The expression on Lu Shi’s face was one of utter shock. “But Comrade Premiere, you know that President Wainright is weak. We can do this. It is our time to do this.”
Xiao lowered himself carefully into his chair and shook his head. “Wainright is stronger than you think he is. In fact, I suspect that he’s stronger than he thinks he is.”
Xiao was wracked by a series of painful coughs, and when he spoke again, his voice was even feebler than usual. “We will not move against the Americans. I have already called the Indian President. We will cease all hostilities with India, and make immediate efforts to normalize diplomatic relations.”
He gave his Vice Premiere a long and patient look. “Comrade Lu, the time for anger is past. Now is the time for healing, and moving forward.”
All color drained from Lu Shi’s face. “You’re too weak for this job, old man. You no longer have the courage to make the hard decisions. It’s time for you to retire, and totter off somewhere to die quietly. You’re finished here.”
The old Premier gave him a thin smile. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You will be retiring today, my friend. Not me.”
He motioned to the pair of PLA officers, and they closed in rapidly on Lu Shi. Before Lu had time to react each man had a firm grip on one of his arms. They began to lead him firmly from the room.
“The Americans are weak!” Lu shouted over his shoulder. “The Indians are weak! We can crush them…”
“Perhaps,” Premier Xiao said softly. “But let’s see if we can live with them instead.”
CHAPTER 57
The reservoir extended nearly 700 kilometers upstream from the catchment wall, more than 39 billion cubic meters of water held in check by a concrete edifice that was half as tall as America’s landmark Empire State Building.
The wall’s internal reinforcements included 463,000 metric tons of steel, enough to fabricate 63 copies of the Eiffel Tower. The entire structure had been designed to withstand accidents, massive seasonal over-flooding, and earthquakes of 7.0 on the Richter scale. But the architects and engineers hadn’t known about the Next Generation Penetrator warhead that the Indians called Rudrasya khaḍgaḥ, the Sword of Shiva, and they certainly hadn’t known that regional turmoil might push their neighbors to actually utilize such a weapon.
The 370 on-site personnel knew nothing of the Indian plan to destroy the dam. The workers went about their daily routines, maintaining and operating the thirty-two house-sized hydroelectric turbines, and the power distribution plant in its adjacent underground facility.
The inhabitants of the Yangtze River basin were beginning to stir under the first rays of the morning sun. The cities of Wuhan, Nanjing, and Shanghai were gearing up for another busy day of buying, selling, making, and consuming.
Not one person within the footprint of pending destruction knew that India’s 48 hour deadline was only a minute away. Not one of the potential victims knew about the seven cruise missiles targeted on the dam, or the meticulous care with which the impact sites had been selected.
The final 60 seconds ticked away, one after another. Forty seconds. Twenty seconds. Ten.
And then, the deadline expired, and the appointed moment arrived.
No missiles fell from the sky. No warheads pierced the hardened concrete of the catchment wall. Downstream from the dam, the brown waters of the Yangtze River continued their slow rolling journey to the sea.
The cataclysm had been averted by a phone call, an act of reason, and the extension of a human hand in the age-old gesture of peace.
The hour of doom had come and gone. And 400 million Chinese citizens went about their morning business, unaware that death had brushed past them in the clear early sunlight.
EPILOGUE
Kat Silva walked down the long row of grave markers until she came to a headstone that was visibly newer than most of the others. The marble was crisply white, and brilliantly clean, having only been exposed to the elements for a few weeks. The inscription read: SAMUEL HARLAND BOWIE, Capt. USN, followed by the dates of birth and death.
Silva sighed, and nodded toward the stone. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to make it around to see you, Jim. But you know how it goes when your ship is in the yards. The Towers is going to be just fine, by the way. When the yard birds are finished sprucing her up, you won’t even be able to tell where the missile hit.”
Silva felt a yawn coming on, and covered her mouth. “Sorry about that. Fourteen hours in the air, not counting layovers, and I never sleep worth a damn on airplanes.”
She glanced up and down the rows of white markers. “I see there are a bunch of old-time Indian fighters buried here. Scouts, cavalry soldiers, maybe even some of the boys from the Alamo. You should look them up. I’ll bet some of those guys are relatives of yours. The hero streak in you runs pretty deep, so it’s probably in your bloodline.”
Silva reached into her pocket and fished out a folded sheet of paper. “I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t bring flowers. You never struck me as the kind of guy who goes for floral arrangements. But if I’m wrong about that, you let me know, and I’ll get you some begonias, or something.”
She unfolded the sheet of paper and spent a few seconds smoothing out the creases. “I did bring you something, though. Maybe you’ll like it better than a bunch of daffodils. I’ll just read it for you, and you can decide for yourself.”
She cleared her throat softly. “From: Department of Defense Public Affairs, Washington, DC Naval News Service. Secretary of the Navy Alexander Fields announced today that the Navy’s next Arleigh Burke class guided missile destroyer will be named USS Bowie, in honor of Navy Captain Samuel Harland Bowie who was killed during last year’s naval combat action in the Bay of Bengal. The USS Bowie will be the first ship to bear the name…”
Silva folded the paper. “There are four or five more paragraphs, but the rest is mostly about the capabilities of the modified Arleigh Burke class, and you probably know more about that than just about anyone. There’s also a section about your military career, and the heroic actions of the Towers on her last three deployments, but — again — none of that is news to you.”
The folded slip of paper went back into her pocket. “The keel laying ceremony is in May at Bath Iron Works. The Navy is inviting everyone who ever served under your command, so it’ll be a much bigger dog and pony show than usual. Under the circumstances, I doubt they’ll send you a direct invitation. I thought I’d tell you myself, in case you decide to swing by and watch the fun.”
Silva’s voice took on a more serious tone. “I don’t know if you can hear me, Jim. I don’t know if you’re in heaven, or floating in some ethereal afterlife, or even if there is an afterlife. Maybe you’re just gone now, and I’m talking to myself. But whether you can hear me or not, there’s something I have to say to you.
“The world will probably never understand how much it owes to you, and to the men and women who fought under your command. The average person on the street has no idea that you dragged America — and maybe the entire planet — back from the brink of catastrophe at least three times. Most people will never know how much you did for this country, and how much you sacrificed to give us all a second chance.”