Drone Command (26 page)

“Then you'll be at war with China, a war you cannot win,” Lane said.

Tanaka nodded. “If one is forced to choose between honor and life, it is always best to choose honor.”

The room went silent. Myers kept her eyes on Ito. He was clearly lost in thought. She'd always known him to be a rational, affable, intelligent man. But he was also a proud Japanese. Back in Denver, whenever she talked about American exceptionalism, he was quick to point out his own sense of Japanese exceptionalism. She couldn't blame him. Japan was an ancient and remarkable culture, one of the world's oldest and greatest civilizations. She knew the rational part of Ito's brain understood Lane's position, but his Japanese sense of duty, kinship, and honor inclined him toward Tanaka.

“It sounds like you're saying that you would abandon your friends in a time of war,” Ito said.

“I didn't say that. But if Japan launches a preemptive strike against Chinese forces, then you limit our options and put all of us at risk. I'm asking you to trust us and refrain from any actions that might give the Chinese any reason to act against you. But you have my assurance that the United States is completely committed to the defense of Japan, no matter what happens.”

Tanaka shook his head in disbelief.

“There is, of course, the matter of the North Koreans to consider,” Ito said. “They've moved their MIRV to its launch pad at their test facility at Musudan-ri.”

“The North Koreans are China's lackeys,” Tanaka said.

Lane nodded grimly. “They aren't making things any easier, that's for sure.”

“It's a strange time to test an intercontinental ballistic missile,” Davis said.

“It might not be a test,” Lane said.

“Then what could it be? A message?” the ambassador asked.

“They may be trying to send a message,” Myers said. She took a deep breath.

“Or they just might be preparing for World War Three.”

OAKLAND CITY JAIL

OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA

MAY 1999

P
earce!”

The African-American jail guard glowered at Troy through the cell door. Standing six-foot-seven and carrying three hundred pounds of sculpted muscle on his wide frame, he was as intimidating as he was large.

Troy looked up at the sound of his name. He was seated on a steel bench in the overnight tank for drunks, johns, and other less dangerous miscreants. He had no shirt, only athletic shorts, jailhouse slippers, and a black eye.

Keys rattled in the lock and a massive black hand guided Troy by the arm, cuffed and shuffling toward outtake processing.

Will was at the front desk signing papers. A paper bag by his elbow.

The guard unlocked Troy's cuffs. “Don't come back, kid.”

“Thanks,” Troy said.

Will nodded his thanks to the desk officer and tossed the paper bag at Troy. He opened it. A hooded Stanford sweatshirt.

“We gotta roll,” Will said, turning for the exit. Troy followed suit, yanking on the hoodie.

—

T
he drab downtown jail facility was an unremarkable building on the outside. The kaleidoscope of broken people inside provided the color.

Will pushed open the glass door and dashed for the parking lot, Troy on his heels.

“What's the hurry?” Troy asked.

“You kidding me?”

“Oh, shit.”

“‘Oh, shit' is right. Your thesis defense is in an hour. It'll take an hour and twenty to get to Encina Hall.”

Will unlocked the doors to his Porsche 911 and they both fell in.

“I can't go like this. I need to change, take a shower.”

The Porsche engine roared to life and Will turned around to back out. “I've got your slacks and sport coat under the hood, along with a shirt, tie, and shoes. No point in looking like a complete slob.”

Troy smelled his underarm. His nose crunched. “Don't suppose you have a shower under there?”

“There's a bottle of Old Spice under your seat. Go ahead and slap some on now, use plenty of it. It's gonna be a long ride.”

—

W
ill gunned the Porsche down the I-880 on the east side of the bay to avoid the traffic in San Francisco.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Will asked. “I thought you gave that shit up.”

“I told you I'd quit fighting when I had enough cash. Can't exactly make serious money flipping burgers at Carl's Jr.” Troy had been cage-fighting in the underground circuit since his sophomore year at Stanford. The infamous Chinese triad Wo Hop ran the illegal gambling enterprise throughout the state, especially in the Bay Area.

“You almost threw everything you've worked for out the window last night.” The warehouse where Troy was fighting had been raided by the Oakland PD's gang unit.

“Still have bills to pay.”

“Your dad's debts were his, not yours.”

“My dad was a lot of things, but he wasn't a bum.”

“That's what bankruptcy laws are for.”

“He couldn't do it.”

Troy leaned back his seat to close his eyes. He hadn't slept all night in the holding tank. The stink of stale urine and vomit was stronger than his fatigue. They drove along in silence for a few minutes. Will finally calmed down. Couldn't stay angry with the kid. He risked his life in the no-holds-barred cage fights to earn money to pay off his old man's debts. It was stupid, but honorable.

“So you won.”

“Yeah. How'd you know?”

“I used to be a spook, remember?” Started to tell Troy that he was the one who had tipped the Oakland PD to the location, but the boy was already sound asleep, the unopened bottle of Old Spice still clutched in his hand.

ENCINA HALL WEST

STANFORD UNIVERSITY

STANFORD, CALIFORNIA

MAY 1999

T
he three faculty members sat on one side of the conference desk and Troy on the other. The air reeked of too much Old Spice but no one said anything. Troy was better dressed in his sport coat and tie than the faculty who wore Levi's, collared shirts, and loafers.

Troy's master's thesis was brilliant but controversial. He applied a quantitative game-theory approach to the qualitative work of William S. Lind and others on fourth-generation warfare. He proved the hypothesis that 4GW was the future of conventional warfare in the third world because it was superior to the current forms of warfare deployed by the West. The Black Hawk Down incident in Somalia a few years earlier wasn't just a tragic error, he argued; it was a portent of things to come.

Troy's thesis defense for his master's degree today was a technicality, but it was also a chance for the department chair, Dr. Fagan, to get even with him. Troy had embarrassed him publicly on a number of occasions in seminars and colloquia, successfully challenging the professor's indefensible positions on security issues and his slavish devotion to political correctness.

Dr. Fagan was also an intellectual bully, and Troy wouldn't put up with it. Fagan was infamous for publishing articles in his own name that had been researched by talented graduate students in his department without giving those students proper attribution. Troy had publicly
denounced that practice in faculty meetings, earning Fagan's undying enmity.

Drs. Garth and Pembroke were the other two faculty members on his thesis committee, men he deeply respected for their scholarship and integrity. He was glad they were there. Garth was his thesis advisor, and Troy had been a teaching assistant for Pembroke's undergraduate poli sci classes.

Garth opened with a softball question and Pembroke followed up with a few technical clarifications of Troy's game-theory analysis. They were both satisfied with his responses and spoke effusively about his graduate work in general and the thesis in particular.

Then it was Fagan's turn.

He waved a copy of Troy's thesis in the air.

“I don't get the title. ‘Future War' sounds like a sci-fi novel, not a serious academic treatise. And for the record, fourth-generation warfare isn't the future of warfare. It's just terrorism by another name.”

The sonofabitch hasn't even read it
, Troy realized. He wanted to grab Fagan by the nape of the neck and toss him out of the door. How many times had he seen Fagan screaming at some poor sleep-deprived grad student for not coming to one of his seminars fully prepared?

But Will had warned Troy about controlling his temper today. Troy's goal was to get Garth and Pembroke to approve his defense and the master's degree was assured. Only two votes out of three were needed. It would be better, though, if all three committee members signed off, and better still if they would award him a superior commendation. That would require a unanimous vote, but if he got it, it would guarantee him a slot in the Ph.D. program at Stanford or anywhere else in the country he might choose. Unfortunately, Fagan's recommendation carried a lot of weight in the tight circles of top-tier academia.

The worst-case scenario would be that Troy would so lose his cool that he wouldn't provide a coherent defense of his work despite its obvious merit. That might prompt Garth or Pembroke to vote against him and delay or even deny him his master's. Garth and Pembroke, despite their tenured status, feared Fagan's power over them as department chair, a
position that could make their professional lives extremely inconvenient—seven a.m. classes, odious committee memberships, extension-class assignments. If Troy was too rude or even threatening, Fagan might bully them into voting with him, literally. At six-foot-four and two hundred forty pounds, Fagan towered over the other faculty in his department, mostly narrow-shouldered hipsters or portly middle-aged golfers in penny loafers. But like most bullies, Fagan was wary enough to never try that with an alpha male like Troy despite his junior status in the department.

“As I've cited from the works of Lind, Schmitt, Sutton, Wilson, Hammes, and others, 4GW isn't just ‘terrorism' or even asymmetrical warfare, though both would be subsumed under that rubric. 4GW is a whole new strategic conception of warfare, which is why I refer to it as the future of warfare. The next major war the U.S. will fight won't be with other industrial powers like China and Russia, but with nonstate actors like Hezbollah and al-Qaeda.”

Fagan shook his head. “Hezbollah and al-Qaeda are terrorist groups. You're talking about terrorism, not warfare. Terror tactics are what terrorists use when they can't fight wars. Don't you understand the difference?”

Troy flexed his aching fists beneath the table. Watching Fagan swallow his teeth might just be worth losing his master's. But Will had invested too much time and energy into him these past six years. He didn't give a rat's ass about Fagan, but he'd rather die than disappoint Will Elliott.

“Nonstate actors use terror as part of their concept of strategic warfare. We did the same thing at Dresden, firebombing an ancient city with no military value in order to terrorize the Germans into surrendering. If we're smart enough to use terror to accomplish our strategic goals, so are our opponents.” Troy leaned forward. “Unless you're calling the United States military just another terrorist group.”

“You're just proving my point. World War Two was a war between state actors. War-fighting nations can use terror in their campaigns, but they're still fighting wars for strategic goals. Terrorism as practiced by nonstate actors isn't a strategic concept, it's a reaction. A tactic at best.”

“The strategic goal of warfare is winning, period. And the tactics of 4GW are aimed at undermining the will of state actors to continue fighting, and they almost always work. But the 2G and 3G tactics we use against nonstate actors are almost always guaranteed to fail.”

They argued back and forth for the next forty minutes, ignoring the other two faculty who relished the savaging Troy was giving Fagan. They were careful not to smile or verbally agree with Troy, but they were silently cheering inside. Troy successfully reviewed the history of twentieth-century warfare and further explicated the 4GW concepts that Lind and the others had outlined. Troy also sided with them on the most controversial idea of all.

“Not only will our next major war be with a nonstate actor or an alliance of nonstate actors, it will be long, costly, bloody, and we'll likely lose if we don't change our strategic concepts of war.”

“That's just stupid,” Fagan said. “We have overwhelming firepower and technology. We're the wealthiest and most advanced economy on the planet. No nation can stand up against us. What hope would a far less powerful nonstate actor have?”

“We had overwhelming air, land, and sea superiority in our war in Vietnam. We even had nuclear weapons. How'd that work out for us?” Troy asked. “And don't forget about the Soviets in Afghanistan. The Taliban broke them.”

“Thanks to poor tactics on the part of the Russians and the deployment of advanced American weaponry like Stinger missiles by the Taliban. You know as well as I do that Afghanistan was a proxy war between us and the Soviets. We prevailed, once again proving my point.”

“In order to frustrate the Soviets, we funded and armed the Taliban and al-Qaeda. They're the real enemy. The Soviet Union was on its last legs, crumbling under the weight of its failing economic system and corrupt political regime. They would've lost that war with or without our help. But now we've trained and equipped our real enemies, who are playing a very long game.”

“We're not the Soviet Union. If we ever decided to go to war against the Taliban and al-Qaeda, we'd squash them like bugs. Worst-case
scenario? We sit back and fire cruise missiles at their command centers and hideouts. War is about power, and it takes two parties to fight a war. Nonstate actors don't have the power to wage war with us; therefore, the next war can't be with them. End of story. To think we'd ever be in a protracted war with a low-rent organization like al-Qaeda is specious at best.”

“In the West, states fight wars against states. We win when we occupy enemy territory and force their governments to sign our peace treaties. But ‘terrorism' doesn't have a capital, and jihadism is completely decentralized—who would have the authority to sign a peace treaty that would end it?”

“You win the war on terrorists by killing terrorists faster than they can make them. It's as simple as that.”

“No. You can only win the war on terrorism by killing all the terrorists—a genocidal war against the nonwhite, non-Western world, something we'd never do, nor should we. We'd lose that kind of war on moral grounds alone. But even if we did want to wage that kind of war, the only way to kill every terrorist is to occupy the entire globe, because terrorism is everywhere. It won't be just a long war, it will be a forever war. And we'll lose it because we don't have the will to do what it takes, and they always win by not losing. Time will be on their side, not ours. Trying to fight a 4GW war with 2GW weapons and tactics is the strategic equivalent of a nineteenth-century cavalry charge against a twentieth-century machine-gun nest.”

Fagan rolled his eyes. “How do you think a bunch of third world peasants armed with AK-47s are going to stand up to our fleet of B-2 stealth bombers?”

“Women wearing suicide vests beneath their burqas are pretty stealthy, too. So are Toyotas loaded with C-4 on a crowded city street. In a war by civilians against civilians, the burqas trump the bombers.”

Fagan stood. “I've got a committee meeting in ten minutes across campus.”

Troy stood and held out his hand. Fagan reluctantly took it. Troy resisted the temptation to crush his moist grip. The other faculty stood as well, chairs scraping against the linoleum.

“Thanks for taking the time to hear me out,” Troy said.

A smile stole across Fagan's face. “Interesting presentation. Good luck.”

That's a no vote
, Troy knew. Fagan was too much of a coward to say it to his face. “Thanks.”

Fagan left the room. The other faculty members shook his hand and clapped him on the back.

Garth said, “Best thesis defense I've heard in twenty years. Don't worry about him. He's just mad he didn't think of your idea first. You've got my vote.”

Troy relaxed. Even smiled. “Thank you.”

Pembroke added, “Great job. You can easily turn that third section into a journal article. I know a couple of editors who would eat this up. I'm happy to write a cover letter for you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Garth stroked his graying beard, barely hiding an impish smile. “Just one thing kept bugging me while you were talking today.”

“Shoot.”

“How'd you get that black eye?”