
The map vanished, replaced by an Air Force officer’s face. He looked harried. “Moscow has just announced they are joining the Allies in bringing peace to Asia. Um, ‘responding to Chinese aggression in the Blagoveshchensk region.’ But we’ve seen so evidence yet of what they’re referring to.”
Blair watched, disoriented at first, then suddenly comprehending.
The Russians wanted their money. But the White House had refused to guarantee their loans as part of the armistice deal. So their way of insuring they would be paid back had been to join the Allies. Demand a seat at the peace table, and insist on repayment there.
They’d stood aside as long as they could profit, waiting to see who would emerge as the victor. Now that the Opposed Powers were weakening, it was time to join the winning side.
Cold-blooded.
Machiavellian.
But perfectly rational, in the ruthless logic of great-power chess.
The Sit Room was still on the screen. The map came up again, updated. More Russian units were being identified. Their forces were advancing. Air strikes were taking out Chinese airfields.
This was a major attack. No, an invasion. Designed to gain land, eat territory, carve out China’s northern heart. So it could be sold back later at a terrible price.
Events were sliding, tumbling. The whole planet shifting under their feet.
Her phone rang, startling her. Her secretary had gone home long ago. She looked at the ID. From Stanford, California. She picked up. “Kevin?”
“Blair.” Glancey sounded desperate. “Are you watching this?”
So the Sit Room was only thirty seconds behind cable news. “About Russia’s entry into the war? I just heard. It’s a stab in the back, considering they were sort-of allies with Zhang. But still, with us attacking from the south, the Russians from the north, that means the war’s over.” She debated telling him about the call to Vincenzo, but couldn’t discuss it on an open line. “Maybe things will all turn out okay,” she said cautiously.
“That’s what I’m calling about. The revolt.”
She blinked, taken aback. “The … what revolt?”
“You’re not watching? Fox, BBC? There’s been a coup in Beijing. Hard-line elements. It’s confused. But no one knows what’s going on. And that’s not good.”
“No, it isn’t.” She felt whiplashed, a sense of doom overtaking what had a moment before been hope.
“If Zhang’s being overthrown, he’s already told us what he’ll do. He’ll issue the orders. Some of the rocket forces will obey and launch. Even if he doesn’t, I’ve studied their command and control structures. They’re not as centralized as ours. They don’t have PAL links on their warheads, and we cyber-degraded their automated command and control. Meaning, they’ll have reverted to manual. Which means—”
“Which means individual theater commanders can launch,” she murmured, and the fear grew until she bit her lip to stem rising panic. “What can we do, Kev? You’re the expert on war termination. Help us.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know! There’s no template. No precedent. Maybe what Ed was saying is the only way left—”
She squeezed her eyes closed. A first strike, with the biggest thermonuclear warheads ever mounted. Earth Penetrators, to shake down mountains. That was the horror Szerenci had designed for the last act of this tragedy.
But no strike, massive as it might be, could take out everything.
She groped for words to reassure the frightened voice on the other end of the line. But nothing came to mind. Nothing she could say. Nothing she could do.
He was still talking when she hung up, and lowered her head into her shaking hands.