Xinhuamen Gate
Main entrance to the Zhongnanhai government compound
174 Chang’an Avenue
Beijing, China
0740 local time
Defense Minister Qin Hâiyû crossed his legs in the comfortable leather seat of the black Hongqi H9 luxury sedan, his index finger tapping on the center armrest. It was a bad habit he’d picked up to dissipate nervous energy, all the way back to his junior officer days in the PLA Navy. Even when he’d commanded the Luyang III–class destroyer Guiyang almost a decade ago, his left index finger would tap out its little cadence on the armrest of his captain’s chair in the bridge. Back then, he’d thought the burden of commanding a warship was the pinnacle of pressure.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to return to those simpler days…
As a ship captain, the pitfalls of command were clear and identifiable. Running aground, collision at sea, personnel problems, failing to achieve or execute mission parameters…and so on. In those days, he’d spent his time worrying about the people beneath him. Negligence, lapses in judgment, or mistakes borne from inexperience or poor communication—these were the problems that plagued commanding officers. Such things ended careers—but rarely lives. But this job, with its secret agendas and knives behind backs, was a viper’s game and filled him with anxiety the likes of which he’d never thought possible.
Not anxiety…paranoia.
“A few more moments, Minister Qin,” the driver said, looking at him in the rearview, interpreting his tension as concern for being late. “The traffic around the complex is heavier than usual.”
“Thank you, Da,” he said.
His thoughts went to Cheng Kai and the dubious fate of the minister of foreign affairs.
I warned him that his arrogance would be his downfall…but did he listen? No, he did not.
The last time Qin had visited privately with his friend, Cheng’s family had been on vacation in Singapore, which had given the two men a rare opportunity to speak frankly and unencumbered. Cheng, who only drank in private, had imbibed heavily that night. As the two men got drunk, the conversation had shifted to President Li’s growing desire to “reintegrate” Taiwan into China. Plumbed by alcohol, Cheng had let his true feelings be known on the matter:
“Li is a fool if he thinks the Americans will do nothing. General Su thought that a few years ago. President Ryan crushed those plans.
“We risk everything to gain little. Ten years ago, it made sense. But today, there is nothing that little island can do that we cannot. This is about Li’s ego. Nothing more.”
Unfortunately, the recent reelection of the troublemaking president of Taiwan had provided a megaphone for independence rhetoric on the global stage. And predictably, it had only amplified the almost manic obsession President Li harbored to reintegrate the island, even if that reintegration required military force. Devising a comprehensive military plan for reunification of the belligerent island had been Qin’s professional charter since day one of his appointment as commander of the PLA Navy. Cheng believed it was Qin’s plan that had prompted Li to select Qin as the replacement for Defense Minister Zhao Fu. Zhao Fu’s “retirement” had been swift and sudden and taken almost everyone by surprise.
But not Cheng.
“Zhao agreed with me. Now is not the time for reunification,” Cheng had said. “We were working behind the scenes to build a coalition so we would have strength in numbers when confronting Li about the danger and hubris of his plan, but now Zhao is gone…”
In the aftermath, the inner circle understood—although never discussed—that Zhao had been eliminated. Qin did not have history with his predecessor like he did with Cheng. Zhao had been Qin’s boss, on paper, since Qin had been the head of the PLA Navy at the time, but Qin had personally interacted with him very little. And, frankly, Qin had not wanted to. Zhao had been a pompous ass. His disappearance, and later his announced retirement, had opened the position that Qin now filled.
Qin had been elated at the time.
If only I knew then what I know now…
Qin glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to make the meeting in Conference Room Number One in Zhongnanhai North. The very fact that such a meeting had been called on short notice, and at such an early hour, was cause enough for concern. Perhaps he would learn something of Cheng Kai’s disappearance. Maybe the foreign minister had been the victim of some foreign plot and it had not been his reckless mouth that had led to his disappearance.
And then I would have much less to fear myself.
It was known that he and Cheng were friends and socialized often.
Could this connection be enough to spark Qin’s own fall from favor?
For Qin, what had happened to Cheng felt like déjà vu. Just like Zhao, Cheng had been disappeared by President Li Jian Jun’s secret police. Otherwise, there would have been immediate and frank discussions about the foreign minister’s supposed corruption and infidelity. There would have been arguments about his fate and whether damage control was necessary. But none of that had happened. They’d had two cabinet meetings since Cheng’s disappearance, and no mention of him had occurred, not even with the glaring diplomatic fallout at the East Asia Summit.
No, there was no mistake. Cheng Kai was gone.
Qin had warned him not to voice opposition to Li’s designs on Taiwan, and now he was gone.
“You worry too much, Hâiyû. I am a respected man whose voice matters…”
Qin chased away the memory from their last evening together and glanced out the window. As Da circled the black sedan around Taiye Lake, Qin saw the Hanyuan Temple, situated on the Yingtai Island in the “Southern Sea,” the southern part of the ancient, man-made lake. That lake, and the one to the north, separated by a sliver of land now the site of the rebuilt Qínzhèng Diàn Hall, had been constructed in 1421 from the basic outline of the complex emerging during the Ming dynasty. It had been the de facto center of government since the Empress Dowager Cixi and, later, Prince Regent Chun had built residences there instead of inside the Forbidden City. Zhongnanhai had been the center of government ever since, first as the Republic of China under Yuan Shikai as the Beiyang government and later as the People’s Republic under Mao Tse-tung. Most of the “real” government business occurred on the north side of the complex, on the lake known as the Northern Sea, where the Party chair and other government complexes now sat. The southern area was for show and entertaining visitors more than anything.
So much history.
Da maneuvered right, around the shore of the Northern Sea, slowing at an additional checkpoint, where they were quickly waved through, the uniformed guard snapping a sharp salute to the darkened windows, behind which Qin sat, tapping his left index finger on the armrest.
They were nearly there. Qin slipped his phone from his suit pocket and dialed his wife.
“Is everything well, Hâiyû?” she asked, subtle urgency and concern in her voice. “We are at the airport and about to board.”
“Yes, yes, all is well,” he said, a hint of a smile forming at the sound of her voice. “I simply miss you already. You and the girls.”
He could almost see her relaxing at this. “We understand, my love. Your work is very important. Do you know if you will still be able to meet us?”
They had been planning this family vacation to the Maldives for months. They had a wonderful suite waiting at the Four Seasons Resort and a week to enjoy one another, but the call last night for this meeting had put a brake on the plans. Not knowing what might be happening, he’d insisted she take their daughters and go anyway, that he could meet them there. No reason for everyone to miss out because of his work commitments. His teenage girls would be living at home for only a short time more. Soon, his precious twin girls would graduate and be busy with their own lives.
“I very much hope so, Caiji,” he said. “I am arriving at my meeting now and will let you know as soon as I can. I simply wanted to say I love you before you board your plane.”
“We love you, too, xīn gān,” Caiji said, sounding reassured.
Qin ended the call as the car arrived at the front of the headquarters for the State Council. His driver parked and then hustled around to open the door for him. Qin disliked the pampering, but it would be a sign of weakness to be seen here, of all places, opening his own door, and in any case, his young driver seemed to relish the opportunity to serve in such a way.
“Would you like me to wait for you, sir?” Da asked.
“Yes,” he said, and the young man bowed. Normally he would send Da to have a coffee or something, but he had no idea how long this meeting might take. It was not unusual for Li to assemble everyone and share something that might have easily been sent in an unclassified email. The record for the shortest unscheduled meeting in conference room one was three and a half minutes.
Moments later he crossed the expansive room that served as a foyer of sorts, but had truly been transformed into a museum of artifacts dating back to the Ming dynasty, and entered through the floor-to-ceiling wooden doors into the room where State Council business was discussed. The seats around the expansive conference table were filled, with most of the attendees coming from offices within the complex. The deputy secretary general gave Qin a solemn nod, while Secretary General Xu Chao didn’t even look up. There were no military officers present, which was not unusual, but their presence always served to make Qin feel less like a political impostor.
Each place at the table was marked by a leather binder, which many of the assembled were already perusing. In addition to the binder, everyone had a cup and saucer for hot tea.
All places save one.
The seat normally occupied by Cheng Kai had no folder and no tea service setting…
“We are assembled?” said President Li Jian Jun as he entered from the door to Qin’s left.
Clearly, Li had been waiting to make his entrance only once Qin arrived, though a glance at the clock on the far wall validated that Qin had arrived a full six minutes early. Qin quickly took his seat and opened the leather folder as Li stopped behind his own chair, but remained standing. Qin fought the sudden urge to glance again at the empty seat. He stared a moment at the intimately familiar document inside the folder—a document he had prepared—then looked up, hoping the shock he felt was not evident on his face.
Operation Sea Serpent: Reunification of Taiwan
Now I know why Cheng is not here, and why I will never see my friend again…
“Gentlemen,” Li began, “we are quite fortunate that our current minister of national defense, Admiral Qin Hâiyû, is not only an expert on naval and marine operations but is the architect of the plan you see in front of you. This is a plan that has been in evolution, has in fact evolved as often as the changing winds of the South China Sea, as the threats to our sovereign claim have evolved—as has the threat to our security. Minister Qin, in the interest of brevity, give us a five-minute overview of this battle plan.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Qin said.
He rose, and in general terms outlined the plan in the nearly one-hundred-page document in the folder. He did not need to glance through the pages, of course. The operation was like a child of his own, one that had started as a flirtation, then became a wish, and over the last two years had grown into something he was quite proud of. But it was a theoretical plan only, born of the intersection of mandates from his superiors and the intellectual curiosity of a man who’d dedicated his life to naval warfare. It was a war game—one that he had, in his mind, waged time and time again into something that now was an operational plan that he believed to be not only possible but almost guaranteed to be successful.
If one measured success as simply the achievement of an objective.
Taking Taiwan was like taking a hill in a war zone—given enough resources and the desire to succeed, any stronghold could be taken. But stratagems rarely contemplated the aftermath. There was risk in the having, not only in the taking. Nowhere was this more true than in the reunification of Taiwan by force. Could China take Taiwan? Yes, of course. Could they hold it? Almost certainly. Would there be other costs to the People’s Republic of China?
Without a doubt…
Such was the conversation he’d had with Cheng, the last time he’d seen him alive. It had been Cheng’s intention to speak his mind to the president.
It had been Qin’s advice that he hold his tongue.
He felt his eyes tick over to the empty seat and hoped the look went unnoticed.
“It is a brilliant plan, and one that you can see is absolutely achievable,” President Li said when he’d finished, and Qin gave a humble bow.
There were murmurs around the table.
“Who has questions for our minister of defense?” Li posed, finally pulling out his own, much taller chair and taking a seat, crossing his legs at the ankle, and pouring some tea from the pot beside his cup.
“That we can defeat the traitorous ROC forces of Taiwan is not in doubt, I should think,” Secretary General Xu said, looking at Qin with a critical eye. “But surely this plan takes into account an inevitable American response, Minister Qin?”
“It does,” Qin admitted, unwilling to look over at Li for fear his eyes would betray how deep this concern was. “After war-gaming this scenario out many times, it is our conclusion that American and NATO forces, but certainly the American fleet, would move assets into the area as a show of force—”
“Sabre-rattling, nothing more,” Li interrupted, sipping his tea. “Minister Qin is the expert on military operations, but it is my job to estimate the will of our enemies. The Americans are weary of war. After two decades of war against terrorism, the American people have no appetite for more military conflict. Look at their willingness to give up Crimea to our Russian friends, rather than actually using the power they seem willing to project. President Ryan is a worthy opponent, but he rules at the whim of his people and they will never support military action that would risk war with a nation as mighty as ours.”
The secretary general now gave Qin a softer look.
“Is it your estimate that the Americans would give up Taiwan without firing a shot of their own?”
“Possibly,” Qin said, couching his words, the empty seat across from him shouting its warning. “But there is danger in even a limited engagement. We would expect a very short-term conflict with United States naval forces within the South China Sea, if only due to the inherent dangers of escalation when our forces operate in very close proximity. However, as our president has said, we do not believe that the Americans would risk an all-out war. The strength of this plan is the speed with which it unfolds. By the time the Americans arrive at the decision point of if and how to intervene, the Taiwan islands would all be in the hands of our forces. Thus, intervention means an offensive attack against China, which we do not believe the Americans would have the stomach for.”
But this says nothing of the enormous geopolitical pressure they could exert if they had the sympathy of the world. It could be a catastrophic blow politically and, more immediately paralyzing, economically.
As he’d discussed with Kai, it was a mistake to underestimate the will of the Americans if blood had been spilled. They had a country song in the States that painted the Americans as a big dog who bit if you rattled his cage.
This, he believed, was a true metaphor.
The secretary general leaned back and studied him.
“So, we would expect no direct resistance from the American forces,” Xu pressed.
Qin chose his words carefully. While this was all just a theoretical war-gaming plan, it was best to not fill this room with too much confidence in the plan, lest it become a reality. By the same hand, he saw what could happen when you went against the view of the president, evidenced by that damn empty chair.
“It is very possible that, while the attack on the island would be bloody indeed, no shots with the Americans would be directly exchanged. Our absolute worst-case scenario would be very brief military conflict at sea in the region, possibly resulting in damage to the American fleet.”
“Damage?” the secretary general pressed.
Qin clenched his jaw, but there was no hiding it. Hell, the BDEs, or battle damage estimates, were in the damn document if they chose to read the whole thing.
“At the extreme, there could be the loss of an American naval vessel,” Qin said. In fact, the BDE estimated this to be a real possibility and that, in fact, the most likely loss would be an American aircraft carrier. But there was no need for him to press this point and upset President Li. No need, because the assembled leaders would read it for themselves. It was all clearly outlined in the extensive and sobering battle damage estimates in the paper they each had in front of them.
Let the numbers speak for themselves…As many as two to five thousand Americans could perish.
Secretary Xu’s eyes widened a moment, but then he got the reaction under control before glancing at the president and giving him a nod.
“I see,” he said.
“And that is an absolute worst-case estimate,” Li said with a smile.
“You are to be congratulated, Minister Qin,” the deputy secretary general said with a bow of his head and a sympathetic look. “It sounds like your operational plan is a tremendous tool to have in our toolbox.”
“Thank you, Mr. Deputy Secretary,” Qin said.
“Or perhaps more,” President Li said, leaning in and placing his teacup on the table. Qin felt his pulse pounding in his temple. “Operation Sea Serpent is a large-scale naval and Marine landing-force exercise taking place in just two weeks. This is an exercise planned for some time, and one that has been leaked intentionally to the American intelligence apparatus.”
“Why?” the deputy secretary asked, then blushed at the misstep of interrupting the president. For Li’s part, he ignored the overstep and instead smiled at the deputy secretary. “I am glad you asked,” he said. “For the better part of two years, we have harassed the American Navy and conducted frequent, large-scale, and aggressive exercises. The result has been that the United States Navy has become numb to such prodding, and therefore has become complacent. Despite our leaking information about Sea Serpent, we have seen no increase in naval activity or hints about what they like to call ‘force projection.’ Sea Serpent, it would seem, will go ahead unchallenged by the Americans.”
Qin felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach.
“Minister Qin, can you provide for us what type of Marine and naval presence would need to participate in this exercise, this Operation Sea Serpent, were it to be modified into the execution of the real Operation Sea Serpent—the operation you created to defeat the Taiwan forces and reunify Taiwan to the homeland? I would like to see a summary of this as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Qin said, bowing and then returning to his seat.
“Are you suggesting that we intend to invade Taiwan in two weeks?” Xu asked gently.
“I am suggesting that, eventually, the timing will be such that we can reclaim the island of Taiwan and reunite the patriots living there with the homeland. We can reclaim our rights to the strategic position of the island in the South China Sea. We can reclaim our rights to the rich minerals available and the technology production that competes now with our own. Taiwan has always been a part of China. I want us to be prepared for that opportunity, whenever it might come along.”
“I will provide you with my assessment as soon as possible, Mr. President,” Qin said.
“Tomorrow,” Li said, reaching again for his tea. “You were made minister because you bring extreme value and experience to this position, which has been lacking. I assume you can brief us on these details by tomorrow morning, say…ten o’clock?”
“Of course,” Qin said, but his mind went to the Chinese 055-class destroyer Lhasa, operating this very moment in the northern part of the Strait of Taiwan. A brilliant and deadly modern warship.
“It will be my honor, Mr. President,” Qin said.
“Wonderful,” Li said, and was on his feet already. “Then we are adjourned until tomorrow at ten a.m.”
Qin rose, as they all did, and watched him go, tasting bile in the back of his throat.
President Li couldn’t possibly be considering this for real. President Ryan would never fail to respond to threats against his people. Qin’s worst-case BDE showed the loss of multiple aircraft, damage to several American vessels, and the potential loss of an American aircraft carrier from the Seventh Fleet in the ensuing naval showdown.
More than five thousand American lives.
Qin had no doubt that the Americans, most especially with President Ryan at the helm, would indeed go to war over such a loss.
The impact to China would be immeasurable and would set back their geopolitical and economic gains by decades.
Surely someone, tomorrow perhaps, would say something.
He glanced again at the empty chair where his friend once sat.
What am I prepared to do for my country and my family?
Mind reeling, he followed the others out of the conference room and headed across the foyer.
The artifacts of the warrior nation they had once been, a warrior nation many would argue fell from its own hubris, called out to him as he walked, shouting warnings.
How could he agree to be the instrument of such a fall?