Despite the vehicle’s heavy shock absorbers, he felt the rumbling vibration of the launching missiles propagate through the soles of his boots and into his feet. On the tracking screen, each of the interceptor missiles arced toward one of the incoming cruise missiles.
Chao Péng’s mathematical and spatial orientation skills were much higher than average. He wasn’t a genius by any accepted definition of the word, but he had an intuitive gift for solving problems of geometry and mathematics that would challenge or defeat the majority of the common population.
Early in his military training, a PLA captain had recognized Chao’s ability to accurately estimate the terminus of a ballistic arc without calculating tools, or even scratch paper. Chao had an instinctive understanding of how objects moved through three-dimensional space, and how influences like gravity and wind resistance could affect their vectors.
His eyes were locked on the tracking screen. He didn’t need any of those advanced skills right now to know that he was seconds away from death.
Between them, the twin-armed missile launchers carried twelve missiles: two per launcher. But the H-200 could only control six of those missiles at a time. The other six would have to wait for the second salvo, after the radar’s fire control channels had been freed up by the failure or success of the first six missiles. But there wasn’t going to be time for a second salvo.
That made the math both simple, and inescapable. There were ten inbound cruise missiles, only six of which had interceptors assigned to them. The other four inbounds were going to get a free ride to the target. As Chao Péng happened to be sitting at the precise center of the target area, that meant he was about to be obliterated.
For a quarter of a second, he considered throwing open the door of the operator cabin and running (literally) for his life. But there was no time to run. There was only time for the briefest possible flare of panic.
The enemy missiles were here.
He didn’t hear the impact of the first cruise missile. He had a brief sensation of increasing weight as the heavy chassis of the radar vehicle left the ground on the rising crest of the shockwave. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the thick steel floor plate bending beneath his feet. Suddenly, the world seemed to come apart, with a sound and a fury that Chao Péng had never imagined.
And then there was nothing.
CHAPTER 47
The president took his chair at the head of the table. “Okay, tell me about this missile strike.”
The Situation Room Duty Officer pointed a remote at the master display screen, and three high-resolution satellite photos appeared, enlarged to show detail. In each photo, a roughly circular pattern of blast craters was visible. Pieces of mangled machinery lay in and around the craters, blackened and twisted scraps of metal that gave little clue as to their original forms.
The Duty Officer looked at the president. ‘Sir, we’re looking at the remains of three PLA defensive missile sites, located — respectively — in the Chinese cities of Zigong, Chengdu, and Chongqing.”
He thumbed the remote and a map of mainland China appeared, with the named cities circled in red. The three circles formed an almost perfect right triangle, rotated about ten degrees to the west, making the base roughly parallel to the nearby Yangtze river.
“According to NRO’s reconstruction, all three sites were hit simultaneously by multiple long range weapons, fired from mobile launch vehicles in the Indian state of Arunachal Pradesh. Estimated flight speed of the weapons was Mach 0.7, and the transit range to each target was between 800 and 900 kilometers. Based on performance parameters and the relatively long standoff distance, we believe that the strike weapons may have been Nirbhay series land attack cruise missiles.”
President Wainwright nodded. “What do we know about the target sites? Do these three cities have some military or political significance that would lead the Indians to select them as targets?”
The Secretary of Defense spoke up. “Not the cities themselves, sir,” she said. “But the geographic locations of the three missile sites may be important.”
The president gestured for her to continue.
The secretary took a laser pointer from the conference table, clicked it on, and swung the beam toward the master display screen. The laser dot hovered on the map, near the eastern end of the Indian state of Arunachal Pradesh. “This is the approximate launch site of the cruise missile strike,” the secretary said.
She moved her hand, and the laser dot shifted to the east. “This is the location of the Three Gorges Dam, situated on the Yangtze River, near the town of Sandouping.”
She began moving the laser pointer back and forth. On the master display, the laser dot traced and retraced a line from eastern India to the location of the Three Gorges Dam. On every pass, the line went right through the middle of the triangle formed by Zigong, Chengdu, and Chongqing.
The president looked at her. “You’re saying that the Indians are clearing the flight path for a cruise missile strike against the Three Gorges Dam?”
SECDEF switched off the laser pointer and returned it to the table. “It looks that way, Mr. President. Assuming that they intend to launch from Arunachal Pradesh, they’d need to take out those three Chinese missile sites to get a clear shot at the target.”
The president sighed. “So we’re still stuck with this damned Shiva thing? I thought the Indians were supposed to call off the dogs when we agreed to help them take on the Chinese carrier group.”
The National Security Advisor spoke up. “Sir, I’ve got an appointment with Ambassador Shankar at ten o’clock. That’s obviously going to be the main topic of our conversation.”
The president nodded. “But…”
“But I pretty much know what she’s going to say,” Brenthoven said. “They appreciate our help and our show of solidarity, but our contributions to the fight haven’t stopped Chinese aggression.”
The president said back in his chair. “So, the clock is still ticking.”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. President,” the National Security Advisor said. He glanced at his watch. “And we now only have about eleven hours before the Indians move forward with their plan.”
CHAPTER 48
Jia Bangguo stood with his hands on the lacquered teak surface of the conference table. His eyes made a rapid circuit of the assembled leaders, taking in the other eight men who formed the Politburo Standing Committee of the Communist Party.
“Comrades,” he said, “there is very little time. We must begin an emergency drawdown of the Three Gorges reservoir, and the entire Yangtze River Valley will have to be evacuated.”
In nearly any other forum within the People’s Republic, Jia’s words would have brought a flurry of assents, followed by immediate action. As Second Vice Premier and Party Secretary of the National People’s Congress, he was nominally the third most powerful man in China.
If this had been a meeting of the full politburo, he could have leveraged enough votes and proxies to challenge virtually any rival. But among the limited constituency of the Standing Committee, he had no ranks of ministers to flock to his banner. Here, at the heart of China’s innermost-circle of leadership, he had only his own persuasiveness to draw on.