“Sure, until they start dying. These are Americans, nearly all of them are military veterans. If that happens, and we begin to see dead Americans in the streets of Taipei. Congress will want answers,” Varnell countered.
“Probably. But by then, it’ll be too late for hearings. The bullets and missiles will be flying.” Batista stood, moving to his wall display. Satellite imagery showed the Taiwan Strait, with PLA Navy vessels marked in red. “Look at the buildup in the ports opposite Taiwan and within five hundred kilometers of it. They’ve moved three of their four carrier groups to this area. Forty-plus amphibious vessels. This isn’t for an exercise. They’re pre-positioning assets, testing logistics, and planning an invasion.”
Varnell sighed audibly as he stood and joined him at the display. “What about our autonomous naval program? Reeves keeps promising those unmanned surface combatants will even the odds.”
“They will, but they’re still in testing. The Intrepid task group won’t be fully operational until April.” Batista highlighted friendly assets in blue. Pathetically few compared to the red swarm. “It’s our Hail Mary against their shipbuilding capacity, we’ve always known that.”
“Time, it always comes down to time we don’t have.” Varnell checked his watch. “Look, I’m supposed to brief the President in twenty minutes about this Taiwan development. What should I be telling him?”
“The truth. Tell him TSG is moving, but we’re obviously going to have to accelerate its timeline. Assure him we’ll have Taiwan hardened before the shipping inspections start,” explained Batista. “And tell him it might be helpful to pray Beijing doesn’t accelerate their timeline.”
The radiator clanked again, a counterpoint to the gravity of their discussion. Varnell picked up the presidential finding, studying it once more.
“You trust Harrington?”
“I served with him in Iraq. He’s solid.”
“He’d better be.” Varnell moved toward the door, then paused. “Jim, I’ve got the SECNAV and the Joint Chiefs breathing down my neck about force allocation. If this goes sideways, if Congress gets wind of what we’re authorizing…”
“It won’t go sideways.” Batista returned to his desk. “Marcus knows what’s at stake. TSG isn’t just defending Taiwan. They’re defending the first Island chain and our entire Pacific architecture.”
Varnell grunted, nodding slowly. “When do you brief Harrington?”
“Tonight. Crystal City, 2000 hours.” Batista glanced at the snow, now falling in thick sheets. “Weather permitting of course.”
“In this town, my friend, the weather’s the least of our problems.” Varnell buttoned his coat as he prepared to leave. “Keep me updated. And, Jim? No surprises. With another term, I’ve got a chance to fully modernize the entire Defense Department. Last thing I need is a scandal derailing everything we’ve worked toward.”
“I know. Understood, Mr. Secretary.”
After Varnell left, Batista sat alone in his office, the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders. Outside, Washington disappeared behind a curtain of white. But his mind was eight thousand miles away, on an island democracy that didn’t know it had months to prepare for war.
He pulled up the secure comms channel to TSG. Time to set the wheels in motion. Time to see if six hundred contractors and an arsenal of autonomous weapons could deter an empire.
The radiator clanked one more time, like a countdown clock marking time until April.
Chapter Three:
Taiwan Working Group
The six-story office building in Crystal City was a masterpiece of hiding in plain sight. Building 1770 was no different from the other nearby buildings that housed various government offices and the myriad of contracting companies supporting one government agency or another. But that was a facade for the public. Within the building, hidden behind faux storefronts and secret entrances, was a hidden world of classified workspaces and intelligence workings. It was the quintessential example of how Washington’s overt and covert worlds blended seamlessly together.
When Marcus Harrington reached the elevator leading to his workspace, two security guards greeted him — one seated behind a desk, the other standing vigilant near the elevator doors. Marcus nodded, recognizing the tailored suit jackets designed to conceal weapons. Standard procedure in this line of work.
“Evening. Here to access the mainframe?” the seated guard asked, delivering the authentication phrase with practiced neutrality.
“Yes, terminal four, yellow protocol,” Harrington responded, completing the countersign that granted him elevator access.
The guard gave a curt nod. “You have a visitor. Room 412.”
Harrington stepped onto the elevator and pressed the button for the fourth floor, a slight smile crossing his weathered face.
Three years ago, he’d been savoring retirement on Thailand’s Phi Phi Islands, sipping fruity drinks and living the carefree life of a beach bum. After two decades in special forces and ten tense years in the world of private military contracting, he desperately needed to decompress. The PMC work had paid well, but the constant strain of wondering if each day might be his last had worn him to the bone.
Thailand had felt like the natural choice. Having worked closely with the Thai military throughout his career, he appreciated that a few grand a month allowed him a comfortable, stress-free lifestyle. He might still be there if Jim Batista, a former SOF operator and longtime colleague, hadn’t called out of the blue with an offer he couldn’t refuse.
When Batista had become National Security Advisor, he’d offered Marcus a chance to lead what had eventually become the Taiwan Study Group. TSG was a concept they’d discussed for years back on their ODA team: an unconventional approach aligning with the US’s public stance on Taiwan while quietly ensuring the island’s continued independence.
Operating openly as a private military company with the Taiwanese government’s consent, TSG provided scalable support beyond what the Pentagon could easily deliver. Congressional oversight and diplomatic sensitivities made official channels slow and cautious. As a PMC, TSG could act decisively, maintaining enough separation from Washington to give Batista precisely the strategic flexibility he needed Harrington to exploit.
When he arrived at Room 412, with its mahogany conference table, ergonomic chairs, and neutral artwork, it looked like any other executive meeting space — but that was the point. To the trained eye, the door’s thickness and the faint hum of active RF jammers hid its SCIF rating in plain sight. The room was designed to be a bubble of absolute security in a city where walls routinely had ears and spies were everywhere.
When Harrington arrived, Batista was seated at the table, patiently waiting for him. They had known each other a long time, several decades, in fact. They had fought together, bled together, suffered and shared triumphs. It was a friendship built over time through collective sacrifice. While they didn’t always see eye to eye on everything, they were one when it came to protecting this country and ensuring that no matter what happened in the future, it would be America and her allies that came out on top.
“Marcus, good to see you,” Batista said, getting straight to the point. “Sorry for calling you in like this, especially right before the New Year.”