Nearly five minutes of the reboot had elapsed when the wino signaled as instructed that the harness was ready. Gloved now, and strapped to a portion of the scaffolding, Hiram used the rope to begin hauling the 375-pound warhead out of the missile and into the lift, aided by minimal guidance from the wino. With a minute thirty to go, Hiram swung the warhead into the rear of the golf cart. He let the rope go slack; the warhead, settling, sunk the vehicle against its axles. Hiram quickly unfastened the rope from the harness.
With Hiram’s foot to the floor, the cart inched back across the cavern, gaining enough momentum to make it into the transport tunnel just before the elapsing reboot sequence resulted in the closing and locking of the tunnel door. The wino ran, stumbled, then finally managed to fall into the passenger seat beside Hiram as the door slammed shut behind them, neither of them able to see the bank of floodlights pop, click, and flutter to life within the cavern on the other side of the door.
Hiram parked the cart and ordered the wino to follow him on foot out of the transport tunnel.
The naming of the supreme leader of the People’s Republic of China-who traditionally held the titles of both president and premier-generally occurred by two methods: first, and officially, by a vote of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, the CPC; second, and more important, the ascendant to the throne must, unofficially, have been given the thumbs-up by both the sitting premier and the most revered of the elder CPC leaders. Historically, the former process had followed the latter like a rubber stamp.
While the man holding the offices of president and premier since Deng’s rise through the military was now only fifty-eight years old, it was common practice to tab either a single successor or a pair of competing candidates from the beginning of one’s tenure. In keeping with this tradition, the premier had identified two men with the potential to succeed him when the time came and had elevated each to vice premier. The first man, named Lu Azhau, oversaw all domestic law enforcement and served as the general secretary of the CPC; Deng was the other man, and while he had effectively navigated the maze of party politics to position himself as the leading contender, the general believed there to be a number of perfectly viable, and speedier, alternate means of succession.
Unfortunately, the critical first step of the means Deng had decided to employ was falling dangerously behind schedule. Five minutes behind, in fact-five minutes he wasn’t sure he could spare. He was sure that if another ten minutes passed and his motorcade continued along at its current route and pace, he would not survive to see the eleventh minute.
The convoy, composed of Deng’s bulletproof limousine with the old man at the wheel, two jeeps, one armored vehicle, and a police sedan, found itself two hours in on the three-hour trek from PLA headquarters in Beijing to the seaside village of Beidaihe. Deng couldn’t remember exactly when the decision had been made, but somewhere along the line, Beidaihe had become the permanent site of a number of annual governmental summits. The legislature convened in Beidaihe each summer; the CPC held a larger convention, inclusive of almost all party members, in the spring; the third summit, held in October, was considerably more exclusive. Each year on this weekend, the Standing Committee of the State Council came to town.
There were only eleven members of the council’s Standing Committee, China’s equivalent of the former Soviet Politburo, a body with a function similar to but having much greater domestic control than America’s National Security Council or the president’s cabinet. Council members included senior party leaders, bureau chiefs, the nation’s two vice premiers, and the president and premier himself. The group gathered in Beidaihe to clarify the government’s official platform. Coming out of this meeting each year, the CPC invariably adopted a broader version of the council’s views. Attendance for council members was mandatory.
Some, however, were scheduled to arrive later than others.
It was a Thursday and, by Deng’s watch, twenty minutes after five in the evening-six minutes late. An aide of Deng’s had verified by phone that eight of the eleven council members had arrived in their rooms, including the premier and Deng’s fellow vice premier. While the other late arrivals happened to be two of Deng’s most staunch political allies, this arrival pattern nonetheless fit the standard schedule. All members were required to be in their sleeping quarters by midnight; sessions began the following morning at seven.
Deng was beginning to wonder whether he had misjudged the timing. The American W-76 warheads were powerful, and he’d been assured by his chief scientist that the warheads, even after a decade underwater, were likely to reach a yield approaching their original capacity. This led Deng to his current predicament: allow his motorcade to draw much closer to Beidaihe, and the succession order he had in mind wouldn’t quite work out-and yet there had been no choice, since if he didn’t cut it close, he would arouse suspicion. Still, the thought clung to Deng that even where he now rode in the convoy-seventy miles from Beihaide-there remained a significant chance that he wouldn’t survive. And what if the weapon failed to work at all? A dud, lying worthless beneath-
An odd pressure shift lifted him slightly from his seat. He felt instantaneously claustrophobic and noticed that he couldn’t hear. He flexed his jaw to pop his ears; they cleared, but he sensed that something else was wrong, and it took him a few seconds to realize it was the limousine’s electronics. The reading lights in his compartment, the dashboard up front, the radio that had been playing-all had gone out as though from a blown fuse. The computer monitor providing him constant military readiness updates, the television screen he kept tuned to an international satellite telecast of CNN-all had gone dark.
The electromagnetic pulse! Deng’s heart accelerated-the EMP had killed the instrumentation in the vehicle, wiping clean any active electronic activity. The W-76 had gone off.
As the vehicle slowed, Deng saw it first against the treetops a mile ahead of them on the highway, then felt it strike suddenly against the front of the limousine-a wind blast, powerful enough to rock the convoy, lifting the limo’s wheels three inches from the surface of the highway yet too weak to overturn the vehicles. This, Deng knew, represented approximately, if not precisely, the forecasted effect of a one-hundred-kiloton nuclear detonation seventy miles from ground zero-the closest point, his chief scientist had told him, at which one could be positioned without sustaining fatal or near-fatal effects from the blast.
As panic struck among the soldiers, his loyal driver, and the security detail in the convoy, Deng savored a moment of pride-of utter satisfaction. He had judged correctly, and, based on the series of events he’d just witnessed, the first step of his master plan had advanced without a hitch.
Tomorrow, he thought, is upon us. Today.
37
When the phone chortled its usual two rings and the machine picked up, Laramie came awake with the sense that something was out of place. Asleep in the same position in which she’d passed out, she wasn’t sure what it was that bothered her while Eddie Rothgeb’s voice blasted from the answering machine and banged around her aching head.
“Laramie, where the hell are you? Pick up! Are you seeing this?”
She knocked the phone off the hook, fumbled for it, picked it up, said, “Enough,” and heard a click. Then nothing.
“Eddie?”
There was no answer. No noise at all-just dead air.