Drone Command (15 page)

ON BOARD THE HONDAJET

11 MAY 2017

T
he plane skipped like a flat rock on a rippling pond. Seawater sprayed over the windscreen as they jerked against their safety belts. The HondaJet shuddered until it finally came to a halt.

Judy taught Pearce that ditching a plane on smooth water was as likely a survivable event as a crash landing on flat dirt. The trick was to get out fast.

“We've got thirty seconds. Go!” Pearce shouted, as he unbuckled the safety straps. He wasn't sure if that was all the time they had, but he didn't want to wait around to find out.

Myers quickly popped her safety-strap releases and climbed out of her seat, racing for the exit door. Pearce pointed at the life jacket strapped to the bulkhead, a safety regulation for commercial jets flying over open water.

“Strap that thing on. I'll grab the raft.” Pearce felt the plane bobbing in the water but didn't get the sense it was sinking.

Yet.

“Got it,” Myers said, pulling the jacket out of its harness. She tossed one to Pearce then grabbed one for herself.

“Thanks.” He pulled it on as he scrambled for the emergency locker. He yanked it open and found the inflatable raft folded into a solid yellow square.

Myers struggled to pull on her life vest.

“Need help?”

“No, I got it,” Myers said. “But I should've paid more attention when the flight attendant was demonstrating it.”

“I thought you were the flight attendant.”

She laughed, snapping the buckles into place. “That's the other problem.”

Pearce grabbed the raft out of its container and stepped toward the cabin door.

“All set?”

Myers nodded. “Good thing for you I like to swim.”

“May not have to,” Pearce said, patting the heavy yellow rubber. He dropped the uninflated raft at his feet and grabbed the lift handles on the cabin door and raised them. The door swung open easily, the bottom of it still a few inches above the water.

“So far so good,” Myers said.

Pearce grasped the raft's red inflation handle in one hand and tossed the square out with the other. It splashed in the water several feet away and Pearce tugged on the inflation handle, activating a compressed-air cylinder that instantly inflated the raft. Pearce secured the tether line to the door handle and pulled the raft back close to the door. The plane had already sunk five inches and the raft was now even with the cabin door opening. Water began lapping into the entrance.

“After you, Madame President.”

“Don't forget to bring the peanuts and sodas,” Myers said, stepping gingerly into the bobbing raft.

Once she was securely in, Pearce leaped in after her and cut the rope with a utility knife provided in the raft kit. He handed her one of the two short paddles and they pushed away as fast as they could from the plane to avoid getting dragged down with it.

The plane remained relatively stable, the nose sinking by degrees as water flooded in. Pearce pulled out his emergency satellite phone and dialed up the air traffic controller at Ishigaki Airport, which was located on a small island about a hundred miles south of his position. The
controller informed him that they had been tracking their flight since leaving Narita International Airport and that a JMSDF rescue helicopter was already on its way.

“Now all we have to do is wait,” Pearce said.

Suddenly, Myers was overwhelmed with the magnitude of what had just happened. A Chinese fighter jet had just thrown them out of the sky, nearly killing them. She shuddered violently, as if badly chilled.

Pearce gathered her up in his arms, shielding her from the ocean breeze.

But she wasn't cold.

“Won't be long,” he promised.

She nodded, happy to be held in his strong embrace.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Pearce asked.

“And then some. That sonofabitch could've killed us.”

“But he didn't.”

“Thanks to you,” Myers said. “If only that pilot knew he just did us one hell of a favor.”

TANAKA'S PRIVATE RESIDENCE

TOKYO, JAPAN

11 MAY 2017

T
anaka gripped the bars of the dip station in his powerful hands. A leather belt cinched around his waist held a fifty-pound weight by a chain that dangled below his knees. He leaned forward and lowered himself until his elbows were at ninety degrees, then thrust upward, pecs and triceps exploding with power until he was fully extended. He repeated the move again and again, watching himself in the wall-length mirror, careful to keep the heavy weight between his legs nearly motionless with his perfect form. Sweat poured off his face as his arms and chest burned with lactic acid. An aide pounded on the door of his private gym.

“Enter!”

Tanaka pounded out the last brutal rep, then set his feet on the platform to relieve his exhausted arms.

The aide ran over, bowing deeply, begging forgiveness as Tanaka unchained the dumbbell and dropped it onto its rack with a clang.

“What is it?”

The aide explained. Myers's plane had crashed an hour ago in the East China Sea. Either shot down or forced down by a Chinese fighter jet.

“Dead?”

“No, sir. Rescued by one of our helicopters just a few minutes ago.”

Tanaka dismissed the man and mopped his soaking-wet face with a towel. The gym door shut. He was alone.

Tanaka burst into laughter.

It would have served the Americans right if she had been killed. They had taunted the dragon, and the dragon snapped. Americans were arrogant fools.

He grabbed a seventy-pound dumbbell from the rack and sat in a chair with a low padded back, starting his first set of triceps extensions, slowly lowering and raising the heavy weight behind his head. He could already feel the burn.

An old familiar rage welled up in his gut as he lifted.
The Americans dare to tell us how to defend ourselves? They can't even win their own wars, but presume to tell us how to protect our nation? Arrogant bastards.

Tanaka squeezed out the last rep and dropped the weight into his lap.

As bad as the Chinese were, at least they were honest
, Tanaka thought. They hated Japan and everything it stood for, especially since Japan had proven itself superior in every regard. Their hatred wasn't just public; it was public policy.

But Tanaka deeply resented America. It paraded around as if it were a rich benevolent uncle at a birthday party. But in Tanaka's mind, America was a tyrant and a hypocrite. The United States had murdered hundreds of thousands of innocent Japanese citizens during the war in order to terrorize his country into submission, and now they have the gall to wage a war against terror?

Tanaka raised the weight back over his head, began the next set of reps, slow and steady. The seething anger energized his muscles.

The Americans forced a treaty on us
, he fumed.
Wrote our Constitution. Forbade us to have an army or navy. They might as well have castrated every Japanese male while they were at it. But worst of all, America destroyed our sacred culture by forcing Americanism on us, ripping out the heart of Japan by relegating the divine emperor to the status of just another privileged royal. The very essence of what it meant to be Japanese was our culture. By destroying our traditional culture, America destroyed Japan itself.

There was no doubt in Tanaka's mind at all.

Japan's only hope for survival as a nation and a culture was the destruction of both China and America.

Tanaka pushed the dumbbell faster and faster. Eight reps, nine reps—

Japan didn't have the ability to destroy either the U.S. or China.

But they had the power to destroy each other.

Tanaka powered through another five reps. He shouted as he raised the dumbbell for the last rep, his arms trembling with fatigue, muscles failing with complete exhaustion. Tanaka roared a low, open-throated shout from deep within, releasing his last ounce of spiritual energy. The weight rose, millimeter by millimeter, until it finally cleared the back of his head. He lowered the heavy weight into his lap, grinning ear to ear. He stood and tossed the dumbbell into the rack.

It suddenly dawned on him. Myers had shown him the way.

He laughed again, clapping his hands.
Hai!

She had shown him the way.

FOUR SEASONS HOTEL AT MARUNOUCHI

TOKYO, JAPAN

12 MAY 2017

M
yers stood at the window, arms crossed. Watched the traffic six stories below.

Pang Bo, the Chinese ambassador, stood behind her a respectful distance away. Hong Kong–tailored suit, Rolex watch, frameless glasses. His security people remained outside the door, over their protest. Pearce stood in the corner, glaring at the tall, well-groomed ambassador.

“My government is extremely grateful that you suffered no permanent injuries, Madame President.”

“That hardly seems possible, since your government obviously tried to kill me.”

“We were unaware of your presence on the plane, I assure you. A plane, I might add, that violated Chinese sovereign airspace—”

Myers laughed. “Are you kidding me? Mao Island? It's a false claim under false pretenses.”

“It's a perfectly legitimate claim that has been fully documented and presented to the appropriate international authorities for verification.”

“International authorities you bully or bribe into your sphere of influence.”

“China enjoys the same right as other nations to protect its borders, territories, and economic zones. We're confident that the international community will eventually see things our way.”

Myers turned and faced Pang. A smug grin was plastered on his face.

“Because of the heightened state of tension between our two nations, I'm willing to keep this matter as private as possible, Mr. Pang. But I demand a full, official apology from your government for that reckless, senseless attack on our airplane.”

“Forgive me, Madame President, but it's impossible to apologize for an act that wasn't committed. We made no attack on your person, and had we known you were on board the aircraft, we would have taken extra precaution. But your aircraft was specifically warned to remain on its scheduled flight plan and that leaving the designated flight corridor could result in a shoot down.” The ambassador's grin widened. “But as you witnessed, the Chinese people showed great restraint, and our pilot didn't fire any weapons.”

“Good thing I wasn't flying over Tiananmen Square.”

Pang's grin fled.

“My government hoped that my appearance here at your hotel room would sufficiently convey our deepest concern for your well-being.”

“Your government is going to get us into a shooting war.”

“The Chinese people have no wish for war.”

“Then why are you trying to steal the oil reserves in the East China Sea?”

“One cannot steal from one's self.”

“Tell me, Pang, who's the idiot behind this Mao Island business? I know President Sun. He's far too smart to do something this radically stupid.”

The ambassador's jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it.

Now it was Myers's turn to grin. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“I believe President Sun is in complete agreement with the current policy.”

“How uninformed do you think I am? He's not the one behind all of this. It's Feng, isn't it?”

The ambassador frowned briefly, surprised at her insider knowledge.

“Vice Chairman Feng speaks for many in our government. The East China Sea belongs to China. That is a historical fact and a current reality.”

“My advice to you is to tell President Sun to call off his dog Feng before the Sixth Fleet steams into Shanghai harbor with all guns blazing.”

“Highly unlikely, Madame President.”

Myers laughed. “Why? Because of the Wu-14? It's a joke, and we both know it.”

“I am not a military man, but I have been assured of its capabilities.”

“My government knows for a fact that it's a fraud. We can't even produce one. And since all of your country's military advancements only come from stealing ours, I'm completely confident the Wu-14 is nothing more than a two-bit bottle rocket.”

“Spoken like the former president of a failing superpower.”

“You're an arrogant man representing an arrogant country. Someone needs to teach you both some manners.”

Pang's pallid face flushed crimson. Myers had scored a direct hit.

“Perhaps I have upset the president. Please forgive my intrusion today. I will take my leave.”

“If I don't get an apology from Feng personally within twenty-four hours, I'm contacting President Lane.”

“I will convey your message.” Pang turned to leave. He fumbled with the door, unnerved by Pearce's glowering eyes. He finally got it open and slammed it shut after him, fuming.

Pearce approached Myers. “A little rough on him, weren't you?”

“That's the point. It's not enough to find a Buick. You've got to crash it into your man, remember?”

PRESIDENT SUN'S OFFICE

ZHONGNANHAI

BEIJING, CHINA

13 MAY 2017

T
he headquarters of the Chinese Communist Party and the vast bureaucracy known as the State Council were located behind the ancient red walls of Zhongnanhai, the ornate imperial leisure garden of China's resplendent emperors.

Vice Chairman Feng and Admiral Ji stood uncomfortably in President Sun's executive office. The squat, balding technocrat sat glumly behind his massive mahogany desk, his small hands folded quietly in front of him. Four red phones, a single black phone, a row of sharpened pencils, an empty yellow writing tablet, an iPad, and a recent family photo of Sun, his wife, and his daughter were the only items on the fifteen-foot-wide expanse.

Behind Sun, a wall-length bookcase of identical construction as the desk, each shelf neatly stacked with legal, political, and chemical engineering texts, reflecting Sun's accomplished professional background. Above the bookshelves, a reproduction of the ten-inch-tall, seventeen-foot-long scroll painting
Along the River During the Qingming Festival
, the most famous work in all of Chinese history. The thousand-year-old painting by the master Zhang Zeduan depicted the prosperous economic life of the Song Dynasty. Sun's administration referenced the painting as often as possible. It was a clear message conveying the peace and prosperity of
an era before both Western colonialism and the brutality of Maoist Communism, the perfect metaphor for Sun's reform programs.

Feng quietly seethed, waiting for the hapless president to croak out some blathering inanity. Sun looked like a sleepy toad with a bad comb-over, his oily face and hands riddled with liver spots. Dark bags underscored his heavy-lidded eyes, which blinked behind thick prescription lenses wedged into large, unstylish frames.

Sun's inexorable rise to power had always frustrated Feng. The rancid little bureaucrat had an excellent reputation as an efficient and effective administrator, but he possessed little in the way of charisma or personal presence. His singular virtue was his determined, stubborn spirit. Like dripping water, he invariably wore down his opposition, less by force than by persistence. His unassuming demeanor caused many to underestimate him. His anticorruption reforms at the local and state levels were insignificant as far as Feng was concerned, but it was surprising that Sun survived the ordeal at all. Even the bottom-feeders in China's ruthless political ecosystem were dangerous. Sun was the compromise choice of a slim majority within the Politburo and the Standing Committee to become China's latest version of a reform president. His alliances were shaky at best. In Feng's estimation, Sun's days were numbered, especially when the nation would come to rally around him in the coming weeks when the oil would begin to flow from the Mao Island project and the American navy was driven out of Chinese territorial waters for good.

President Sun had summoned—
summoned!
—Feng and Ji to his office today with a terse summary of the meeting's agenda and a copy of Ambassador Pang's troubling report.

“I believe the Mao Island project is becoming too dangerous to continue,” President Sun said. “It must be shut down immediately.”

Feng tensed. “But Mao Island drilling has just begun. You're well aware of the oil and gas reserves we shall capture if we don't lose heart.”

“The risk of war with the United States is greater than the reward of continued operations.”

“The risk of war poses no danger; only war is dangerous. And the Americans will avoid a war with us at all costs,” Admiral Ji said.

“You nearly killed an American president yesterday. Do you think the Americans wouldn't have retaliated if you had ended her life?” Sun asked.

Admiral Ji raised his hands in protest. “It was an accident. Had she announced her presence, we would have dealt with the situation differently.”

“I'm afraid the Standing Committee agrees with me, gentlemen. Not you.”

President Sun was the first among equals as one member of the seven-member Standing Committee, the ruling body that controlled the Communist Party of China. The Communist Party of China, in turn, controlled everything else, including the government and military. The Standing Committee met at least once per week and sometimes more if a particular crisis arose. Their decisions were reached through debate and consensus, but once made, they were final. President Sun was the legal head of all three branches of government—party, executive, and military. All of the members of the ruling class, no matter their bureaucratic or military titles, were members of the Party, and the Standing Committee controlled the Party.

President Sun was also the chairman of the Central Military Commission, which controlled all the branches of the military. But Sun's chairmanship was more ceremonial than actual. Vice Chairman Feng was the true head of the CMC, and General Chen, the other vice chairman, was Feng's paid lackey. As powerful as he was, however, Vice Chairman Feng wasn't yet a member of the Standing Committee. He had attained his position as vice chairman of the Central Military Commission three years before Sun rose to the presidency, and though Sun legally could dismiss Feng, he didn't have the political muscle to do so. Feng's densely woven web of alliances and secret bank accounts had proven too difficult to crack even for the determined Sun.

“The Standing Committee may agree with you,” Feng said, “but the Central Military Commission certainly does not.” He started to tell Sun that he knew the secret Standing Committee meeting had split four to three on their recent vote because three of the Standing Committee members were on Feng's payroll, as were half of the Politburo, who
elected the Standing Committee, but there was no point in tipping his hand now.

“Vice Chairman Feng is correct,” Admiral Ji said. “The PLAN is quite in favor of our current direction.”

“And the PLAN is willing to risk a catastrophic war for a few gallons of oil?” President Sun asked.

“The Americans don't want war and neither do we. But there will be no war because the Americans won't fight us,” the admiral insisted.

“Did you bother to read Ambassador Pang's report?” Sun demanded.

“Of course. Myers is mistaken. The Sixth Fleet wouldn't dare challenge us.”

“She's a failed president of a failing nation,” Feng said. “What does it matter what she thinks?”

“It matters because she's a close friend of President Lane's. My sources tell me she helped him win power. That means she has influence over him.” Sun leaned forward. “And she wants an apology from you, Feng. A personal apology.”

Feng was lost in thought. It suddenly occurred to him that Myers might be his best option yet. “If you were certain that the Americans would not oppose us, would you support the continued drilling at Mao Island?”

“Do you take me for an idiot? Of course I would. The amount of oil and gas located there would virtually guarantee our energy independence in the coming decade,” Sun said. “But you can't guarantee the Americans won't attack us.”

“Myers said the Americans don't believe the Wu-14 is operational. You also said she has influence over Lane. If I can convince Myers the Wu-14 exists, she'll convince Lane. And if Lane believes we have it, the U.S. Navy will, and the U.S. Navy will never risk an aircraft carrier, especially for the sake of Japanese oil interests.”

“Vice Chairman Feng is exactly right,” Admiral Ji said.

Feng relaxed, knowing he'd already won. “So let me propose this. I'll invite President Myers to meet me in person, and I will apologize to her face-to-face.”

“Where and when?” Sun asked.

“At Admiral Ji's headquarters,” Feng said. “Where the Wu-14 is currently located.”

President Sun unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair, thinking.

“Yes, that might just work.”

“I'll make the arrangements immediately,” Feng said.

Once Myers saw the Wu-14 in person, the Americans would be convinced of its existence. China might just win this war without firing a shot.

“Do so, and keep me informed,” the president said, picking up a phone. He waived a spotted hand, dismissing the two men.

“As you wish,” Feng said.

Feng glared at Sun's flaking scalp. He made a mental note as he left. The first thing he'd do when he took over this office was to have it thoroughly disinfected.