“
Temporary
difficulty was what I think we all
heard,” Rong corrected his nemesis.
“Remember what is at stake.”
This was not the first presidential conference where Deng
found himself befuddled by some invisible controversy.
Rong turned toward Chen Ruihan. “You will see that Comrade
Deng has access to every conceivable resource, domestic or otherwise, whether
bought or borrowed, in a timely fashion, with no excuses and no polished
evasion of responsibility.
No further lapses will be tolerated.
”
Beneath the expectant gaze of China’s leadership, the young
deputy minister politely bowed his head. “You can expect nothing less.”
The brief discussion that followed focused on who was to
blame for China having not internally generated more resources of physicist
Zhao’s expertise. The meeting adjourned.
As far as Deng could determine, the entire discussion had
entailed little of substance, with the exception that Rong started out bitching
about how much was being poured into the Project, and finished by handing him
and Chen a blank check.
Deng confronted Rong on their way from the room. “Comrade,
may I have a word with you?”
Rong stopped to look at him.
“I hope my badgering your office these past days did not,
in the end, cost you precious time away from your family tonight.” Deng smiled,
knowing well the man’s reputed appetite for company other than family.
“How may I help you?”
“Very simply. I would like to know what has become of my
physicist friend.”
Rong turned to Chen Ruihan, deflecting the question. Chen
replied, “Zhao is recovering from an apparent stroke.”
“A stroke...? How tragic. Why, Zhao could not be sixty
years old.”
Rong said, “The man is on your staff, and you did not know?”
Chen quickly volunteered that given the security needs of the
project, Zhao’s whereabouts were being closely protected.
Dr. Zhao had never given him the impression of ill health. Deng
shook his head, his worry for Zhao rekindling familiar pangs of vulnerability. “Well,
with luck he will quickly recover.”
“Our future depends upon it,” the state security deputy
minister agreed.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
,
many of the same individuals convened for a special follow-up inside
Zhongnanhai. Known only to the attendees, following months of similarly
sequestered gatherings, a line was about to be crossed beyond which there would
be no turning back. This elite caucus represented no official organ of the
Communist Party, a construct of irrefutably utopian lies to which they owed
their allegiance, and within which they had bound layer upon layer their
avarice, fraud and corruption. Socialism with Chinese Characteristics had
proved no better than any other in the world, a fact the elites stubbornly
denied, even with tens of millions of unemployed rioting in the cities or
scheming to murder every tax collector they could grab. Rong’s guests this
morning included men whose network of
quanxi
afforded their
‘state-owned’ factories large contracts for products ranging from National
Defense bicycles, to inertial guidance for Silkworm missiles, to construction
equipment. On hand was the reclusive yet powerful chief of the PLA Second
Department (Er Bu, military intelligence). He was accompanied by the
administrator of the Bureau of Science & Technology (the Seventh Bureau),
which developed technology stolen abroad into useful espionage equipment and
weapons. Its Seagull Electrical Equipment and Beijing Electronic factories
profited from the sale of consumer products ranging from automotive fuel
injection controls to digital video disks. There was the minister of Water
Resources and Electric Power, whose pending decision to site new fossil fuel power
plants relied upon their host’s assurance of an abundant supply of cheap
petroleum. Armed with China’s pool of skilled labor, and electrical power less
costly than even the Seven Gorges Dam could deliver, the fortunes of such
debt-ridden state-owned enterprises could be on the verge of an impressive
recovery.
Otherwise, the ruse of reform had run out of steam. Their
government’s undisclosed liabilities amounted to a staggering 383% of the country’s
gross domestic product, which made even America’s own government spending
debacles seem an irrelevant blip. Entry to the World Trade Organization had
introduced crushing competition to which state-owned enterprises had never
fully adapted. A program to securitize nonperforming loans held by China’s
insolvent banks had dismally failed.
And yet, while the Party and PLA leaders remained privately
terrified, an oligarchy of fascism was a thing not easily killed. So the elites
allowed themselves to be lulled by the soothing words and promises of their
host—the visionary who demanded their loyalty, in return for the largest
industrial re-nationalization campaign in world history.
Rong Peng understood the lingering reservations. “We have
had to begin moving forward for several reasons. The environmental movement was
seen as losing credibility. The missile defense window is finite and closing. OPEC
states, meanwhile, are unruly devils to keep under heel. They constantly
threaten to break from the program.”
Rong rose from the table and stood facing the world map
hanging on the wall. “So, you are conflicted. You are conflicted that North
America has been your largest export market. You fantasize that the Americans
will one day service our US Treasury holdings with something other than their
ever declining, detestable dollar. Comrades,” he went on with a sigh, turning
to face his small audience, “one does not bring a superpower to its knees
without incurring certain costs. Granted, your precious market will suffer temporary
disruption. Winds at the back of the central Asian economies should dampen the
subsequent downturn. Our goal is to exploit the opportunity in the ensuing
vacuum—in a world free, at last, of exploitation by the American corporation.”
“World opinion will limit our gains,” said General Gao,
Chief of the Second Department.
“Really, Gao. Need I quote Sun-tzu to a man such as you?” Rong’s
patience was growing thin; these men were his subordinates. “China will not be
blamed for what befalls America. History has shown the way. The object is to
avoid being drawn into the initial stages of conflict. Those late to engage in
resolving world strife suffer the least costs. Because they suffer the least
costs, they are able to set conditions for the outcome. We watched America
achieve that twice in the last century. It is now our turn. Of course, nobody
is twisting your arm. Perhaps your generosity compels you to allow others to
reap the benefits.” Rong laughed. “You won’t be alone. The finance minister
seems eager to join you.”
The Chief of the Second Department took a measure of the
others around him. “I believe I speak for us all in saying that our support for
your leadership quest is unwavering. But thrusting forward, without presenting
us the opportunity of a more thorough vetting—”
“Warfare is the Way of deception,” countered Rong. “You will
be briefed on the operational aspects when the need arises. But in the meantime,”
he leveled his finger, “what I
will
present you with is a challenge.
Put yourselves in the shoes of these arrogant and stupid Americans. And then,
try to make sense of the seemingly disparate disasters about to befall them.”
18
Monday, April 27
MORTON HACKETT DREW
his
chin into a divot between fleshy jowls, glared over the rims of his glasses and
barked, “You want to do
what
?”
Standing beside the projection screen, Emily Chang stopped
nervously twirling a pointer between her fingertips and held the chief engineer’s
gaze.
Hackett turned his attention to the object on the
conference table. “You can’t be serious.”
What remained of the doomed jet engine’s digital electronic
control unit was a battered aluminum box roughly the size and proportions of a
small suitcase. One corner of the ECU, or ‘the box’ as the engineers actually
called it, was crushed and cracked where it first impacted the runway after
ripping free of the engine. Dozens of external cooling fins for dissipating
heat generated by the circuitry crowded inside were bent and broken off, stubs
blackened with soot and asphalt. One large cable attached to the box by a
military-type connector, consisting of multi-colored wires and optical fibers
through which the electronic brain controlled the engine, was broken and
splayed like a ravaged spine.
“Until somebody can explain why the instrumentation failed
before the engine,” Stuart replied, “that is exactly what we’re going to do. The
overspeed appears to have been commanded by the electronics inside that box.”
“But that isn’t gonna’ work! Come on now, you’re grasping
for straws. The flight data recorder is designed to withstand impact, but not
the box.”
“This was low-speed so far as aircraft impacts go,” Stuart
reminded the chief engineer. “Emily’s verified that the back-up batteries are
intact.” If an anomaly lurked in the memory modules, there was a chance they
would find it.
Hackett folded his arms. “You won’t find squat, assuming
you ever in our lifetime get the damn thing to work. Don’t forget this isn’t
the only piece of electronic gear aboard that...” Hackett saw Stuart’s mouth
spread into a sly grin. “You can’t be serious!”
“Ferguson’s already squared it with the airframer. Reconstruction
will be conducted for all the electronics that make up the flight management
system.”
“But we’ve already
got
a solution.”
“Every solution you offer dances around the problem.”
“Just what are you looking for?”
“Emily’s going to explain that,” Stuart said, hoping it to
be true. He thought she seemed uncharacteristically nervous today, especially
now that everyone had turned to hear her defense.
“Our goal is to assess the engine control unit’s
contribution, if any, to the crash,” Emily began. “First we have to refurbish
the ECU—this of course will be difficult. Assuming there is an anomaly in
either the hardware or programming, the only way to be certain of its
significance is to observe the ECU’s response to actual flight condition inputs
immediately before the engine exploded. In order to reproduce these inputs, we
need to code special software that will allow the airplane’s flight data
recorder to communicate directly to the refurbished engine control.”
Stuart announced that Fairchild agreed this morning to send
an engineer to assist in the effort.
His elbow on the table, Hackett supported his head with his
hand shielding his eyes. “Have we ever attempted anything like this?” he asked
without looking up.
“I don’t believe so,” Emily said, her look inviting
disagreement and finding none.
“I believe you when you say this will be difficult. How
difficult?”
Emily frowned. “That’s difficult to say.” She paused uncomfortably
at the snickers and laughs. “It could take several weeks to assess.”
Hackett removed his hand from his face to look at Emily. “I’ll
be first to admit that you’re the undisputed electronics expert among us. Can
you give us a sense of the challenge here in terms a metal-bender like me can
grasp? Do you mean difficult as in, say, sending the first man to the moon? Or
maybe difficult, as in nearly impossible?”
“That’s really not called for,” Stuart complained.
Clearly Hackett was repulsed by the sight of the aluminum
carcass on the table. “I simply don’t think it’s possible.”
“Good thing you’re not the one we’re asking to do it.”
“I’d compare the difficulty of this task to a brick
building blowing apart,” Emily’s determined voice cut over the wrangling, “and
then being told to rebuild it, brick by broken brick, each back into its
original location. All have to be checked somehow to ensure a good fit because
you are not allowed to alter the original appearance of the building. But the
tools you will use to check them don’t yet exist, and they have to be tailored
to each broken brick, and you are told you have only a few weeks to complete
the job.”
In the moments of silent contemplation that followed nobody
moved.
“I would think of it that way,” she added, nodding to the
chief engineer.
Hackett removed his glasses and glared at Stuart. “And you
think you can do it?”
“Yes, I think we can do it,” said Emily, her eyes briefly passing
over Stuart’s.
19
JAMES COLE STOOD
with
his back to the man seated in front of his desk and gazed through his office
window. Outside, the tendrils of a willow tree that bordered the company’s
property rustled in the breeze like a woman’s hair.
Stuart sat patiently, mindful of the open wound that the
father in Cole must be enduring over the death of his daughter, aware that such
wounds never heal. He certainly wasn’t about to ask whether or not there was any
truth behind the rumor that Cole’s wife was pushing an end to their
twenty-three year marriage. The thumb of his boss’s right hand involuntarily
twitched.
“An old acquaintance of mine is a partner in a prestigious
New York law firm,” Cole said finally. “I got a call from him last evening, a
courtesy call, I guess you could say. His firm will represent the injured
reporter, and the family of the cameraman killed in the crash, in a suit
against the parent company of that Mojave cable shop. Today that suit will be
filed. Along with a host of secondary legalistic sounding abuses, my friend’s
firm plans to allege that Thanatech is guilty of professional negligence and
reckless endangerment.”