Beyond all Limits (12 page)

The downdraught from the Black Hawk was gone, and Navarone knew that Captain Trautman was already on his way out of there; he could no longer hear even the subdued sounds of the chopper’s adapted rotors.

What he could hear was the voice of Mark Cole, close to his ear, the man’s hands releasing their tight grip on Navarone’s combat fatigues as his feet settled back on the slick, wet deck.

‘That’s what I call an entrance,’ Cole said, and his face was so close that Navarone could see him smile. ‘Now let’s get below deck before the captain has a heart attack.’

‘Yes sir,’ Navarone said with a smile of his own, following as Cole led him towards the open hatch below deck, and the safety of the submarine’s interior.

5

Taiwan was his.

There were scraps of resistance that would have to be mopped up, but the capital city of Taipei had fallen, and the government of Taiwan’s so-called ‘Republic of China’ had fallen with it.

A part of Wu was surprised that it had been achieved so quickly, but then the other part accepted it completely; after all, that had been the plan all along. The military of that tiny nation was no match for the might of the People’s Republic in full fury, and invasion plans had been secretly plotted and rehearsed for months leading up to the actual act itself.

There had been an initial naval bombardment of key coastal bases, followed by strategic airstrikes of other military and government installations. For two days straight, Taiwan had been hammered down like a stubborn nail until it was entirely unable to defend itself, her own pitiful naval and air forces reduced to nearly nothing. And then the troops had landed, sweeping through the land – rightfully known as the 23
rd
province of the People’s Republic of China – with almost no resistance whatsoever.

After all these years, all of Taiwan’s tough talk, it had taken Wu just three days to return the island to the true Chinese nation.

And it had all been done with an absolute minimum of civilian casualties. There had been many military deaths, of course – one couldn’t bombard a country with artillery and missile strikes without
some
people dying – but Wu was pleased that it was the
right
people who had died. And the civilians were being treated well, as per Wu’s strict orders. After all, if Taiwan was now to fall under the protection of his own government, it was as well that her people accepted it quickly; and good, fair treatment would help immeasurably with that.

Wu relaxed into the opulent throne he had had installed in the operations center beneath the government buildings of Beijing, monitoring the situation far to the south with a feeling of tremendous satisfaction. The interior of the Zhongnonhai compound, next to the Forbidden City and north of Tian’an Men Square, was all but unknown to outsiders, the basement rooms even less so. But it was from here that Wu would control the fate of Asia; and then, perhaps, the entire world.

Those cowards
, he thought with sweet contempt. Key government figures, including Taiwan’s president, had obviously seen the writing on the wall and had fled the country before the first PLA troops had stepped ashore. Just like Chiang Kai-shek and the Kuomintang, who’d fled the mainland in the first place back in 1949 to set up their ‘wartime capital’ in Taipei.

And now, for the first time in over seventy years, Taiwan was back in the hands of the
real
Chinese government, back where it belonged. Or, Wu corrected himself, it was now in the hands of the real Chinese
military
, which had assumed the role of a de facto government under his own leadership.

Which was even better.

He smiled again as he envisioned President Rai Po-ya and his ministers calling around Asia, begging other countries to take them in; and every time, being told ‘no’.

The message was clear – nobody on the Asian continent wanted to upset China by giving succor to her enemies; they were scared that if they got onto Wu’s radar, then they would be next.

It had been Australia that had finally let them in, right at the last minute, although she had stopped short of allowing Rai to set up a ‘government in exile’ in her territory; she had simply granted them safe harbor, nothing more.

Wu stretched back, his stiff neck cracking audibly, his huge shoulders grinding.

He was used to the power already, having dreamed of wielding it for years, for
decades
. It wasn’t that he was anti-Communist; far from it in fact, he had been a loyal party member for years, and it was only partially because he had to be in order to attain the upper ranks of the military.

He thought the communist system had a lot to offer; the only trouble was, the party itself had become corrupted, no longer driven with the purity of spirit necessary to achieve greatness. As a result, China herself had become a shadow of what she could be, a sleeping giant forever cursed, never to awaken and use her might as she should.

But Wu had changed that in one fell swoop, and the world was simply not ready to deal with a China on the warpath. The speed with which Wu had crippled US influence in the area and achieved two major victories in the space of just a few days was testament to that.

But, Wu reminded himself, although the action had been short and sharp, the planning had been years in the making. He wasn’t the overnight success that some might think; the entire thing had been meticulously plotted and schemed.

He wished he could take credit for the idea himself, but Wu was forced to admit that he was only the tool; an effective tool, but a tool nevertheless. The artist behind the plot would never achieve the level of adulation – and fear – that Wu would, but he didn’t seem to mind. The real genius behind it all seemed to be content to skulk in the shadows, a puppet master controlling the strings of his playthings.

Except that Wu was no longer a plaything, he was the puppet master himself now, and everyone would soon be dancing to
his
tune. His old friend and ally would still be useful until this thing was truly over, but then Wu might have to arrange for an unfortunate ‘accident’ to befall him.

His eyes wandered to the huge man standing away to one side, the one good eye in his massive shaven head scanning the operations room constantly, always on the lookout for threats. Yes, Wu thought, when this thing is over and China had become the world’s leading nation, he would have no more use for the true genius behind the plot; and then Zhou Shihuang, the most frightening, most capable warrior Wu had ever met, would go and pay his old friend a visit.

And then there would be no more strings to be pulled, and Wu would be in charge of everything.

‘Could you please clarify the position of the US government regarding the crisis in Asia?’

The question came from Graham Norris of Fox News, a weasely little man that Clark Mason had a distinct disliking of, a dislike that was enhanced even further by the boldness of his enquiry. He thought the press had been briefed on questions like this? A briefing that basically said –
don’t ask anything too difficult
.

But Norris’s question had ripped right into the heart of the matter. What was the government’s position? It was . . . undecided. Wait and see. Hope for the best.

None of which Mason could transmit to the general public.

Damn him.

Mason took a breath as he looked around the trimmed gardens of Number One Observatory Circle, completely covered now by members of the United States press corps, with a select few foreign correspondents also in attendance. He wasn’t overly concerned by the intrusion; although it was his home, he had to remind himself that it was also a place of business. And more to the point, a
temporary
place of business, suitable only until he graduated to the White House itself. And he still had his estate in West Virginia, the cabin in Colorado and the beach house in the Bahamas with which to console himself.

It had been his idea to hold the conference here instead of at the White House; it would split the press coverage, give the staffers in the West Wing a bit of much needed breathing space. It also sent the message that America had everything under control, the Vice President wasn’t hiding and refusing to provide information or to reassure the public; no, he was addressing them from his own home, supremely confident.

He hoped that the footage would be replayed during his presidential nomination campaign in the years to come.

He finally turned his attention back to Norris, hitting him with an accommodating smile. ‘The word
crisis
is perhaps a bit strong at the present time,’ Mason said reasonably, ‘and it is important to keep things in context. At the moment, the problems are strictly regional, and deal with issues that are nothing new – the repatriation of the Senkaku Islands and of Taiwan have been long-standing goals of the People’s Republic of China.’

Mason noticed that the reporters were all set to pounce on this statement, and held up his hands to indicate that he wasn’t finished. ‘Now, I realize that this situation is unsettling – China is second only to the United States in terms of military power, and the fact that the military itself is now in charge is cause for great concern. Of course it is. But things are what they are, and we have to deal with reality rather than wishful thinking. General Wu and his compatriots are now in charge of the PRC, and we are dealing with them. It is not a policy of our government to interfere in the internal matters of state of sovereign nations.’

‘But what of the USS
Ford
? Are we making any progress on getting our people back?’ asked a correspondent for ABC.

‘That is an ongoing issue and one which I cannot comment on directly, but suffice to say that we are doing everything we can to make sure that we get them back. I would like to confirm, however, that they are in no immediate danger, and we are making solid progress with the negotiations.’

‘But isn’t it true that they are being held hostage? That General Wu is holding them under threat of destruction, in order to keep us from interfering with his plans in the area?’

It was Norris again. Damn the man! Who’d authorized his presence at this conference? Mason regarded him coolly, determined to destroy his career. He’d get started as soon as this conference was over.

‘As I said, the situation is sensitive and ongoing, and I cannot comment on the specifics. But it is true that the
Ford
received extensive damage, as you all know, and is currently unable to be moved. And at the moment – obviously due to Chinese operations in the area – the Wu regime is not allowing our own military into its territorial waters to effect a retrieval. However, we are expecting this situation to change as soon as things with Taiwan settle down.’

‘And the MDT?’ a British reporter asked on behalf of the BBC.

‘It is still officially in operation,’ Mason answered carefully. ‘But obviously it was an agreement entered into by the communist party government, and it is unclear at present what – if any – of those treaties are now going to be honored.’

‘What has been President Abrams’ response to those requests for aid from other countries in the region?’ a reporter from CNN wanted to know.

‘Those countries are currently under no direct threat, and the reassurances they have sought have only been in reference to existing arrangements, which of course we will continue to honor.’ Despite his experience of fielding such questions, his ease and poise in front of the cameras, Mason felt the first trickle of nervous sweat slide down the back of his shirt. The reporters were getting a little too close to the bone, and Mason knew he was going to have to cut the conference short, before it was too late.

‘How about Japan?’ fired back Norris before Mason had had a chance to conclude the session. ‘We have an agreement with them, don’t we? And yet Wu’s taken the Senkaku Islands, which we recognize as Japanese territory. How does that validate our other agreements, how do those nations feel about our will to help them?’

Shit.

The key question had been asked, the one Mason had hoped – in fact, had demanded – wouldn’t be asked.

Mason worked hard to control his anger, not to raise his tense shoulders, grimace or frown. Instead, he forced his face into what he hoped was a natural, winning smile and looked at the gathered reporters, into their cameras, ready to be beamed into the homes of the American people.

‘The situation is complicated,’ he said earnestly, ‘as I’m sure you well know. Prime Minister Toshikatsu and the Japanese government have yet to decide how they are going to deal with the matter, and it is not up to our own government to be presumptuous, nor to pre-empt their own reaction. But we will, as always, stand by our allies.’ He looked around at all the people gathered in his garden, making sure they all saw the truth conveyed by his eyes, his absolute sincerity. ‘And now I’m afraid it’s time to finish up here, so I’d like to thank you all for coming, and wish you good day. Press packs will be available as you leave.’

He turned from his podium furious with that bastard Norris. He’d have the man run out of DC before tomorrow’s breakfast.

But he was also furious with himself. Why did he agree to host the press conference in the first place? Why hold it in his own garden?

He had hoped to present himself as a smooth, impressive, powerful man who could be relied upon to take charge, be honest, and make a connection with the American people.

In short, he had hoped to show himself to be a future contender for the top job.

Instead, he had been hounded into a position where he’d had to all but admit to America’s impotence, her inability to play any meaningful role in the situation which could soon be unrolling across the Asian continent.

His face, his garden, his home – they would be played on television, across the Internet, interminably, inextricably linked to the inaction of the United States.

He would be the scapegoat for the government’s weakness in the face of adversity, and as he stormed back inside his house, he saw his dreams of the presidency crumbling before his eyes.