The Shadow Game (22 page)

The Oak Room had been booked for 10am. Just the two of them.

The Brisbane Club was whisper quiet on this glorious morning but Emily Brooks needed a private suite for a very private discussion.

She was surprised to find the club's general manager on his mobile, sweating over what sounded like a romance gone wrong. ‘Michael, how nice to see you,' Brooks purred. ‘Now get the fuck out of here.'

The manager scurried from the room, leaving Brooks to shuffle a few chairs before glancing at her watch.

He arrived on time and alone. She sized him up: tall, handsome, regal. Just what she needed.

Brooks motioned to a chair.

‘Well, Sir Jack, you are looking fine this morning. Please take a seat.'

The defence chief was en route to Townsville to visit Lavarack Barracks. Another battalion from the 3rd Brigade was heading out on exercises and he'd promised to personally send them off.

Jack Webster had also promised to meet with Brooks, whom he knew well.

The two shared a mutual respect: Webster was a rock star military chief whose status as ‘Australia's most trusted person' had been confirmed in a recent ReachTEL poll; Brooks was a political assassin who shared his hawkish worldview.

She also knew how to stroke the ego of a vain man.

‘Your speech to the Press Club is still making waves, Sir Jack, and not just with the feministas. I bumped into a retired general last night; he said it was the high point of your career. Must say, I agree.'

Webster smoothed a crease on his blue jacket.

‘Thank you, Emily; yes, I've been rather pleased with the response. But it's not just talk. I'm determined to follow through. Absolutely determined.'

‘I don't doubt that, not for a minute. I've always admired that about you. Your word is as good as its deed. I know some in Defence will resist it, but leadership is about doing what is right, not what is popular. You will no doubt upset some of the brass who are still fighting with pistols and bayonets. But you are looking to the future and you embrace the courage of your convictions. With your strength I've no doubt that you will take the people with you.'

Brooks paused for a moment, clasping her hands winningly and leaning close to her target.

‘We could use some of that leadership in the Liberal Party.'

Webster cocked his head in mock surprise. ‘I would have thought the Liberal Party had a stable of leaders: you, the prime minister . . .'

Brooks's response bled derision. ‘Elizabeth Scott? Oh please. That woman is leading us off a cliff. She personifies the do-nothing, time-wasting style perfected by Malcolm Fraser, coupled with a bleeding left heart. She's lost our base and will lose us the next election if we don't do something drastic.'

‘What did you have in mind, Emily? Resurrect Gandhi? No, Thatcher's more your style, right?'

‘Hah! Yes, Jack, the Iron Lady is a role model. But we, the Liberal Party, need someone closer to home, someone who understands the psyche of the Australian people, someone who can rescue this country from its meandering path to mediocrity.'

‘Sounds like you should put your hand up again, Emily. I'm told the Right are feeling quite emboldened.'

‘No, not me,' Brooks said, with an air of resignation. ‘That sex tape cruelled my chances. We need a cleanskin, someone who can take us in a new direction, the right direction. Importantly, we need someone who can beat Catriona Bailey.'

Brooks arched her eyebrows knowingly as she arrived at the point of the meeting. ‘You dabbled in party politics once, Jack; our side, right?'

‘You know about that. It was a long, long time ago, during my young idealistic phase. The air force drove that out of me quick smart,' Webster said with a chuckle.

The Liberal warrior fixed the knighted hero with her piercing eyes. He blinked first.

‘Jack, I am not joking. The nation is crying out for leadership; our party is aching for someone who can take the people with him, someone who is trusted.' She pointed at him. ‘You could be that person.'

Brooks knew she was playing with one of the most vulnerable and dangerous animals on the planet: the male ego.

‘I'm not even a member of parliament.'

‘This state proved you don't need to be. Campbell Newman became premier from the outside . . . though we'd be hoping for a better outcome.'

‘Emily, in case you haven't noticed, we're on the verge of war in the South China Sea.'

‘Yes, and I also note that your plans for action, and the only possibility of success, are being frustrated.'

Webster waited a moment. ‘Those are matters for the National Security Committee.'

‘No, Jack, we are talking about the security of this nation. We need a leader whose plans cannot be thwarted by some weak-kneed limp-wristed small-l liberal.'

The CDF checked his watch. ‘I have to go, Emily; I'm due in Townsville at 1500 hours.'

‘Townsville, hey? That's in the seat of Herbert. Solid north Queensland seat, full of Mr and Mrs Stringbag types. Rolled-gold middle Australia. You might like to think of it as a dry run . . .'

Webster rose and gave Brooks a kiss on the cheek, gathering up his briefcase in one fluid motion.

As she watched him go Brooks felt a small sense of triumph. She had a practised eye for spotting a politician. Webster was one of the best she'd ever seen.

Zero hour was approaching. Since the sun had set across the White House lawns, the US president had been walking a diplomatic high wire on one of the most sensitive military operations ever proposed by America.

Mikaela Asta stifled a yawn as she prepared to make one last call to slot the final piece into a fragile alliance. A single misstep could bring the whole house of cards tumbling down.

Weeks of groundwork had preceded these conversations.

Using her trademark ‘strongarm charm', Asta had already secured the backing of South Korea's president, Park Geun-hye, for the international flotilla in the South China Sea. But it had been a close-run thing.

Seoul was deeply worried about China's regional ambitions, but Park was equally concerned by Japan's mooted inclusion in the US-led fleet.

‘Madam President, my people will not take kindly to joining forces with Tokyo, and Japan's inclusion will only fuel China's nationalistic fervour,' Park had said.

The leader of the free world was starting to appreciate the complexity of relations between China, Japan and South Korea. Each brought their own interpretation of recent history plus two thousand years of grievances to the table.

Asta's advisers had given her a potted version of East Asia's complicated past with its ancient feuds and atrocities. Korean mothers still threatened misbehaving children with ‘The ear-nose devils are coming', a reference to a 400-year-old war in which Japanese soldiers had mutilated the faces of murdered Koreans. Even the most recent grievance had roots that reached back more than a century, to Japan's annexure of Korea, a brutal and bitter colonisation that only ended with Japan's defeat in World War II.

‘I understand the sensitivities,' Asta had soothed Park. ‘I'm not asking you to send a ship to join the flotilla; I just need a public declaration of your support.'

The American leader had sensed President Park was wavering. It had been time to play her trump card.

‘Madam President, I'm aware that you would like to buy three Aegis shipboard combat systems and three vertical launch missile systems from us, which your navy considers vital to defending your maritime interests. I can have the sale approved by the State Department tomorrow if it helps you ease your people's concerns.'

Asta had paused to let the offer sink in before adding a rider.

‘But if you cannot offer even vocal support for this vital mission, then this request will be bound up in red tape for years.'

The line had gone silent for a moment before the Korean translator confirmed the deal, contingent on the US garnering a broad coalition.

‘I have one last question,' President Park had said.

‘About what, ma'am?'

‘Australia. They have followed America into every conflict for eighty years, yet my ambassador in Canberra tells me its leadership is divided.'

Asta had shifted in her seat.

‘Madam President, I assure you, Australia is in. We are just working on the detail and, as you know, this project is highly sensitive. We haven't gone public yet.'

Despite her bravado, Asta was troubled. Her vice president had assured her that Australia was a shoo-in and had advised against making an early call to the prime minister. Morgan McDonald had told her that ‘my man in Canberra' would close the deal so that when Asta spoke to Elizabeth Scott it would be a formality. She feared this call would be anything but.

The president rubbed at a knot in her neck as the Oval Office phone rang.

‘Prime Minister, thanks for taking my call.'

‘Madam President, good afternoon – or should I say good evening? It must be late in Washington.'

‘Approaching 11pm, Elizabeth. The day is but young.'

The two leaders briefly shared a laugh before Asta outlined the American plan. An armada of warships drawn from seven nations would sail into the South China Sea then through the twelve-nautical-mile exclusion zone around the Spratly Islands. It
would be an unprecedented show of solidarity and send the most defiant of messages to Beijing.

And this would be no public relations parade. China had to be shown that the threat of force was real. So the US would establish a forward base for an aircraft carrier strike group in the Philippines, while other navies would rotate their warships through Subic Bay.

Any move by Beijing to stockpile weapons on the terraformed islands would be met with a blockade.

‘But we don't think it will come to that,' Asta said. ‘Beijing's hand is weak. We know that. More importantly, President Meng knows that.'

‘How can you be sure?' The hesitation in Scott's voice was amplified by the speaker on the Oval Office desk.

‘Our intelligence is solid. The combat systems on the experimental planes that China displayed during Meng's visit to the Spratlys are not ready. They won't be ready for years.'

Scott sounded far from convinced. ‘With respect, Madam President, that's not the point. China will be forced to challenge any blockade, otherwise Meng would suffer a loss of face that would cripple his leadership. Like Kennedy in the Cuban Missile Crisis, you risk a high-stakes confrontation on the high seas. The slightest mistake could lead to war.'

‘If that moment came we would prevail, just like Kennedy. China doesn't want war, neither do we.' Asta's voice rang with conviction, but Scott was unmoved.

‘Most countries don't want war but they wage war when the alternatives are worse,' Scott said. ‘For Meng, losing face would
trigger internal unrest and that would threaten his hold on power. Losing power at home is worse than risking war abroad.'

Each time the president raised a point, the prime minister objected. Asta hadn't needed or wanted a debate. It was now 11.28pm. She was beat and annoyed, but she couldn't afford to show it.

‘Elizabeth, China is playing us because it thinks we don't have the guts to fight. If we don't make a stand now we might not be able to in the future. Beijing knows that. So it will be delighted to pat your hand and keep you talking until it builds those islands into an unbreachable wall.'

Asta noted a long pause on the other end of the line.

‘Mikaela, you are also asking for a nuclear-capable B-1 bomber to be based at Tindal in the Northern Territory. Its range is close to twelve thousand kilometres. It's half that distance from Tindal to Beijing. What message do you think that will send?'

Asta tried to maintain her calm. The entire mission – her mission – hinged on this phone call. If Australia baulked the fragile coalition would fall apart.

‘Elizabeth, China's ballistic missiles now have a reach of over seven thousand miles. One launched from Mischief Reef could land on your parliament. How would the Australian people feel if you allowed nuclear weapons in reach of their homes?'

She softened her tone a touch.

‘This is about protecting all our interests. I hope that Australia will support us in this vital mission. We do not want to act alone, but we will if we must.'

The line went quiet and then Asta heard Scott taking a deep breath. ‘Madam President,' Scott said, ‘the situation for us is delicate. If you push me for an answer today . . . tonight, then the answer is no – I need more time.'

Asta's response was immediate, and as frigid as a Minnesota snowstorm.

‘I'm afraid you've just run out of time, Prime Minister.'

Her sleep had been more restless than usual. In the month she'd been president, Asta had taken on all the troubles of the world. Everywhere nations cried out for help and every time America responded it was pilloried and left to do the heavy lifting. The South China Sea was an exemplar: the entire region quailed before Beijing and called on Washington for protection. And when push came to shove Asta had been abandoned by her closest regional ally. Australia's greed had trumped its fear.

After being rebuffed by Scott, she'd retired to bed, but her efforts to snatch some decent rest were in vain. She was up by four, in the Oval Office an hour later, and demanding to see the vice president at 6am. Sharp.

‘What the hell's she playing at, Morgan? You told me Australia was on board. You were wrong.'

Asta stared down the rumpled vice president who, unusually, was at a loss to provide the right answers.

‘No Mikaela, I told you what Webster told me – “We've got
your back.” Clearly that did not translate into plain English for Ms Scott.'

Like the president, Big Mac had been working round the clock, hustling up the players in what would be a highly dangerous but calculated political gamble.

The play against China would be a declaration that Asta's presidency would restore American pride, a bold statement that there was still only one superpower. It was strategically vital too. Beijing's annexation of the South China Sea was threatening the security of America's key trade routes.

With an eye to next year's election, the move would also cement Asta's credentials as an uncompromising commander in chief, unafraid of deploying America's arsenal. This would be her Falklands moment. But it wouldn't be a squabble over a windswept waste with a bankrupt third-tier nation. This would be a heavyweight bout with the biggest thug in the world. Eat my dust, Margaret Thatcher.

When she and Big Mac were mapping out the Chinese strategy they had spent countless hours on the ‘hard asks': securing Japan, hustling Indonesia and Malaysia, cajoling Vietnam and South Korea. That Australia wouldn't play ball had never occurred to them.

Mystified, McDonald recounted his conversations with his close Australian ally.

‘Webster said Cabinet would debate our request, but that a sign-off would be “routine” – and that is a direct quote. It seems someone's got in the prime minister's ear,' the vice president said.

Asta sat down heavily in her chair. ‘Yes, it appears someone has. And the B-1 bomber? Who asked for that?'

‘It was Webster's idea. But no formal request has been made.'

Asta breathed out hard.

‘Well, it was very unhelpful. We should be solely focused on the flotilla. If I ever want to bomb Beijing from the air, I'll send the plane from Guam. And if I really want to nuke it, I will be firing missiles from Ohio-class subs parked just off its coast.'

The tense mood in the Oval Office reflected the gravity of the setback. America did not need the members of the international flotilla for their firepower; it needed them for their flags. Canberra's hesitation meant others were likely to pull out, and that was a risk they couldn't afford.

It was time to gamble everything on a ‘Hail Mary' play.

‘Morgan,' Asta said, ‘let's drop the flag on Plan B.'