Stephen Coonts - Combat

The streets were as crazy as the train station. Traffic was all but stalled at many intersections, and their driver had to backtrack and make several detours around the downtown area. Especially around the government buildings. The military presence was everywhere, yet there seemed to be a look of inevitability, of resigned indifference, on the faces of the people here and aboard the train. War was coming, and there wasn’t much that anyone could do about it.

“How the hell do they expect to get anything done like this?” Hanrahan asked, watching out the windows. The cab was not air-conditioned, and already the heat and humidity had plastered their clothes to their bodies.

“You oughta see New Delhi at rush hour in midsummer,” McGarvey said absently, watching for any signs that an organized resistance movement had been formed.

The Taiwanese were great soapbox orators. They took their politics more seriously than just about any other country on earth. Their representatives regularly got into fistfights on the floor of the legislature. And just like the South Koreans, who were also faced with a constant threat of annihilation, there were staunch Taiwanese supporters for every side of just about every issue that was raised. There was a sizable minority of Taiwanese who wanted a return to the mainland. If they wanted to start something, now would be a perfect time for it. If Taiwan were suddenly to find itself in the middle of a bloody civil war, it would give the PRC one more reason to come in and take over by force: to save human lives.

Taiwan was like a powder keg with a short fuse in the middle of an armory packed with dynamite. Lit matches were being held out from every direction. It was only a matter of time before one of them caught.

The driver left them off in front of the Bank of South Africa building, in an area of offices and apartment high-rises. They had just passed the sandbagged entrance to Taiwan University, where a mob of a thousand or more students wearing headbands and carrying banners was parading up and down in front of a Patriot missile emplacement on the grass. Soldiers had cordoned off the area, keeping the students from spilling out onto the busy street and further disrupting traffic. It was the only evidence of any sort of dissension that McGarvey had seen so far.

The Parisian Lights was a sidewalk café set under a red-and-white-striped awning across Hoping Road from the university demonstration. The place was crowded, but they got a table in the corner. Their waiter spoke French with a Chinese accent. McGarvey ordered coffee and beignets, and when the waiter was gone he used his cell phone to call the American Institute three blocks away on Hsinyi Street.

“Peyton Graves,” he told the operator.

“He’s not in,” she answered.

“Yes, he is,” McGarvey insisted. “I’ll hold.” Graves was the CIA’s Chief of Taiwan Station and a very capable old China hand. He was in the hot seat right now, so he wasn’t going to be in to most people. It was SOP. McGarvey had met the man only once, and although Graves had struck him as a bit officious and bureaucratic, he was doing a good job for them out here.

“This is Peyton Graves, what can I do for you?”

“Is this a secure line?” McGarvey asked.

“Jesus,” Graves said softly. He’d recognized McGarvey’s voice. “It can be.”

“Switching now,” McGarvey said. He pressed star-four-one-one, and his cell phone’s encryption circuits kicked in. “How’s this?”

“Clear,” Graves said. “You’re in-country, but nobody said anything to me, Mr. McGarvey.”

“I want to keep it that way, Peyton, you probably have a PRC leak in the embassy.”

“This place is like a sieve. Where are you?”

McGarvey told him. “We’re going to need a windowless van and a driver who knows the city, and someplace to lie low just until tonight.”

“I’ll have somebody pick you up within ten minutes. It’ll be a gray Chevy delivery van, Han Chi Bakeries, Ltd. on the side. Driver’s name is Tom Preston. Tall, dark hair, mustache.”

“Good enough. No one else is to know that we’re here, and I mean no one, not even the ambassador.”

“I understand,” Graves said. “I’m not even going to ask how you got here without flags going up. The city is crawling with PRC supporters. But if you’ve come here to do what I think you came here to do, tonight will be cutting it a tad close.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Apparently you haven’t heard. The PRC are sending a military delegation of some sort over here early this evening to arrest Shizong. Nobody knows how it’s going to play, but the word is out that the delegation will at least be allowed to land. From that point it’s anybody’s guess.”

“Does the PRC know where Shizong is being kept?”

“It’s possible, but I don’t think so. The Taiwanese CIA have been handling it, and they’ve done a good job so far. But the politicians might take it out of their hands. Taiwan wants to keep him b e, but they’re afraid that if the PRC pushes it, we’ll just sit on our hands and watch.”

“They’re right,” McGarvey said. “Do you know where he’s being kept?”

“They switch him around every few days. But for now he’s up on Grass Mountain at Joseph Lee’s old place.” Lee was a Taiwanese multibillionaire whom McGarvey had run up against a couple of years ago in a Japanese operation to put nuclear weapons in low-earth orbit. Lee was dead and the Taiwanese government had confiscated most of his properties, including the Grass Mountain house.

“Who’ll be with him tonight?”

“I don’t know for sure, but considering what might be going down I’d guess the same team that snatched him from Xiamen.”

“I know them. They’re all good men.”

“Tough bastards,” Graves said. “They’re not going to take kindly to anyone barging in up there, friend or foe. Especially friend. If the PRC is allowed to arrest him and take him back to the mainland, Taipei will be able to make a very large international stink over it. They’ll win beaucoup points in the UN. But if you mean to grab him and bury him someplace deep and out of sight, nobody will win. They’re not going to want that.”

“You’re wrong about one thing, Peyton. If we do pull this off, everybody will end up on top in the long run.”

“Do you want some help then?”

“Just Tom Preston, the van, and someplace to crash until tonight,” McGarvey said.

“If anything breaks this afternoon, I’ll get it to you,” Graves said.

“Thanks. But then forget that we were ever here.”

“You’d better take Tom with you. After tonight he’ll be useless here.”

“Will do,” McGarvey said, and he broke the connection.

Captain Xia Langshan was flying right wing escort for the Boeing 727 bringing the arresting officers to Taipei. Lieutenant Qaixo was flying left wing. Their transponders were all squawking 11313, which was the code for a peaceful-mission incursion into Taiwanese airspace. The same code was used when Taiwanese weather-spotting airplanes flew into PRC airspace. They just cleared the beach on their long approach.

“Green One, this is Eagle thirteen/thirteen, feet dry,” Langshan radioed his AWACS controller circling at thirty-five thousand feet, thirty klicks to the west.

“Thirteen/thirteen, this is Green One. You are clear to proceed, out.”

Langshan switched to the civilian frequency in time to hear the Boeing whose ID was Justice Wind Four receiving its landing instructions from Chiang Kai-shek International Airport at Taoyuan. He could hear the tension in the controller’s voice.

“PRC Flight Four, your escort aircraft will not be allowed to land. Acknowledge.”