THE store was as crowded as if it was Black Friday. Shoppers pushed loaded carts, looking harried and desperate. Queekie Titus’s motorized chair whined ahead, wobbling down the baking-supply aisle. Blair’s mother wielded her little silver laser like a fairy queen’s wand, pointing the beam at what she wanted, and clicking the red vibrating spot to signal the number of units. Blair trailed her on foot, pulling things down into her quickly filling cart. The last one left; it was crippled with a squeaky, nutating wheel that locked and skidded, constantly jerking her to one side.
“Walnuts, they’ll keep, five pounds. Sugar, that’s going fast, get ten pounds. Not that brand, Blair. General Sugar. We should ask the Holders for a contribution to your campaign, honey. King Arthur Flour. Baking powder. Yeast.”
They were in a Harris Teeter not far from her parents’ home. Queekie had insisted they go, citing what her mother had told her about rationing in World War II. Her dad was at Sears buying oil, transmission fluid, wiper blades, plugs, and spare tires.
As they were leaving the big house, he’d taken her aside, dropped something heavy into her purse, and snapped it closed. “Take care of your mom,” he’d muttered. “She tires easy these days. Keep her off her feet.”
“Checkie … what the hell was that?”
“Your .38. The one I bought you.”
“Good Lord. It’s not loaded, is it?”
“Damn straight it is. All that cash you’re carrying? The Galens’ daughter got robbed on the street. Broad daylight. The lowlifes know people are carrying real money again.… Remember what I said. But get whatever she says we need.”
Now the red spot searched trembling along rows of cans. “Condensed milk, grab a dozen … no … take all that’s left. Cocoa powder. Baking chocolate. Raisins, the golden ones. All right, let’s do meats next.”
Blair’s cell went off as she rounded the turn, into a jam-packed aisle. For a moment she couldn’t identify the ring tone. People were clawing down the last cans of Spam and tuna and corned beef and canned chicken. The store manager was waving her hands, stuttering as she explained to a growling ring of red-faced housewives that yes, everything in the store was out on the shelves. A siren howled outside, and the women quieted for a moment, then turned back to their surrounded, sweating scapegoat. The manager shook off the beseeching hands. “Shut up. Shut up! Yes, everything’s marked up. Fifty percent. It wasn’t my decision! Higher management! Cash only. No checks. I’ll close this store, I swear I will—”
A heavyset woman in a track suit growled, “Just try to close, bitch. We’ll break the windows and take what we want.”
Blair considered trying to make peace, but decided to finish shopping before the manager made good on her threat. She followed her mother’s whirring whine down the paper goods aisle while trying to answer her cell. The first call in days; maybe the network was coming back. Dan? But the number said it wasn’t. A 410 number, local. “Blair here,” she said, shielding the phone from the pandemonium with a cupped hand.
It was her campaign manager, Jessica. “Blair, where are you? What’s all that screaming?”
“At the grocery. They’re cleaning the place out.”
“Yeah, my husband’s out buying stuff too. Can you talk? I’m here with the guy from the billboard company. Clear Channel. He’s telling me, we buy twelve, we get a break.”
“We want twenty at the price of twelve. And they all have to go up by the end of the week.”
A pause, then, “He’s not liking that.”
“Tough shit, Jessica. Nobody else is buying. He’s going to have blank billboards if he doesn’t work with us. Tell him that. ’Bye.”
Her mother was grabbing her hand, moaning. “Oh God, Blair—the toilet paper’s all gone. My mother said there was never any during the war. They had to use newspapers—”
“Some wet wipes—” No, those shelves were empty too.
They loaded up with Bounty paper towels instead. Her mom powered her chair, motors whining, toward the beer aisle next. “Some of that brown ale your stepdad likes. And maybe some dry whites—”
But their way was blocked by carts being loaded. The smell of fermented yeast filled the air. Glass littered the tile. Burly men stood with arms folded, blocking Blair’s way, as other tattooed men emptied the refrigerated section. “All taken, blondie,” one growled at her.
“We just need a couple of those brown ales—”
“All taken, lady. Sorry.” He shrugged, and swigged from his can of Bud.
Again she debated making a scene; again, thought better of it. Congressional candidate arrested in fracas at grocery store. Queekie made a dash for the pet food aisle, but Blair headed her off. “Get in line at the checkout, Mom. I’ll get the Purina.”
“And food for your cat. Don’t forget your cat. Jimbo won’t eat the dry—”
“I won’t. Relax, Mother.” She tucked the last two battered boxes of off-brand laundry detergent under her arm. “You’ve got the money, right? You didn’t leave it in the car?”
Age-spotted hands clutched a purse. “Right here. Hurry, Blair. Things are getting ugly. And we need to go to Walgreens, get our prescriptions refilled.”
A security guard stood by the checkout line, fingering a holstered Taser as women pushed and shoved, ramming carts, wedging them ahead of one another. A slow, bitter struggle, fought with all the determination of Antietam. But they made their way ahead, inch by inch.
They were almost at the register when the lights went out. The conveyor whirred to a halt. Silence flooded in from wherever the hum of refrigerators and the unnoticed background music had penned it. An excited gabble rose.
“We’re going to have to close,” the manager announced over the din. “I’m sorry, but please cooperate. We’ll open again as soon as we have power back.”
The hubbub died down. But only for a moment. Then, into the appalled hush, one raw-edged voice broke. Outraged. Strident. “You don’t need them registers. You said, cash only. Here it is. Take it!” Hands waved fistfuls of bills, pulled from purses, pockets, billfolds.
The manager shrank back, exchanging terrified glances with the checkout clerks. “I can’t, we don’t have any way to … We’re closing. That’s final.”
Another voice yelled, “Hell with this. We’re takin’ out what we bought.”
“Shit yeah.”
“We offered to buy it. You don’t want to take our money—”
The burly men with the carts piled with beer, ale, wine, were circling the guard, glaring him down. He hesitated, hand on his stun weapon, looking to the manager. Then backed away. Held up both hands. “Don’t want no trouble,” he said.
The queue broke, men and women pushing and shoving. They grabbed the counter displays bare, then kicked them over. The burly men went for the cash in the register. Candy and convenience items skittered across the tile. Queekie screamed and clung to Blair, who bent over her, cradling her mother’s blue-haired head. Other customers, thronging in from outside, began looting the fruits and vegetables.
Falling glass crashed in the manager’s office, followed by a throat-ripping scream. “Let’s get out of here,” Blair shouted, clutching her purse. She groped for the revolver, but it was hooked on something, snagged in the silk lining at the bottom. The people thronging inside were beginning to loot the carts of those going out, and men and women shouted in one another’s faces, exchanged clumsy punches, wrestling over yellow cans of Chock Full o’ Nuts, tearing apart Wonder loaves, snatching cans of tinned salmon.
Her mother aimed her chair at the doors and hit the yellow button on the handle. The motors whined as she bulldozed through the melee, knocking a fat woman down. Muttering apologies, Blair pushed her own crippled, wobbling cart rapidly after her, elbowing off jackals until they reached the lot, where torn packaging and broken glass littered the asphalt. A siren wailed and she tensed—they hadn’t paid, no more than had the brawling others—but it was a fire truck, speeding past on the main road.
“Are we looters now, honey?” her mother muttered distractedly, smoothing down disheveled hair. “Is that what the world is coming to?”
Hitting the hatch button for the Subaru, Blair looked back over the trash-strewn pavement, at the horde streaming out of the grocery. Along the mall other storefronts were smashing outward in crystalline explosions, boiling with people who leaped or lunged through, lugging boxes and cartons. Some had blood streaming down their faces. “I guess so, Mom. Get in, all right? We’d better get out of here.”
* * *
SHE had to be back in DC that afternoon. But her tank was empty. Home again, her mother and the groceries unloaded and put away, she talked her stepfather out of a five-gallon can he’d squirreled away for the lawn tractor. “You’re going to have to replace it,” he warned her, gurgling it into her sedan through a funnel. “Go to a military base. I hear they still have gas. If they have transmission fluid, get some of that, too. Sears was out, NAPA was out—”
“I don’t have a … wait a minute. I guess I do.” She’d never really had a use for the dependent’s ID they’d issued her as a Navy wife. “I’ll … try, Dad.”
The Bay Bridge was nearly deserted. The E-Z Pass booths were closed. Cops waved her through. Amazing, how dependent the economy had become on the Web. Without connectivity, commerce had returned to cash on the barrelhead. The valuations of huge firms, worth billions weeks before, had dropped to zero. Except for occasional interruptions, the massive blackouts that had rolled over the West Coast and the heartland seemed to have missed the older, more densely knitted networks of Maryland and Virginia. But she couldn’t help dreading what the outages must mean to the defense industries. Aircraft. Missiles. Drones. Those plants were almost all out west.
Rolling on down a nearly empty Route 50, she listened to NPR discussing the cyberattacks that had taken down cable networks, commercial air traffic control, and the Cloud. For decades, experts had predicted that doom would come in the form of nuclear weapons. Or, failing that, biologicals. But instead of mushroom clouds or the plague, Americans faced blank screens. Silent power stations. Dead phones, and no e-mail. A sobering return to 1950, for a lot of people who’d never in their lives written a paper check, mailed a letter, or read a newspaper. On the radio, a Homeland Security official was saying not all the attacks carried Chinese fingerprints, but enough did that it was clear what was happening. “We thought we were ready. We thought we had protection, firewalls, compartmentation. But every system they attacked, they’ve penetrated.”
“Are we striking back?” Diane Rehm pressed.
“I can confirm that we are. Beyond that, I can’t comment.”
“You can’t because we aren’t,” Blair told the radio. Every attempt by Congress to police the private sector, even get them to share information about cyberattacks, had been defeated by an unholy alliance of industry lobbyists and NSA-haters. Americans had believed their government was spying on every e-mail, every cell conversation. Not only that, but “countervalue cyberwar,” as it was called at DoD, was illegal under international treaty … so the U.S. had been restricted to defensive measures. There were probably contingency plans for taking down an enemy’s military networks, but that would be all.
Unless, of course, some secret order had been issued. Which, with this administration, wouldn’t surprise her.
The next segment was from Taipei, man-on-the-streets about how the confrontation with the mainland was affecting life there. An interview in a noodle shop. At a shrine. With an academic, who’d spent his life studying the PRC-Taiwan relationship. Turning up the volume, she listened carefully, brow furrowed.
* * *
JESSICA Kirschorn had come highly recommended. “The best,” everyone said. “Young. Hungry. Smart. You want to win, hire her.” But facing her across the table at the Silver Diner, Blair had to admit that the principal at Kirschorn Associates didn’t look the part. Corkscrewed ringlets of lavender-dyed hair cascaded onto a soft-looking pink sweater. Rocket-and-planet earrings dangled from multiple piercings. Her nose, too, sported several perforations, each marked with a silver ball. Her makeup was heavy on the purple and black. They discussed the service on the Metro, which Kirschorn had taken in, and ordered—avocado turkey burgers. Then Kirschorn flipped open a binder. “Know you’re busy, but we gotta cover several issues. The campaign’s up and running, but we need to discuss strategy. First, the voter aspects. Then I’ll go over fundraising, advertising, and message development. Finally, we need to talk about your debate schedule. Okay, before I start, anything on your mind?”
“Just that I don’t think I’ll have much spare time.”
A flash of widened green eyes. The same trick, Blair reflected, she herself used to convey that she was giving someone her full attention. “Ms. Titus, you can’t phone in a campaign these days. Unless you’re, like, a six-term incumbent. Beiderbaum’s showing unexpected strength. This will not be a shoo-in.”
“I know that, I’m sorry.… What have you got for me?”
Kirschorn started with the “ground game,” as she called it: how she and her assistants, along with the local party, were targeting voters, where the databases came from, how the door-to-door, phone, and direct-mail canvassing was going. “In general, voters are reacting with interest, but also with a level of anxiety I’ve never seen before.”
“No wonder.” Blair told her about the riot at the mall. “Full-blown looting. The police arrived just as we were leaving. But I know what you mean. When people can’t access their accounts, they can’t buy food. Or pay bills. When they can’t buy gas, they can’t drive to work. And when the power goes out too—”
“They panic.” Kirschorn bit voraciously into her burger. Chewed.
“Correct.”
“Oh yeah … We picked up a volunteer who says she knows you. A marine, I believe. Wants in. Margaret Shingler? Sound familiar?”
Blair’s heart sank. “Um, yes. She’s … well organized.”
“Seems devoted to you.”
“Maybe too much so.”
“Oh.” Kirschorn widened her eyes again. “Don’t tell me any more.”
“There isn’t any more. She was my aide at DoD. That’s all.”
“Well, that’s good … we can play to this, Blair. A ten-second ad targeting that free-floating fear. Tying the war to the administration, and painting Beiderbaum as a tool of the president. A warmonger.”
Blair touched her ear, then forced her hand away to the sweet potato fries. “I’m not coming out against the war. I told you that. This president’s as big an idiot as they say, but I don’t believe it’s in our best interest to show weakness now. Not to the Zhang regime.”
“It closes off a good avenue of attack.”
“Nevertheless, I don’t want to go there,” Blair said again, more firmly this time.
Kirschorn made a note. “Okay, but you’re taking away my ammo—”
How many times did this woman need to hear no? “No, I said!”
The girl shrugged, the mauve curls bouncing. “I getcha. But in that case, I’m gonna propose something you may not like.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your opponent came out last year. Out of the closet, I mean. But Beiderbaum’s party base isn’t exactly gay-friendly. It’d have to be done with a light touch. Maybe by someone else, not you. But there’s yardage to be gained.”
Blair loathed football metaphors, but they seemed as unavoidable in politics as in the military. “You’re right, I don’t feel good about it. How would we approach that, without losing votes on our own side?”
“The spin? That’s easy. As a state legislator, he voted against gay marriage. Four times. At the least, that shows he’s untrustworthy.”
“That was years ago, right? The numbers were against it then. He was just voting his constituency.”
Kirschorn blinked, regarding her over her burger as if encountering some alien life-form. “Blair? We don’t have to believe any of this. These are his weak points. You don’t think, any dirt he can dig up on you, or even make up, he’s not gonna use it? We peel five percent of his base away on any of these issues, you win.”
Blair picked at her fries. The meat in the burger looked underdone, revolting. Her hip hurt. She checked her watch. She needed to wrap this up and get over to SAIC. Maybe the kid was right. She said reluctantly, “See what you can develop. But I want approval before we release it.”
“Thatsa girl.” Kirschorn grinned. “Okay, next. Your debates. Everybody I know is cutting them. People aren’t going to drive to see them. We can do a radio thing.”
“We had a commitment. At the junior college.”
“We had four commitments. I recommend canceling them all.”
“I promised Heather at the League we’d make it.”
“Unpromise her.”
Blair threw down her napkin. “Jessica, let’s get something straight. You’re my manager. But I’m still the candidate. I don’t want to have to tell you everything three times to make it stick. I believe we have to win this war. Or at least, fight. And I’m going to do a debate at the community college! Set it up with Beiderbaum’s people.”
Kirschorn tilted her head. The rockets tinkled to a microscopic shrug. “You da boss. But if you want my advice, Blair, better get a lot more flexible, if you really want to win this thing.”
* * *
THE headquarters was in Tysons Corner, on Leesburg Pike. Fourteen floors of colorless concrete, with the white-and-blue corporate logo out front. She turned into the garage, found her spot, slipped on her heels, and clicked toward the elevator.
In the twenty-first century, with the exception of the Congressional Research Service, the U.S. government did little policy research. Science Applications International was one of the largest and most influential think tanks. Founded during the Nixon administration, it specialized in analysis and recommendations to policymakers, mainly in defense, intelligence, homeland security, and energy. A lot went on in the building she didn’t know about—it was huge, and there were scores of satellite offices around the world—but she knew the company as almost a shadow government.
Seen in retrospect, this hadn’t been an unremarkable step in her career. From the staff of the CRS, to adviser to Bankey Talmadge; eventually, adviser to the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. The last president had met her at a speech to the National Guard Association, invited her to serve on his transition team, then appointed her undersecretary of defense for personnel and readiness. But then they’d lost the election.
She’d been at home, in Maryland, sleeping late. Queekie had brought in the phone. “This sounds important,” she’d said.
“Oh, hi. Blair? Chagall Henri here. We worked together on Albania. On their force restructuring?”
Blair had blinked, trying to keep from sounding sleepy. “Oh … Hello, Shaggy. Yes, of course I … I remember you. RAND, right?”
“Close. SAIC.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“That’s all right. Hope you don’t mind me calling. Bill Galina mentioned you might be looking for a position. Until the next election.”
He mentioned a number that made her stifle a gasp. Three times what she’d been making as undersecretary.
“Plus fringes, and a percentage of any contracts you bring in. Are you there, Blair?”
“Oh yes, sorry … Chagall … I’m right here.” She sipped water. “That’s a generous offer. Though I really am not actively looking, but … what precisely did you have in mind?”
“Well, Blair, as you know, unlike some of the other folks in the field—Cato, Heritage, Center for Progress—we’ve always been nonpolitical. Or maybe a better word, bipartisan. The most effective solutions, regardless of party. You struck me as one of the more pragmatic, knowledgeable people I’ve worked with.
“Think you’d like to come in, see what we’re doing? You’d be advising on the highest-level issues. Most of the folks who cover these areas, here, came from senior positions—the Hill, the Joint Chiefs, the White House. We could really use someone who has her fingers in personnel and readiness policy. There’s a manpower crunch coming our way. We have to figure out how to meet it. Without going to the draft, which we’re hearing is a possibility, and you have a background in technology development, too.”
“They can’t be serious. It’d take months even to scrub down the rosters—”
“See, that’s why we need you. We have plenty of generals, retired congressmen, but nobody who can put their finger on recruitment through retirement, force levels, skill sets, expansion. We’d start you as a business unit general manager. In a year or two, we can discuss a vice presidency. And think about anybody you’d like to bring with you.”
The road led the other way, too. People went from SAIC to principal undersecretaries, secretaries of the services, other senior positions. A motorized revolving door between it and the government proper.
“Give me a week or two, Shaggy,” she’d said at last. “I’ll come in, and we’ll talk.”
* * *
THE typical meeting room, though larger than she’d expected, with a three-color projector jutting from the overhead and a staffer fussing with a laptop. Two dozen attendees, by the time a uniformed guard drew the doors closed. Blair found a chair that reclined, so she could ease her hip; sitting for long periods quickly became excruciating.
They went around the table, introducing themselves. A lot of heavy hitters, including a retired chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. The only other woman besides Blair was a smooth-faced, petite Asian of perhaps a well-preserved sixty, with short, blunt-cut black hair. She wore a tailored blue suit and heavy gold bracelets and earrings. Blair knew most of them by reputation, and had met many with Talmadge or during her time at the Pentagon. There were generals, of course, and intelligence analysts. Foreign Service experts, a political science professor from Stanford, and executives from Boeing and Google. The last-named was younger than the rest and seemed nervous, fiddling with his cell. She leaned over and whispered, “You need to turn that off during classified briefings.”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s not working, anyway. My first time at one of these things.”
A small, balding, gray-suited man stood, taking charge with a glance around the room. He supported himself with a cane. “Good afternoon. I’m Haverford Tomlin. Some of you know me as the former head of StratCom—Strategic Command. Up to now, I’ve been working with the targeting folks, but I’ve been asked to chair this committee as well.
“Today we’re discussing an emergent tasking for SAIC Strategic Plans and Policy Division. Of course, our discussions here, and even what we’re discussing, will be top secret, special access. That includes any notes you may take, which will stay here. Along with the Air Force, we’ll be working with StratCom, the Joint Chiefs J-5 shop, the policy shop—maybe some interaction with the operational shop, too. But as you can imagine, they’re tied up with current developments right now. Our job is to look further ahead.
“But first, a history lesson.”
A slide, in old-fashioned Courier font, headed WAR PLAN ORANGE in all caps and underlined. “In 1941, we had a clear plan as to how we’d win the next war.” The next slide showed arrows marching across the Pacific. But the photo after that showed burning battleships. Columns of smoke. Rows of wrecked, shot-up bombers. “God laughed. We lost most of the Army Air Forces and the Pacific Fleet in the Philippines and at Pearl Harbor. It took months to decide on a new strategy”—more arrows, curving this time, and flashes indicating battles—“and years to regenerate forces to implement it. Meanwhile, thousands of Americans suffered and died in prison camps when we had to leave them behind.
“We’d like to fast-track that process this time.
“Our forces are now facing a holding action in the inner island ring. Prior to the commencement of actual hostilities, we drew down Chinese surveillance systems, sensors, and computer networks. That’s where our cyberwar efforts were targeted too. So far, we seem to have been reasonably effective in degrading their air defenses and over-the-horizon targeting.”
Tomlin looked toward the window, which was covered with a pinholed, silvery anti-eavesdropping screen. “Despite calls from Taiwan and Korea, we’ve not yet attacked the People’s Republic land-based ballistic or cruise missile infrastructure. In fact, we haven’t laid a single warhead or bomb on the mainland.”
“The counterpunch through the South China Sea? Taking out the fortified islands, Fiery Cross Reef, the Spratlys?” One of the admirals, Blair guessed, though no one was in uniform.
“Ongoing, but we’re not seeing a force shift to counteract it. It’s as if they think it’s a distraction.
“Unfortunately, our strategic options are limited. Obviously, we’re never going to conquer mainland China. They fought us to a standstill in Korea, and Zhang has a huge demographic advantage now. Specifically, almost two million more young men than the country has young women for—probably one driver for his expansionist policy.”
The next slide read
Briefing Is Classified
(TOP SECRET/SACHEL ADVANTAGE/IRON NOOSE)
OPLAN 5081
CHINA
Tomlin cleared his throat, glanced at some notes, then went on. “JCS Op Plan 5081 reflected the conventional view of how this would play out. We would neutralize assets that threatened the inner island chain, while our allies mobilized and we brought up additional battle groups and air assets from the States and Mideast.
“After slamming the gates, we’d wait. When they came out, we’d have the buildup in place to make the East and South China Seas and the Sea of Japan into kill zones. Meanwhile, the U.S. is self-sufficient in both food and energy. But China has to import both. We estimated they’d run out of oil in three months and food in six. That would add rationing and spot starvation onto inflation, unemployment, and heavy force attrition. The regime would either fall, or be forced to the conference table.”
Tomlin looked down. “What did Napoleon say? ‘No plan survives contact with the enemy.’ We did break the kill chain, degrading space and cyberspace assets. We’re also undertaking some major intelligence initiatives, which I can’t discuss. And we have succeeded, largely, in penning in their sub force, while ours is taking down any warships that venture out. But the deep strikes in the initial plan have been canceled.
“Meanwhile, the enemy’s pursued an asymmetrical strategy. This included major efforts in anti-access and area denial, along with degrading and compromising our own C4I. In addition, you know about the cyberattacks and other sabotage against the continental U.S. They’ve crippled our economy and struck at civilian morale, as well as industry.
“But their major effort has been focused on the battlespace around and above Taiwan, and the Japanese waters and airspace flanking it. They’ve managed to degrade U.S. forces there, with mines, runway accidents, and sabotage. Our air assets have been particularly overloaded. We’re burning fuel and crew hours conducting a mission we haven’t done for a long time—basic overwater reconnaissance.
“The Navy’s trying to hold against overwhelming force, conduct barrier operations to prevent a breakout into the Pacific, and deter any invasion of Taiwan. The Army’s preparing, if necessary, to withdraw those U.S. force elements that still retain their mobility in Korea.”
Tomlin straightened. “Now—Ms. Clayton. What do we have on our enemy?”
The Asian stood, and finally Blair recognized her: a senior member of the De Bari administration; Dan had worked under her in the West Wing. Clayton gave a passionless briefing in a High Boston accent. “The plan for a cross-strait invasion is called Operation Breath of the Dragon. They’re prepared for heavy losses. Success would depend on the Taiwanese air force and navy being heavily degraded first.
“That is, assuming that the Republic of China decides to fight, rather than arrive at some more or less disguised capitulation. Which is a possibility, especially if they lose confidence in our ability to support them.”
Tomlin thanked her. “Now, if this happens … if they come across the strait … what do we have to meet it with?”
A force-balance slide gave the answer. Blair shook her head as she added the numbers.
Clayton said, “Not enough. Our single carrier in the region was immobilized by mines. We have a makeshift surface task group more or less plugging the gap until the Franklin Roosevelt battle group gets there. But we’re also facing a North Korean threat. If the PRC crosses the strait, well … leaving aside whether we’re obligated to intervene, there seems little available to respond with at the moment, aside from long-range B-2 strikes from Guam.”
Blair began to feel uncomfortable, and not just from the hot needles of pain being driven into her hip. She raised a hand. Tomlin nodded. “Blair Titus, correct? Question?”
“Correct. You’re saying, we expect to lose this battle?”
Tomlin made a face. “I wouldn’t put it that way. But … J-3’s fully occupied fighting the current campaign. They can’t plan for what happens if they lose. Not at the same time. Also, there are political implications in having the combat commanders plan for downside possibilities. It’s more palatable if that takes place outside the DoD structure. At least we can start to formulate options the National Security Council can consider, if the eventuality arises.” He paused, then added, “Ultimately, too, we must establish phase lines beyond which our national interests demand an escalatory response.”
“We’re going to try to contain this war,” someone said, and Blair flinched at a familiar voice. “But not too hard.”
Dr. Edward Szerenci was in a light gray suit and pale blue tie, with an American flag pin in the lapel. His hair had gone platinum at the temples; his eyes, behind professorial horn-rims, were a hunting hawk’s. Two men in dark suits stood behind him, arms folded, gazes roving the room. The national security adviser had come in quietly, at the back, while Tomlin was speaking. Blair tensed, remembering the last time they’d met. In an elevator in the Russell Building, on the way to her husband’s testimony before the Armed Services Committee.
Szerenci had said then, “War now could be better than later, with a more powerful adversary.”
Now he came forward, and handed a memory stick to the aide at the computer.
Two jagged lines, red and blue, with an intersection point. Along the bottom, decades, from the 1980s to the 2030s. The blue line dropped steadily, decade after decade. The red line climbed, its slope slowing from time to time, but always rising.
“This shows the nuclear force balance, in total warhead megatonnage. As you can see, the recent breakout, if continued, will shortly place us in an inferior position. Our antiballistic capabilities may push that into the out years—I emphasize the word may—but I do not intend the United States ever to be in an inferior position. Therefore, our major goal in this conflict has to be to restrain, cap, and if possible, eliminate Chinese nuclear strike capabilities.” He let that hang, then added softly, “We have to set clear red lines, and enforce them. If they want to test our resolve, we’re ready.”
Someone breathed, “‘Red lines’—‘test our resolve’—you’re talking about a nuclear ultimatum.”
Szerenci said gravely, “Let’s not cherish illusions. No weapon’s ever been invented that wasn’t eventually used. This conflict may be lethal. Resource intensive. And bloody. But if the unthinkable should happen on our watch, I want us to be ready for it, survive it, and win it.” He nodded. “This isn’t a disaster. It’s a historic opportunity.” He looked to Tomlin. “I’ve got to get back to the Eighteen Acres. We need your output fast, General.”
“Within the week, Doctor.”
Tomlin waited until the Secret Service men closed the door. “So, there you have it. If Zhang invades, there’s a good chance Taiwan will fall. Some of that’s out of our hands—it depends on the fighting efficiency of the army, the resolve of the government. And so forth.
“But the question we need to focus on is, if the worst happens, where and how can we seize the initiative again, and sustain that effort to end the conflict on acceptable terms?” Tomlin nodded at the professor. “Dr. Glancey happens to be an expert on war termination. We need to think ahead of the current hostilities, and envision a postwar settlement both sides can live with.”
“Which is probably not going to satisfy anyone,” Glancey put in.
After a moment, an older man, probably one of the retired generals, said, “We’re being asked to plan how best to surrender?”
Tomlin said quietly, “If you see an open discussion that way, sir, maybe this isn’t the right committee for you.”
“I don’t see why not. If you’re discussing options, isn’t that one?”
A murmur ran around the room. Hands shot up. Blair raised hers too and, when Tomlin nodded, stood. “What about the forces currently in theater? If as you say we can’t hold. We do … what? Write them off?”
Tomlin made a wry face. “Unfortunately, that may be forced on us. We had to write off the Asiatic Fleet, and the garrisons on Bataan and Corregidor, early in the last major war. The distances are too great. Our reserves, too thin. We need time for regeneration, resupply, rebuilding a logistics chain. And the other side’s going to do everything they can to slow us up, deny us bases, deny parts and fuel and access. How do we shore up the breach? Or, failing that, how do we come back?”
He looked at his watch. “You heard Dr. Szerenci; the pressure’s on. We’ll split into subcommittees—strategic, logistics, information warfare, diplomatic, cyberwar. A Red Team, to game enemy countermoves. First session will be eight to noon. Staff will research the issues you surface and work up the notes in the afternoons. We’ll do a night session from six to ten.
“I want to wrap and deliver by the end of the week. A reminder: please sign your SF 312s in the back before going to your subcommittee. Again, nothing can be removed from the working areas. If you want to keep notes, mark them as ‘working papers,’ date them, and hand them to a staffer for secure storage between sessions.
“All right—let’s get to work.”
Thunder rumbled outside. She sat hunched as the meeting broke up, as a staffer announced room assignments for the subcommittee deliberations. Wincing at the hot pain in her hip, as rain clattered against electromagnetically shielded glass, and the sky darkened with an advancing storm.