For this television presentation, Wu had decided to speak from a chair, seated like the emperors of old. Indeed, the chair was more a throne really, and he hoped that the implication would be clear — China was emerging from decades of self-imposed exile to retake her rightful place at the head of world affairs.
Women from Xinhua’s makeup department made last-minute adjustments to his wide, fleshy face, and Wu was sure to catch their eyes, give them a knowing smile, an inviting nod. They would be his after the show, he had decided. That was now his right, and he would be sure to exercise that right whenever he had the opportunity.
It amazed him how far he had come since his early days in that foul, cesspit of an orphanage in Chengdu. He was forced to adjust himself in his seat again as he thought of Sichuan Provincial Orphanage, the memories having a physical effect on him that was less than comfortable. They had been dark times indeed, and Wu had had to struggle against fate herself to attain the status he now enjoyed.
He had joined the army at his earliest possible opportunity, just seventeen years old. The anger that dwelled within him, seething to the surface at any moment, would have seen him imprisoned in the civilian world; in the People’s Liberation Army, however, his ruthless streak saw him gain citation after citation for valor and courage in the face of the enemy. Before long, Wu had been a man going places, elevated to officer status and later given a place within the Communist Party, despite his socially questionable background.
He had attained all he had in life through ruthless manipulation, and savage violence. It had been the recipe of success for Wu, and he had no compunction to change his ways now. The only thing that was going to change, now that he was in charge of the world’s most populous country, was simply the sheer scale of the violence he would be responsible for.
He patted the backsides of the women with his thick, wide hands, winking at them, sealing their fates for his afternoon pleasures.
But first things first, he told himself, turning to the Xinhua cameras.
The women withdrew, the lights were focused on Wu and his throne, and the countdown came.
At the director’s nod, Wu began.
‘Tonight I come before you, my people, a troubled man. You all know me as a man of peace. When the US entered our territorial waters, I did not attack them, I did not kill them as was my right; I took defensive action against one aggressive ship, and asked the others to leave.
‘But now I discover that my diplomacy, my desire for peaceful negotiation, has been taken by some as a sign of weakness.
‘My people, I am horrified to tell you that today your country came under attack.’ Wu nodded his head earnestly. ‘Yes,’ he continued slowly, apologetically, ‘it is true.’
He knew the live statement would now cut to video of an incident in the South China Sea, footage of a Chinese Type 054A Frigate being hit by what appeared to be missiles; the deck was engulfed in flame and the ship slowly began to list until it sank beneath the waves.
‘Our own vessel, the Huangshan, a frigate of the PLA Navy, was sunk this afternoon by a Harpoon missile fired by the Taiwanese submarine Hai Hu. This was an unprovoked attack by the Taiwanese government, who obviously wish to capitalize on our current situation, take advantage while we are preoccupied with our change of government.’
The audience across China — and later the world — would now see radar tracking footage identifying the passage of the missile, the position of the Taiwanese submarine; and then the military ID photographs of the crew of the Huangshan, one hundred and sixty-five images rapidly flickering across the television screen.
‘The entire crew was killed,’ Wu’s voice said over the images with regret. ‘Every single sailor, dead — killed at the command of the Taiwanese government.’
Wu knew that the camera would be back on him now, and he was sure to make the disgust he felt plain across his face.
‘We — our beloved nation, our cherished republic — have been attacked,’ he exclaimed, hands slapping down onto the arms of his throne. ‘Without mercy! Without quarter! A cowardly attack meant only to kill!’
Wu shook his head as if in wonder. ‘Have we not been tolerant of Taiwan?’ he said. ‘Even though the land belongs to us, even though it was stolen from us, have we not been reasonable?’
Wu gestured at the camera, opening his arms, palms up as if in surrender to the situation. ‘Well,’ he said gravely, ‘no longer. My fellow generals and I have declared this barbaric attack on our naval fleet to be an act of war. And as such, we have no option, no recourse whatsoever, except for ourselves to reciprocate and declare war on Taiwan and her people.’
He shook his head sadly. ‘Her military will be crushed, and we will take back what is rightfully ours. I have notified the Taiwanese government of our intentions to defend our interests, and I promise you, my people, that Taiwan will be ours within days.
‘And I would like to take this opportunity also,’ Wu said, eyes clear and focused like laser beams at the Xinhua cameras, ‘to confirm that any nation that attempts to aid Taiwan in any way will be declaring war on the People’s Republic of China, and we will respond in kind. And please do not forget,’ he finished with a terrible, knowing smile, ‘that my will to use our nation’s vast resources is infinitely stronger than your own.’
‘Holy shit,’ said an amazed India Parshens, Secretary of Energy — and holy shit was right, Ellen Abrams had to admit.
President Abrams was seated at the head of the conference table which took up almost all of the available space in the West Wing’s Situation Room, the members of the National Security Council gathered round it with their complete attention.
Some members of the council already knew about the incidents occurring in East Asia, while others were only just finding out now. Parshens was one of them, and Abrams didn’t mind her outburst in the least — it was what they were all thinking.
They had just watched Wu’s broadcast on the flat-screen monitors which hung from every wall, a CIA-derived translation cutting across the bottom to transpose Xinhua’s own English subtitles.
It had been Bud Shaw — Director of the National Security Agency — who had informed her of the incident initially, having been briefed on surveillance images recorded by National Reconnaissance Office Key Hole satellites.
The information had been shared with military intelligence at the Pentagon, as well as CIA and Homeland Security, and it quickly became obvious what had happened — a Taiwanese submarine had fired upon, and sunk, a Chinese frigate.
Abrams had raced to call Rai Po-ya, the President of Taiwan’s Republic of China, but he had beaten her to it — the phone was already ringing when she got there.
Rai had assured Abrams that no order to attack China’s navy had ever been given, and he had no idea what was going on. The man had been terrified, and Abrams understood why — a Chinese invasion was a terrifying thing.
But why had the Hai Hu fired on the Chinese frigate? Abrams’ initial thought was that it was a clever ruse by Wu to create a pretext for his invasion of Taiwan, although there was no proof to back this up; not yet, anyway.
She hoped that she might learn something more at this meeting, as the American military and intelligence services had been working overtime to get to the bottom of this mess.
Abrams turned to Catalina dos Santos, eyes raised. ‘So what’ve we got so far, Cat?’
Dos Santos looked around the room, making sure that everyone was paying attention. She needn’t have worried; all eyes were locked on her.