Shadow of Eden (48 page)

On a hunch, he had requested Trident’s 10-Q filings for the last six years. The 10-Q’s would describe all material changes in the financial or operational condition of a publicly traded company. Rummaging through them, he discovered a chunk of Morloch’s personal stock had been transferred to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. He had noted the date and parked that information away for later reflection.

Just before he had left for the hospital, Heather had walked in with a surprise. She had managed to obtain a copy of the Summary Basis of Approval for Eden. It was the FDA’s report of its review of Eden and its reasons for approving it for human use. He had thumbed through the table of contents and the signature page listing all the officials involved before getting to the synopsis. He only had time to skim it, jotting down a couple of thoughts before snapping his pen closed—time to go see Captain Palmer.

The ICU was state-of-the-art with glass-walled rooms and mounted electronic monitors over each bed. He found the room he was looking for and walked in, pulling off his sweatshirt hood.

Dimly lit, the small room was nearly filled by the bed, IV pumps, monitors, and emergency equipment. On the far side of the bed, facing its head, was a large vinyl blue chair. On the other side, nearest to Steve, stood a young woman, probably in her late twenties, wearing blue jeans and a cable knit sweater. She looked up when Steve walked in, but otherwise registered no surprise. There was no such thing as privacy in ICUs.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Steve James. And you are?”

“Mia, his daughter.” She slid out of the way to let Steve near the bed.

Ready as he was, Captain Palmer’s condition still shocked him. The previously tanned and vigorous looking pilot was now pale and his face had aged. His eyes were closed, perhaps in sleep. Steve noticed a fiftyish woman sitting in the blue chair with bright, but tired eyes.

“Steve James,” he repeated.

“I’m Yvonne, his wife.”

“A pleasure to meet you.”

“What kind of doctor are you?” she asked. There was no hope in her voice.

“I’m sorry, I’m just here on a social visit.”

Recognition registered on Yvonne’s face. “You’re the doctor from the airplane.” Seeing Steve nod, she began to weep quietly. “Your beard. I didn’t recognize . . .”

“Of course,” Steve said.

“Thank you for what you did and . . .” She wiped her cheeks with a Kleenex. “Thank you for coming. Dr. Walker said you were very helpful to him.”

Hearing Dr. Walker’s name saddened Steve. He wished Marty were here to greet him with his massive handshake and hearty voice. He could see how the family would have liked and trusted him. “I only knew him a short time, but I had a great respect for him.”

“We miss him, too,” Mia said. “His replacement seems competent enough, but not very friendly.”

“How is the Captain?”

Yvonne stood up and held the bed rail. Looking down at her husband, she replied resignedly, “Not good. He’s getting worse. He’s rarely lucid and his flashbacks are almost continuous when he’s not sleeping.” She pulled her husband’s hand from under the sheet and held it. It was blue and bruised from multiple I.V.s. “He doesn’t recognize us much anymore. That’s the worst part.” Her lips tightened as she struggled to hold her emotions in check. She took a deep breath and looked at Steve. “It’s only a matter of time now.”

Captain Palmer jerked once and opened his eyes. They were full of fear. “I’m hit! Fire!” He flailed the air with his hands clutching at something only he could see. Mia and Yvonne each grabbed an arm and held it tightly. Mia bent over and whispered softly in his ear. “It’s okay now, Daddy. It’s all okay. You’re safe with us.”

Steve spent the next several hours sitting at the bedside of Captain Palmer, with his family. They looked at pictures in a photo album showing them all together smiling as Mia narrated. Yvonne told stories of their life and travels together. They were a very close family, reminding Steve poignantly of his own. All too soon, his four o’clock rendezvous with Valenti approached.

Standing up, he announced, “I need to go now. Thank you for letting me spend time with you.” He hugged Yvonne and Mia and left with an ache inside. It all was so sad. And so fucking wrong.

Back at the library, Steve hurriedly packed his work and articles away into a rented locker and, in the bathroom, changed his clothes into the recently purchased suit he would wear for this evening’s meeting with Secretary Castell. He examined himself in the mirror and shrugged. Not pretty, but he decided it was as good as he was going to get under the circumstances. Per Valenti’s strict orders, he wore the sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and carried his suit jacket.

His watch indicated he still had a few minutes left before four. Too wound up to sit, he walked out through the main entrance and looked down past the wide stone steps onto 1st Street. The air was cool and it felt good after the stuffy air in the library. He stood next to the massive foyer entrance and watched the cars drive by on the mist-wet road, thinking about the visit with Captain Palmer and his family. Revisiting the hospital where he had first met Marty Walker caused Steve to miss him even more. Marty would have been charged up for the fight with Trident and full of ideas about how to tackle the company. He smiled remembering the king-sized physician.

A large pickup truck with shot mufflers drove past, loud even where he stood, reminding him of the pickup truck that had tried to push him off the overpass. Suddenly, he doubled over like he had been punched in the solar plexus. It was so goddamn obvious. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

Marty had been murdered.

Steve fell against the stone wall, his stomach in tumult. According to Marty’s secretary, he had run off an overpass and died, but Steve now realized it had been no accident. Marty had been knocked off the overpass. Steve closed his eyes in frustration and anger.

Chapter 104

L
inda Resnick, accompanied by Larry Calhoun, strode into the State situation room, late for a hastily scheduled National Security Committee meeting, but without the President. That would come afterwards. Joining them by invitation was General Valenzuela, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Calhoun walked around the table passing out a stapled report. As she took her seat, Resnick began. “I am very sorry for my tardiness. In front of you is a transcript of a visit from Ernie Whiteside, senior Washington producer at CNN who just passed on some critical information from China. I have brought with me my INR head, Larry Calhoun. I want him to summarize the information, plus other new intelligence, which has special bearing on our position on China.”

Sitting down at the conference table to Resnick’s right, Calhoun first described Wright’s satellite imagery findings that detailed the covert military movements, including the fighter jets, as well as Wright’s strategy for estimating the net direction of the materiél. He then read a note Wright had handed him as he walked to this meeting. “The early estimates of laden versus unladen trucks show a net movement of materiél towards the Chinese coast nearest Taiwan.”

There was a stir in the group. Crusoe cleared his throat. “This doesn’t indicate intentions or actual plans on the part of China.”

Calhoun shrugged. “Perhaps not, although in my world, capability projects intentions. In any event, Ernie Whiteside’s information is critical to this equation. His Hong Kong station manager Herb Wong felt that his freedom was at risk because of CNN’s broadcast of the massacre. Wong and his staff had to covertly escape Hong Kong. Figuring Hong Kong’s airports and common carriers would be monitored and therefore dangerous, he and his close staff members slipped into Mainland China, traveling overland. They moved north along the coast planning to take a private boat across the Straits to Taiwan. Of course, they had no idea Taiwan would declare independence.”

“They are now holed up in a small town called Shantou waiting for an opportunity to leave, but during their travels, they made some interesting observations and passed them to Whiteside. First, they saw frequent convoys of army trucks traveling at night. Of importance to us is that they appeared to be full when moving towards the coast and, on at least one occasion, they observed a broken-down truck convoy headed away from the coast that was empty. The tarps we see from our satellites cover a welded-metal frame.”

“That’s enough for me,” Painter said. He had skimmed the rest of Whiteside’s transcript in his hands.

Calhoun continued. “They also discovered China is billeting some unknown, but large numbers of army troops in the coastal cities they traveled through, with the locals complaining about the imposition. Most importantly, China has commandeered their heavy commercial fishing boats and loaded their holds with tanks and materiel.”

“How?” Crusoe demanded.

“They modified the front of the hulls and drove the tanks right in—all done at night. Realize, these are steel-hulled vessels that range from one hundred to three hundred feet. Those CNN reporters were clearly in the right place at the right time. Now, I did some quick research,” Calhoun continued, “and based on satellite estimates of China’s fishing fleet, our analysts tell me the Chinese can land a two battalion-size invasion force, with the combined civilian and military flotilla. And they can return to the mainland and be back on the island within nine hours, increasing their forces rapidly. We estimate China can land, even with naval losses from submarines, coastal batteries, and missiles over five battalions in just over thirty six hours.”

“Shit,” Painter said. “Taiwan only has three active battalions and two more in reserves. I can’t see how they can repulse the invasion.”

Crusoe looked dubious. “But their Navy can’t compare to ours. We’ll blast them out of the water.”

Calhoun replied, “There are over a thousand fishing vessels along the coast of China within easy distance of Taiwan capable of carrying substantial men and equipment. They would be hard to find and shoot under optimal circumstances, even if we could get away with systematically shooting civilian vessels. But I believe that’s the second part of a two-pronged attack. First, I think they plan a massive air strike against the battle groups.”

“How?” Crusoe demanded.

“Recall our belief that China is moving jet fighters by truck. Based on our spot review of satellite imagery, we think they have moved many of them, perhaps hundreds. Since they traveled on these trucks, we haven’t been able to track all their locations. The ones we have tracked seem to be making a circuitous route to the coast, putting them within quick striking distance of the Straits. I’m guessing now, but I think each one is based in a remote place where it has a short strip of road for take-off. If I’m right, they could take us completely by surprise with overwhelming numbers.”

“But their air force can’t touch ours,” Crusoe said, crossing his arms.

Bingham asked, “Mark, how capable are you against three or four hundred fighters and bombers all at once?”

Painter shook his head. “Not good. We’ve got less than half that. I don’t have the assets to shoot all of them down, thrown at us at once.”

Speaking smoothly like a cross-examiner in a courtroom, Bingham continued, “And what about the secondary wave of planes that would follow within the hour? Can you refuel and re-arm in time?”

“That first wave would pretty well deplete our resources—and that would only be the first attack. China has over four thousand military aircraft. Even if we see only eight hundred of them, they would be able to cripple us and damage or sink much of the battle group.”

“And land-based surface to surface missiles?” Bingham prodded.

The Joint Chief’s Chairman, Valenzuela spoke up. “You’ve made your point. We can’t handle the landing flotilla.”

“China has had decades to prepare their strategy,” Calhoun observed. “They’re executing a well-honed plan.”

Crusoe sighed. “This is worse than any of us imagined.”

“It’s perfect Sun Tzu,” Painter whispered.

“What was that?” Sullivan asked.

“Sun Tzu,” Painter repeated. “We’re getting a tutorial in ancient Chinese warfare.”

Sullivan, his face ashen, summarized. “So, at the very best, we take huge losses and, at the probable worst, lose much of our fleet and Taiwan.”

They all looked at Calhoun who nodded.

“Does Taiwan know this?” Sullivan asked.

“They must,” Bingham answered. “They’ve got better ground intelligence than we do. I think they’ve been withholding intel.”

“Then,” Sullivan said, “we need to speak to our Taiwanese colleagues and see if they are interested in a compromise position with regards to their independence bid. After all, their prime motivation was to avoid heavy-handed treatment on the part of China. We must find a way to return to the previous agreement in a way that protects Taiwan’s interests while staving off the Chinese invasion.”

Resnick spread her hands in frustration. “But even if we did, who in China can we negotiate with? Premier Chow is scarce and we can’t officially call General Yao. So, even if the President does back off his promise to defend Taiwan, he might not have anyone to discuss the issue with.