The Mandarin Code (39 page)

Vinson sat back and exhaled. It had been four years since America had sailed one of its carrier groups through the Taiwan Strait. That had nearly ended in disaster.

The USS
Kittyhawk
had been shadowed by a Chinese attack submarine and destroyer, triggering a twenty-eight-hour stand-off.

This would be very different: a deliberate, public swagger through China's front door designed to show the world that there was only one superpower.

That really was taunting the dragon.

The admiral lifted a framed photo on his desk. His wife, Judy, still gorgeous despite the years, flanked by their extended family. The commander's diaspora. He loved this clan, and they loved him back.

He pulled a pad from the desk drawer and started making notes. He would follow his orders to the letter, even if the thinking behind this decision was hard to fathom.

Beijing

The outdoor broadcast vans from China Central Television had arrived early. A crowd of several hundred Chinese was already gathered on Liangmaqiao Road outside the Japanese embassy. They carried nationalist flags and chanted anti-Nippon slogans in the freezing Beijing morning. They were mainly young, enraged – and sanctioned by the State.

Ambassador Ito Sanetomi gazed down at the growing mob. Six months earlier, more than a thousand marauding Chinese had demonstrated outside these same walls against Japan's rightful claim to the Senkaku Islands. He recognised several faces as three vans of Chinese riot police arrived.

‘Asumi, I want all embassy staff to the central meeting room in ten minutes, please.'

The ambassador was taking no chances. Last September's protests had triggered a wave of violence against Japanese consulates throughout China, incited by inflammatory banners that declared ‘For the Respect of the Motherland, we must go to War with Japan'. A Toyota van had been torched – a pointless reprisal.

Now that the United States had decided to sail the
George Washington
through the Taiwan Strait, he would take no chances. All staff except for emergency personnel had been ordered to leave.

A crash drew his eyes to a mob who'd separated from the main crowd and were trying to scale an embassy fence. They were being forced back by riot squad officers. The defence was holding, for now.

But the ambassador knew this mob – and crowds like it throughout China – would only grow and become more aggressive. Sanetomi was anticipating a recall to Japan. He'd received a cable to say that he should expect such a directive if the situation worsened.

He'd ordered his wife to pack and prepare their two children. As he looked out at the violence below, he longed to breathe the peaceful air of his beloved Tokyo.

Jiang Xiu carefully studied the material in front of him, erasing several words that he found distasteful. He blanched at one sentence that was excessive, but otherwise he was pleased with the work.

China's Central Propaganda Department was in full swing and Jiang was barking instructions to a team of senior editors who'd gathered in his Beijing office.

‘I want this out through the 50 Cent Party. Now!' The communist giant was mounting a public relations offensive against the West and Jiang needed every piece of his propaganda arsenal primed and ready to roll. The 50 Cent Party was an informal network of bloggers paid a pittance to echo the party line.

‘Ming! Ming!' he shouted at the editor of
China Daily
. ‘When will this be online? Why the delay? Come on, let's move.'

Jiang studied the latest briefing from the CDP's Bureau of Media Statistics. It was sobering. The United States and Japan were winning the international propaganda war – he was starting well behind and at a big disadvantage. He did not expect to be able to quickly overcome the inbuilt jealousy and antipathy towards China in the international media. But here in the homeland he commanded the headlines and he could not afford to lose, even for a moment, the people's support. What had Mao said? ‘Politics is war without bloodshed.'

This war would be fought – initially at least – through the internet, in newspapers and on television screens. He must not fail.

A woman entered his office, placing a mock-up of the
China Daily
front page on his desk. She smiled, seeking his approval. Mao had once said that women hold up half the sky. Yes, but they were not the ones to lead armies into battle. He ignored her, grabbing the galley proof.

The headline was striking: CHINA AND DPRK IN NUCLEAR PACT.

Yes, that is good.

The article outlined plans by China to assist North Korea with its peaceful nuclear expansion. An official spokesman for the Foreign Ministry outlined how the cooperative deal was designed to help North Korea generate the next phase of its nuclear power industry.

‘All of this has been done within the framework of UN and Chinese laws,' the spokesman said.

The article went on to say that China was opposed to proliferation – but Jiang knew this line would be ignored as the West absorbed the story's tenor.

The Middle Kingdom would meet acts of aggression by its enemies with unflinching resolve.

‘Xiu!' He turned to a familiar voice, that of Bo Gangmei, a long-time friend who, like Jiang, had worked hard to earn promotion through the party hierarchy. Two months ago, Bo had been appointed editorial supervisor at Xinhua, the official Chinese news agency. His appointment had been strictly on merit, but this had not stopped a range of underground and dissident outlets from reporting his friendship with China's chief propaganda officer.

Jiang had told him to ignore the jibes. They were fuelled by petty jealousy and, besides, several of the critical ringleaders had been jailed.

Bo had been working on a top-secret project. Jiang pulled out a chair for his friend, eager to examine the details before they were released to the world.

‘Oh! Very nice, Gangmei, very nice.' He read over the article to be released through Xinhua again.

China has advanced plans to sign a historic military cooperation agreement with the Democratic Republic of Fiji. The two countries are expected to formally enter the agreement within a month, allowing the People's Liberation Army to conduct formal exercises with the Pacific nation.

Fijian Prime Minister Commodore Frank Bainimarama is due to arrive in Beijing in a fortnight when he is expected to sign a pact with President Meng. China has also agreed to increase aid to the Pacific nation. This will reduce Fiji's reliance on Western countries, like Australia, which have been increasingly hostile to the island nation.

Jiang was satisfied. The evidence on the streets showed he had correctly read the mood of a people determined to see their country rise again.

America's decision to send the
George Washington
into Chinese waters was as predictable as the sunrise. Those fools in Washington had stumbled into the trap. Everything had been focused towards enticing the US to make an aggressive play. It had worked.

Now the world was watching. If the superpower retreated, China would make that giant leap forward.

And the world would shift on its axis. Forever.

Canberra

The newspapers lay unfurled across the kitchen table. Harry Dunkley cradled a cup of tea and munched on a piece of toast. He was in his element – the familiar black stain of newsprint on his hands.

His exclusive screamed from the front page.

LABOR'S SECRET BAILEY POLL

Martin Toohey's leadership is under siege with Labor secretly road-testing Catriona Bailey as an alternative prime minister.

Internal party polling, details of which have been obtained exclusively by
The Australian,
reveals the Foreign Minister could save a swag of marginal Labor seats.

The polling confirms Ms Bailey – who made a triumphant return to Parliament last week – is far more popular with swinging voters than Mr Toohey.

The Prime Minister's grip on power was yesterday rocked by the collapse of his multi-billion-dollar Northern Territory gas deal.

Critically, the polling shows that Labor could be returned if Ms Bailey was prime minister when voters go to the polls on 14 September.

Labor has been testing Ms Bailey's support in the key electoral battlegrounds of western Sydney and Brisbane.

The journalist knew his splash would ignite the simmering leadership speculation and dominate today's political drama. He'd already fielded calls to appear on Sydney and Melbourne radio.

He glanced at the other front pages as the blare of the
AM
intro sounded on Radio National.

Tony Eastley plunged into Dunkley's story off the top.

‘We now cross to our chief political correspondent in Canberra. Sabra Lane, I understand there has been an explosive development in the story leading the front page of
The Australian
.'

‘Yes Tony, just minutes ago I took a call from Labor's national secretary, Gerry Tighe, who demanded air time. He's on the line now. Mr Tighe, good morning, I understand you say this story is an invention.'

‘Good morning. Yes it is. I admit Labor's struggling. Our numbers aren't good. But the story in
The Australian,
Sabra, is pure fabrication. I never usually discuss internal polling, but I can tell your listeners that Mr Dunkley's so-called scoop is 100 per cent wrong . . .'

‘In what way, Mr Tighe?'

‘Well,
The Australian
reports so-called internal party polling on Catriona Bailey. I can say this: we have not done any such polling. Dunkley has simply made it up.'

The online vultures started circling immediately, driven by a hatred of Murdoch and old media. In just a few hours, the press gallery veteran had become the Antichrist.

The social media lynch mob was whipping itself into a frenzy, words laced with poison and relish. But the outrage spewed well beyond the twitterverse. Cabinet ministers were telling senior gallery figures that
The Australian'
s star scribe was a dead man walking.

‘Dunkley's about as popular as Alan Jones at a Destroy the Joint meeting,' one female minister told a Fairfax journo, eager to plunge the knife into the News Corp hack.

In Parliament, the Toohey Government had suspended standing orders so its chief head-kicker, the Minister for Education and failed marriages, Xavier Quinn, could take a baseball bat to Dunkley. For fifteen ugly minutes, the South Australian MP laid out the case against the Murdoch employee, every word protected by parliamentary privilege.

‘Politics is a tough business and we, in the government, respect the role that the fourth estate plays in holding those in power to account,' Quinn said. ‘But this so-called journalist – this Murdoch journalist – has crossed the line between reporting the news and being an activist.

‘One of my colleagues calls Dunkley “the player” – and it's an apt description. For on this occasion it appears he was intent on sabotaging a democratically elected government.'

Ease up, turbo. I got some polling figures wrong, okay? Toohey's still fucked. And I was set up.

The Greens and the independents were predictably linking the story with News Corp's alleged persecution of the Toohey Government and the forty-third Parliament.

‘The “hate media” has overstepped the mark yet again in its unprincipled desire to bring about regime change,' Greens' leader Kiirsty Stanford-Long had told reporters.

In his office, the journalist sat helpless as the assault on his reputation intensified. On the twittersphere, #DunkleyDoneFor was trending.

He'd desperately tried to raise Brendan Ryan, the man who'd fed him the figures and later verified the thrust of his now discredited scoop. There was no answer and his office said the minister would be busy all day.

His character was being shredded. Still, he could hardly complain. He'd built his career on being the hardest hitter in politics. He never shied from a tussle and worried about the diminishing pool of journalists willing to get their hands dirty.

‘If you want to play in the big league, you've got to be prepared to take more hits than Joe Frazier,' was his advice to young guns arriving in Canberra.

This was no boxing contest, however. It was more like a one-sided UFC bout – and he was on the ground taking whack after painful whack.

‘Hey Harry, how ya going? Want a coffee?' Ben Wakefield,
The Australian'
s irrepressible online journo, was hovering.

He liked Ben but it wasn't caffeine he needed.

‘No thanks, comrade. Appreciate it, though.'

Wakefield was one of the few colleagues to have sauntered over to see how he was faring. As if he should have been surprised. That was the nature of the press gallery. If you were on top of your game and filing scoop after scoop you received grudging admiration – but if you slipped up, look out.

The bared fangs of jealous vipers were frightening.

His phone buzzed. It was Celia, the first time she'd rung since the big fright. He was heartened to see her name flash on his phone, but now wasn't the right moment to talk to her. He let the call go to voicemail.