“Yes, sir!” the three pilots replied in unison. Kowalski turned on his heel and walked out.
“We will never again have such an opportunity,” General Deng Xiangsui said. “The time has finally come to take back what rightfully belongs to our people.”
President Xi Jiechi stood in his office overlooking the Central Sea, the name given to one of the two lakes in the gardens of the Imperial City adjacent to the vast Forbidden City. Along with the second lake, the Southern Sea, the Zhongnanhai complex with its array of palace-like buildings, pristine lakes, and manicured gardens served as the central headquarters for the Communist Party of China, the State Council, and the office of the president of the PRC. In fact, the term Zhongnanhai was used to refer to President Jiechi and his senior party officials just as the term White House referred to the American president and his cabinet.
Except that Mac controls his cabinet, Jiechi thought. I have to coexist with the PSC.
The Politburo Standing Committee of the Communist Party of China represented the highest law of the land. The PSC had placed him in Zhongnanhai and, just as easily, it could have him removed from office — even dragged to the nearest rice paddy and shot in the head. All it took was a majority vote. And at the center of this iron-gripped ruling body of nine stood the man he loved like a father.
But that didn’t mean Jiechi agreed with some of the general’s views, which dated back to the days of Chairman Mao Zedong. Although Deng had been responsible for the modernization of the PLA, including the creation and deployment of its aircraft carrier and its ballistic missile submarine programs — as well as China’s revolutionary ground-based satellite-killer laser system — it was time for him to retire.
Easier said than done.
Jiechi silently mused at another crucial difference between America and China. As commander in chief, President Macklin could replace his generals and cabinet members at will. Jiechi, on the other hand, held only the paper title of “chairman” of the Central Military Committee, which in theory meant he commanded all branches of the military. True control of the PLA, however, rested in the wrinkled hands of the vice chairman and supreme military commander standing behind him, waiting for a response.
The president, arms behind his back, continued contemplating the mirror-smooth lake, as well as Deng’s comment, before turning around and facing the man who had raised him.
“Zhǎng zhě,” he said, using the Chinese phrase for father figure. “There is no denying that under your leadership, the PLA has made great strides toward becoming a world power. But still…”
“What troubles you?”
Exhaling heavily, he said, “The math.”
Deng approached his protégé and patted him on the shoulder. “What math?”
“We have one operational aircraft carrier,” Jiechi said, referring to Liaoning, a Type 001A carrier China had purchased from Russia. “And it’s roughly half the tonnage of a Nimitz-class. The Americans have ten Nimitz-class carriers and are about to deploy their first Ford-class supercarrier. While I recognize — and am truly appalled — that terrorists have managed to disable two of them, that still leaves them with eight Nimitz class and one Ford class.”
Jiechi was aware of the developments of a Type 002 and a Type 003 carrier, the latter to compete with the Ford class. However, those vessels, currently under construction at the Jiangnan Shipyard in Shanghai, were not scheduled for completion for another three years.
“Technically they only have four carriers in combat-ready status,” Deng said. “Vinson, Roosevelt, Reagan, and Lincoln. The rest are either in repair or still undergoing sea trials. And with Stennis out of commission, there are none near the strait at the moment.”
“In addition,” Jiechi continued, ignoring him. “We only have five Type 094 ballistic missile submarines, each armed with twelve JL-2 ballistic missiles, and each capable of deploying up to four nuclear warheads. Plus, our single brand-new Type 096 that can carry twenty-four JL-2s. The Americans have fourteen Ohio-class subs, each armed with twenty-four Trident missiles, and each capable of deploying up to twelve independent nuclear warheads. It is this math, Zhǎng zhě, that troubles me.”
Deng slowly nodded before speaking in his softer, almost endearing tone that he reserved for his most intimate father-son chats. “When Chairman Mao founded the Communist Party of China and took on Sun Yat-sen and his ruling Kuomintang in 1945, he did it with just over a million men and women — mostly peasants. At the time, Yat-sen had more than four million well-armed and battle-hardened soldiers. By 1949, Chairman Mao had driven the Kuomintang out of mainland China, forcing them to retreat to Taiwan. Your father was just eleven years old. Still, along with others of our generation, myself included, he was moved by the change and vowed to continue the fight for the complete and unconditional unification that our beloved chairman started.
“Unfortunately, every time we attempted to reclaim the land that is rightfully ours, even as far back as 1950, the Americans intervened with their carrier forces.”
He paused and once more placed a hand on Jiechi’s shoulder, his eyes filling. “Your father died in one of those interventions, Xi, killed by a weapon given to the Kuomintang by the Americans.”
He had, of course, heard the story before. “What are you suggesting?”
“Strength, my beloved Xi. I am strongly suggesting that you display the same strength of Chairman Mao — as well as every successive leader that has occupied the seat of power under your command. It is crucial that senior party members — and the Americans — see the fire in your belly, and”—the aging general tightened his hands— “the steel in your fists, by taking advantage of this unique moment of weakness in the American navy. Remember, every time you walk away from the trials of life because of the fear of failure, a part of you dies. Don’t walk away from this trial, my son. Rather, face it with overwhelming strength.”
Jiechi had heard those words before, when scaling the political mountain that had placed him in Zhongnanhai.
“And how do you recommend I show this… strength?”
Deng’s heavily lined face tightened. “By asking yourself, ‘How would Chairman Mao have handled this?’”
Jiechi inhaled deeply. “And how, Zhǎng zhě? How would Chairman Mao have handled this… opportunity?”
Without hesitation, Deng said, “By testing the American resolve.”
Considered one of the most important waterways in the world, the Suez Canal ran north to south across the Isthmus of Suez in northeastern Egypt. The canal connected the Mediterranean Sea at Port Said with the Gulf of Suez, an arm of the Red Sea.
The busy canal provided a critical shortcut for merchant ships operating between American and European ports and those in southern Asia, Oceania, and eastern Africa.
Suezmax was a naval-architecture term for the largest ship capable of transiting the narrow canal. The typical deadweight of a Suezmax tanker ship was 240,000 tons with a beam of 164 feet and a draft of sixty-six feet. In addition, all ships had to have a maximum air draft of 223 feet to clear the 230-foot-high Suez Canal Bridge. The normal transit time averaged fourteen to sixteen hours.