Ai Hira Bai’s own history had drawn him to the story of Xi Wang Mu. It was not a coincidence that his middle name was Japanese—Ai had been born during the Japanese occupation of Manchuria during World War II. His father had died shortly after his birth—or at least that was what his mother had been told. A native of Shanghai, she had returned to the city after the war. But her neighbors and relatives considered her a collaborator and would have nothing to do with her; in her anguish she had fled the country after the war. She had worked hard to raise her son, though she had died before he reached twenty.
Ai wanted war not to liberate the stolen provinces, but as a measure of vengeance. Soon, he thought, he would have it.
As long as the communists reacted as they should, interpreting the destruction of the innocent SAR flight as a wanton act by the Americans. Professor Ai did not particularly care for the Americans either, though he did not hate them as he hated the Mainlanders.
“A successful mission,” said Chen Lo Fann nearby.
The professor nodded to the young man. “Now it is up to the mongrels to play their role.”
“Yes,” said Chen Lo Fann.
Alexandria, Virginia, near Washington, D.C.
0640
JEDBARCLAY HEARDthe phone ring and realized something big was up—it was his encrypted line, installed at the NSC director’s request in his home office.
Since Jed lived in a one-room studio apartment, his home office was also his bedroom, family room, and dining area, so he didn’t have to lean far from his foldout couch to grab it.
“Barclay,” he said, not quite awake yet.
“Jed, the Chinese are claiming that we’ve shot down one of their planes,” said his boss. “Get over to the White House right away.”
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“Shot down one of their planes?”
“Find out if it’s true while you’re at it. Call me back. I’m still confined to bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
AN HOUR LATER,Jed walked through the West Wing basement flanked by a pair of Secret Service agents. With the help of Colonel Bastian and briefings from the NSA and CIA, he had managed to pull together a pretty fair understanding of what had happened. Unfortunately, understanding the situation and being able to do something about it were two different things.
“Barclay,” said Admiral Balboa, spotting him in the hallway outside the situation room. “What the hell is that cowboy Bastian up to now?”
“He’s not up to anything,” Jed told the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Whoever is operating the ghost clone shot down a Chinese flying boat while it was trying to make a rescue. They’re trying to provoke a war.”
“Gentlemen, let’s discuss this in the situation room,” said the defense secretary, coming in behind them.
“Come on.”
Balboa grimaced but said nothing. The secretary of state and the President were already inside, along with the other service chiefs and the head of the CIA. Balboa’s broadside had a positive effect on Jed—he got through his quick overview of the situation with only a single stutter.
“The Chinese are on alert now. They’re threatening to retaliate,” he said, turning to Jeffrey Hartman, the secretary of state. “You might, uh, want to cover that.”
“Actually, I have some fresh data on the Chinese units that are standing by,” said General Victor Hayes, the Air Force chief of staff. “As well as ours.”
Jed stole a glance at the President. Some months before, Kevin Martindale had threatened the Chinese with war over Taiwan. He’d backed the threat up with covert action, and only the Chinese really knew how close the world had come to a nuclear exchange. But that conflict seemed justifiable and even reasonable, the result of a series of aggressions and countermoves by America.
This was almost an accident—a crazy, chaotic accident.
Or not. Whoever was operating the ghost clone wanted war. World War III.
“How much do the Chinese know?” asked Martindale.
It took Jed a second before realizing the President was speaking to him.
“We don’t think they know about the ghost clone at all. Circumstantially—we were there at the time. I, uh, uh, if it were me … ” Jed’s voice trailed off. His tongue was threatening to revolt again.
“Go on, Jed,” said the President calmly.
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“I would reach the same conclusion the Chinese did,” said Jed. “B-b-because based on the evidence they have, we did it.”
“Maybe we should add to their evidence,” suggested Martindale.
“Tell them about the UAV?” asked Chastain.
“Why not?” said the President. “Jed, what do we have?”
“We have video of the c-c-collision itself, and of the shootdown. Radar stuff, sensor data. Uh, but, but—”
Jed felt them all staring at him.
“Very sensitive,” he continued, managing to blurt out the words. “Giving them all the information we have would show the Flighthawks’ capabilities. And, uh, the, uh, uh, Raven’s, the Elint c-c-capable Megafortress.”
“I doubt they’ll believe us at this point anyway,” said the secretary of state. “Or rather, that they’ll admit that they believe it.”
“My feeling is we should just ignore their threats,” said Balboa. “They’re just flexing their muscles. They won’t move against us.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said the President. “At the moment, I don’t feel like taking a chance. Jed, prepare the data, minimize the exposure to our technology. They know we have good sensors; we won’t give away the store by letting them see a blurry shot or two. Let Defense review it before it comes over to me. Once I have it, I’ll decide whether to use it or not. Jeffrey, get the Chinese ambassador and have him meet me in my office. I’ll clear all my other appointments.”
The President rose and started to leave the room. But when he got to the door, he stopped and turned back.
“And Jed—tell Colonel Bastian he’s past due on finding out who’s operating this so-called ghost clone.”
Dreamland Command Trailer, Brunei
2320
DOG STARED ATthe video screen, where a very tired Ray Rubeo updated the latest information from the team studying the Raven’s intercepts back at Dreamland. The members of the team had been able to sketch a tentative model based on the captured telemetry and video. The aircraft was roughly the length of a Flighthawk, but with a radically different airfoil; in fact, it looked closer to a Boeing design dating before the Flighthawks and originally intended as a one-off to test low-cost stealth concepts. The flight data suggested that the aircraft’s top speed was slower than the Flighthawk’s, but the analysis had concluded there were two cannons aboard, and the fuselage was wide enough to carriage a good-sized air-to-ground missile.
“The difference in the physical design should eliminate any suspicion of spying by the physical team,”
added Rubeo at the end of his brief. He seemed to be alone in the Dreamland Command Center, except for a skeleton crew. “Perhaps that will act as an enticement for our inquisitor to leave at least those Page 113
people alone.”
“Come now, Ray, Colonel Cortend can’t be that bad,” said Dog.
“The colonel has completely changed my opinion of the Spanish Inquisition,” said Rubeo. “I now recognize it was a charitable organization.”
“What’s controlling it?” asked Zen, who was sitting next to Stoner behind Dog in the trailer’s communications center. “Where’s its control aircraft? We never saw it on the radar.”
“That remains a mystery,” said the scientist. “We are working on it, Major.”
According to the information from Raven, the only aircraft that had been in the area were Chinese—and it didn’t make sense that they had shot down their own plane.
“Ray, what’s the possibility that the clone is being controlled from a ship?” asked Dog.