Chapter 18
President Pardington sat at the head of the gleaming table.
Around him ranged most of his senior advisors, pale. Still checking messages. Those who’d already received tragic news had left to comfort their families.
“The toll?”
When told the number of Americans confirmed dead and injured and then advised that, of course, it was rising, he gave a curt nod.
He’d forced himself to look at the images, taken by the body cams of rescuers, of what happened when elevators plunged ten, twenty, sixty floors. It had made him physically sick. He’d actually had to race to the bathroom to vomit.
He was heartsick. Whoever did this knew, knew they’d be killing innocent men, women, children. But first, in stopping the elevators, they’d be tormenting them. And their families. There was not a person in America and, perhaps, in the world who had not lost someone they cared for.
There were howls now, of grief. And for revenge.
All Americans, and much of the world, were looking to him. For guidance. For leadership. While inside this room, it was deathly quiet, as his crisis cabinet waited for him to say something.
Finally, Fraser Pardington said what they were all thinking.
“What the fuck is China doing?”
But this was, they all knew, not just about China. This was a monumental failure of their own. How could no one have seen this coming? And that meant they were also blind to what was coming next. Because everyone in that room knew there would be a next.
“Excuse me.” The Secretary of Health got up, his face ashen, his hands shaking. Without another word, he left. They waited for the door to close before the Secretary of Defense spoke.
“What does China hope to accomplish with these attacks? Doesn’t Chen know that there will be…”
“Consequences,” supplied the Secretary of State.
“Retaliation,” said the President.
He’d chosen the word carefully. It was stronger than “consequences,” and sounded better than “revenge,” though that was what it came down to. At this moment in history, actions mattered, but before there were actions, there were words. And those were now weaponized.
“The news media, social media is blowing up. Demanding a declaration of war, and I’m tempted to give it to them.
” Pardington placed his hands, screwed into white-knuckled fists, on the table and leaned forward.
“Chen’s no fool. He must know what’s coming.
I need to know how this happened. How we missed it.
And why China has done this. I need answers. Now!”
“We’re trying,” said Wang.
He didn’t need to see the look on Chen’s face to tell him that was a useless answer.
But it was a fact. He was trying. Everyone was trying. Everyone was traumatized.
Everyone knew too that whatever was happening, whoever was behind it, would not stop here. There was more to come. Either from the terrorists or from the West.
China was facing an enraged world up in arms. And soon to take up arms. Demanding revenge. Demanding blood. Already there were reports of attacks on Chinese citizens worldwide. On Asians. Few bothered to make the distinction.
The world was teetering on the verge of war.
“There’s some element, here in China, that wants to bring us down,” said a senior member of the Standing Committee. “Who?”
“Pangu,” said another member.
And with that, the meeting descended into chaos, with everyone talking at once, yelling, accusing, admonishing. Fighting for their political lives. And, given the look on Chen’s face, probably more than political.
As the tumult continued all around him, Chen closed his eyes. This was useless.
He’d been able to spend just a few minutes at the private hospital with his wife. The doctors assured him she would be fine. But then he’d assured those in the elevators they’d be fine.
The doctors had looked petrified. Of him. And he realized that striking terror into the population for years was a double-edged sword. It meant he could rule with impunity. That his word was law. Dissent was crushed.
But it also meant people were too afraid to tell him the truth. And right now, he needed the truth.
He’d sat beside his wife, smoothing her gray hair away from her hot forehead, and whispered that she’d be fine. That the grandchildren were bruised but safe. That she’d saved them.
She’d roused and smiled and asked why he was there. “You playing hooky? Using me as an excuse to get out of the office?”
“Exactly,” he’d said. “I’m off to get ice cream now and sit in the park.”
“I’ll join you.”
He almost wept, realizing that could never, ever happen again. What he wouldn’t give now to go back to those first years together.
As he left, his mind snagged on something. Some passing thought. And then, in the car back to the cold, grim office, he had it.
The double-edged sword. It brought back a memory, even a scent.
Sitting in the vehicle rushing through the center of Beijing, he picked up the slight aroma of the pine forests of Shaanxi as he and his grandfather strolled the paths.
At a clearing, they’d stop to admire Mount Li in the distance, never dreaming what was under there. Waiting for a farmer digging a well.
“Ten years to sharpen a sword,” his grandfather would quote. “Its sharp bright edge never tried.”
“Today I show it to you,” the young Chen would finish it. “For whom justice was denied.”
The quote was from a swordsman, Ji Dao, who’d lived more than a thousand years ago. The young Chen loved his grandfather, loved the walks, but never really understood the quote, or thought about it, until now.
It was about revenge. Simmering, inevitable. Brutal.
“Ten years to sharpen a sword,” he whispered now, as all around him members of the Standing Committee fought among themselves.
“Do you think it was shown to us today? The sword?”
Chen turned to see Wang sitting beside him, having slipped into the chair of the Vice President, who was on his feet yelling at another member.
“You know the quote?”
“Of course. It’s a famous warning, about long memories and justice and what happens when we create our own enemies.”
Chen nodded. “What happened today was not an event. It’s a process. Many years in the making. And we must stop it. Now.”
His clever gaze moved back to the gathering and the men, mostly elderly, descending into physical fights.
“Whoever’s behind it must have powerful connections,” he said, almost to himself. “The alarms and now this must have taken years to plan. And untold amounts of money. Hundreds of millions.”
“Which means,” said Wang, “whoever’s behind this is being protected. Someone in this room?”
They both considered what was now a near riot. Then Chen’s eyes returned to the face of his friend. His former friend.
“I think so.”
Chen stood up, and slowly, as people noticed, the room quieted as heads turned to the supreme leader. They watched as he stared at them, clearly in disgust, then turned and walked out. His back to their deep bows.
Wang followed. “You’ll need to speak to the Americans eventually.”
“And say what? The truth? That we have no idea what the fuck is happening?”
“They might be able to help.”
“You’re a fool if you think that. They might even be behind this. Have you thought of that?”
“Would they crash their own elevators?”
“How many did they send to needless death in Vietnam? In Iraq? In other pointless wars? American leaders would deny it, but the truth is they do not value their own people.”
Wang thought that was rich, coming from Chen, but wisely remained quiet.
“We need to solve our own problem,” said Chen. “Before the Americans recover and come for us. And let’s not forget, they have nuclear weapons.”
“As do we. Would they really drop the bomb on us?”
“I would, if I were them.” After a few more steps down the carpeted corridor, Chen said, “You need to go to Xi’an.”
President Pardington turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“I need invasion plans drawn up.”
It seemed incredible that he should say such a thing out loud. A week earlier, it would have been considered insane, reason to impeach him on grounds of mental instability. It was probably still insane, but it had to be done. The plan, if not the actual invasion.
“Yessir. On your orders, the Seventh Fleet is already sailing from the port of Yokosuka in Japan, heading to the South China Sea.”
“And how big is that force?” the Secretary of Defense, Joanne Clavelle, asked. “When last I looked, we had seventy ships there.”
“That’s correct,” said the Secretary of the Navy.
“Against two hundred forty-five Chinese warships in the region.”
“Yes.” The head of the Joint Chiefs tried to sound confident, but they all knew that American exceptionalism only went so far. They were now on the border of American delusion.
“I read in the Times that China has built a replica of one of our warships in a desert, and is using it for target practice,” said the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development.
Everyone looked at him, surprised. They’d forgotten he was there.
“You could have read it in my briefings,” said the head of the Joint Chiefs. “Had you bothered.”
“Should we ground our passenger planes?” asked the head of Homeland Security.
“To what end?” demanded another member of the cabinet.
“To save lives,” snapped the Secretary of Transportation, who, above all, did not want to be blamed should the planes start falling out of the skies.
“France has grounded its planes,” said the Secretary of Housing.
“So has Croatia.”
The room erupted into fierce debate, with some advocating stopping all flights, all trains, all subways. All public transportation.
Some wanted a national curfew, commanding citizens to stay indoors.
“Or what?” said one. “They’ll be shot? We can’t imprison citizens in their own homes. That’s not just ridiculous, it’s undoable. Not after what happened in the pandemic. People won’t comply. They’ll turn against us. They’ll feel they’re being punished, Mr. President, for what China did.”