Twilight's Last Gleaming Read online

  He sat down at his desk, clicked the trackball, started going through the daily news feed. Forecasts said there would be no letup in the drought that was hammering the western half of the country—no surprises there, most western states were in extreme drought two years out of every three these days. The states of Iowa and Georgia had just suspended payment on their debts, roiling the financial markets; the National Weather Service had just released a bulletin on a hefty tropical storm, poised off the Windwards, that could turn into the season's first big hurricane.

  Bridgeport sipped bourbon, skimmed past that to the news on Tanzania. There wasn't much, at least in the US media; pundits in the major newsblogs who favored the Weed administration were making the usual noises, denouncing Mkembe as a tyrant and mouthing pious talk about America's duty to spread democracy, while those who opposed Weed were mostly avoiding the subject. None of them were rude enough to mention oil, of course. Over on social media, meanwhile, the only people who bothered to dispute the claim that the Tanzanian crisis was all about oil were the administration's paid shills. And Mel's in the middle of it, he thought irritably. Why the hell couldn't her unit have stayed stateside?

  The latest Rasmussen poll was out, too. It had Weed's approval rating down to 22 percent, which was still three times what Congress could count on and well over twice what any of his most likely opponents in the 2032 election were getting. Only 7 percent of Americans believed that the country was on the right track, which was a new low. Bridgeport cupped his chin in his hand. That number wavered up and down, but the overall trend was no surprise to anybody who'd been outside the Beltway any time recently. There was a sour taste in America's mouth, no question, and a lot of it had to do with what was happening, or not happening, in Washington DC.

  Down at the bottom were some of the numbers that mattered. The stock market was down hard, with financials leading the way on the news from Iowa and Georgia; unemployment was up again—real unemployment, that is; the official number had been massaged down again, but nobody even pretended to pay attention to that any more. The price of gas, which was up over $6 a gallon in May, had slipped a bit since then and averaged just over $5.50 nationwide.

  Ordinary news, Bridgeport thought, on an ordinary day. He shook his head, remembering how far from normal those stories once would have been. Once this mess in Tanzania was over, he decided, it would be time to start pushing for some changes.

  15 July 2029: Zhongnanhai, Beijing

  Tea splashed into two cups. “Something's about to happen,” said Liu Meiyin.

  Liu Shenyen glanced up at his wife, startled. “Oh?”

  She smiled a smile that gave nothing away, set down the teapot.

  The room in which they sat and the house surrounding it could have been a good deal larger, given their joint income, and the decor was understated almost, but not quite, to the point of austerity. She'd suggested both those details when their parallel careers finally earned them a place in the guarded Party enclave of Zhongnanhai, and he'd agreed, knowing that her instinct for the appropriate gesture was keener than his.

  He allowed a smile of his own as she waited for him to pick up his teacup. “Will I have to beg you for an explanation?”

  Meiyin gave him an amused look. “Oh, quite possibly.” Then, as he took the cup: “It's simple enough. Partly, you haven't been this quiet about your work since Xinjiang.”

  He nodded, conceding the point. That had been an ugly business, suppressing a Muslim insurgency among the Uyghurs; that his precise handling of the campaign had earned him his place on the Central Military Commission didn't banish his distaste for the measures the PLA had had to use.

  “Partly, though, it's the news from Africa,” Meiyin went on. “The only public responses from Chen so far have been rhetorical. I can't believe that he'll sit back and let the Americans take Tanzania—and nobody I know in the Ministry of Trade has gotten instructions to wind up activities there.”

  He met her gaze directly, and though he said nothing, she read the answer and bowed slightly in response.

  Liu considered his wife, and smiled again. Their marriage had been purely a political match at first; they'd been young and ambitious, aware of the ways they could use each other to advance their careers, and sufficiently pragmatic to let that outweigh fonder and more foolish concerns. He'd assumed the two of them would be allies and occasional bedmates; he hadn't expected them to become close friends, or that he'd come to rely so often on her advice, but both those had happened as they climbed their parallel routes through the intricacies of the Party's hierarchy to their current positions, hers high up in the Ministry of Trade, his just below the zenith of the People's Liberation Army.

  “I hope one question won't be inappropriate,” Meiyin said then. “How much are you risking?”

  “Personally?” When she nodded: “A great deal.”

  Her expression didn't change, but he knew her well enough to sense her concern. “If it's any comfort,” he said then, “Professor Fang is advising me.”

  “Ah.” She nodded after a moment. “I will hope for the best, then.”

  16 July 2029: Aboard the USS Ronald Reagan, CVN-76

  Rear Admiral Julius Deckmann stepped onto the flag bridge, answered the salutes of his subordinates with a nod and his habitual “At ease, gentlemen.” Below, visible through the slanted windows of the flag bridge, the flight deck of the Ronald Reagan and the aircraft parked on it soaked up the harsh tropical sunlight; all around, broken only by the gray shapes of other ships in the task force, blue ocean ran straight out to the horizon.

  “Anything new?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant at the comm console. “The ships from COMPSRON-2 are under way. Gettysburg and Gridley will meet them at eighteen-hundred.”

  “Good,” said Deckmann. COMPSRON-2 meant Maritime Prepositioning Squadron Two, the fleet of fully loaded supply ships the US kept in Indian Ocean ports to meet the logistics needs of military operations anywhere on that side of the planet. The four freighters from Diego Garcia and the supplies they carried were essential to Operation Blazing Torch. “Hawkeye spotted ’em yet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Deckmann went to the comm console as the lieutenant punched up the data feed from the E-2C Hawkeye airborne early warning plane high above the task force. Onscreen, blips from nine of the eleven surface ships in the task force moved across otherwise empty sea; to the west was Diego Garcia's ragged loop of islets, the COMPSRON ships heading northwest from there, and two task force ships, USS Gettysburg and USS Gridley, closing with them. The radar didn't show the Hawkeye and the half dozen fighters Deckmann had ordered aloft to watch for trouble, but a poke at an onscreen button would change that, and the admiral had no doubt the planes would be where they were supposed to be.

  He wondered why none of that made him feel less uneasy.

  A career surface-navy officer with half a dozen combat assignments behind him, Deckmann had learned to trust his intuition, and his intuition told him that something wasn't right. He went to the windows and leaned forward, hands propped against the heavy glass. Two thousand miles away lay the Tanzanian coast, already chopped up by the planners into military targets to be bombed, oil facilities to be seized, landing zones to be cleared and used, and all the rest of the ordinary geography of amphibious warfare. The operations plan was straight out of the textbook, the forces under his command more than adequate for the mission, and the other half of the operation, the Army's half, was in good hands—he'd worked with Jay Seversky on joint-force operations in Venezuela, knew he could trust the man to do his job. None of that silenced the whisper of incoming trouble, off somewhere in the back of his mind.

  He turned toward the others. “I want a Global Hawk up tomorrow, and I want it to stay up until we're close enough in for tactical recon. This should be a piece of cake, but I'll be damned if I'm going to take any chances.”

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant commander who handled liaison with the air wing
made a note on his tablet as Deckmann looked back out to sea.

  17 July 2029: The August First Building, Beijing

  “The last cruise missile unit reported in yesterday morning,” said the aide. “They're at Pangani, here.” His laser pointer moved across the map of Tanzania, stopped well up the north coast. “All of the units are ready to launch the moment the war begins.”

  “Have American planes overflown those sites?” This from Ma Baiyuan, whose mouth was twisted in a hard frown.

  “No, sir. Our people and the Tanzanians have both been watching for that. The Americans have satellite data, of course, but nothing else.”

  The table facing the screen was draped in red. Behind it sat the entire Central Military Commission. President Chen was the only one in civilian clothing.

  “Go on,” said Liu.

  “Of course, sir,” said the aide. “Our planes are all in place, and we've made all the necessary arrangements with the Russians, the Iranians, and the Central Asian republics. Russia's been particularly helpful; they've moved planes and units into Central Asia to match our buildup, for the sake of the cover story.”

  Yang Chao, the ground forces commander, turned to Liu. “I hope the Russians aren't playing a double game with Washington.”

  “We've had assets from the Ministry of State Security watching for any evidence of that, in Russia and America both. There's no sign of it—and there are the stories about Kuznetsov.”

  “That he has some sort of grudge against the Americans?” Yang gestured, discarding the possibility. “Rumors are no basis for sound policy.”

  “Ignoring them,” said Liu, “is not necessarily a basis for sound strategy.” He nodded to the aide, who went on.

  “The Tanzanian military's done everything we requested, and units from Zambia and Mozambique are moving north to join them; our other African allies have agreed to send their own forces once hostilities actually begin. At that point, our people in northeastern Tanzania will hand over some weapons systems the Americans don't expect.”

  “You anticipate a ground war?” Ma asked.

  Liu answered before the aide could. “Unless the Americans back down at once, yes. It's been included in our plan from the beginning. We beat them soundly in Korea, remember.”

  “That was a long time ago,” said Ma.

  “True. Doubtless they need a reminder.”

  Chen chuckled, but said nothing.

  “As for the Americans,” said the aide, “they are doing exactly what our intelligence reports predicted.” The map of Tanzania went away, replaced by a satellite photo of blue water with long gray shapes moving across it. “The USS Ronald Reagan and its supporting ships, with four transports from Diego Garcia. They will be in striking range of the Tanzanian coast within days.” Another satellite picture, which Liu recognized at once: the Kenyan countryside south of Narok, with the hard lines of runways stark against the greens and browns of the autumn savanna. “Two squadrons of F-35 fighter-bombers are being moved from the US to Tanzania via Europe and the Persian Gulf, and units of the 101st Air Assault Division are already in place.”

  “Which tells us,” said Liu, “how they plan on conducting the invasion. American airborne and air assault units each have their own distinctive military doctrine and mission profiles. The Marine units aboard the fleet are much the same—a little more flexible, perhaps. Still, there's no question of what the Americans have in mind.”

  Ma made a skeptical noise in his throat, a little like a growl. “And if they change their minds and do something different?”

  “They'll be handicapped by a lack of proper equipment and training. You've seen the reports from our intelligence assets in the United States; you've seen the satellite photos. The units assigned to this operation trained for it by the book.”

  “It astonishes me that they would let that become public knowledge,” said Yang.

  “Does it?” Liu turned in his chair to face him. “It's been so long since they have had to hide their intentions from anyone that they've very nearly forgotten how. I don't mean tactically—they haven't lost their wits completely; we have no idea exactly where they plan to cross the Tanzanian border, what the initial targets of the invasion will be, and so on. No.” He turned back to the screen; the aide had clicked back to the map of Tanzania. “No, it's their overall strategy and military doctrine they no longer know how to hide. If all goes well, they're about to learn just why that's a mistake.”

  22 July 2029: The Presidential Palace, Dar es Salaam

  “Look at this,” President Mkembe said, flinging the paper down onto his desk. “Is there nothing too shameful for them?”

  The officials gathered in the president's office glanced at each other, said nothing.

  “The Tanzanian Freedom Council,” Mkembe went on, irony heavy in his voice. “Whom nobody knows, and no one ever heard of, until the United States decided it wants our oil. Now these nobodies call on the nations of the world to liberate Tanzania from tyranny—as though any nation in the world is listening except the United States. As though any nation in the world has the least question about the point of this business.”

  Abruptly he sat down, slumped forward, put his face in his hands. “I know,” he said, “I am rambling.” He raised his head, considered the others. “What is the latest?”

  “The riots here and in Dodoma are apparently over.” General Mohammed Kashilabe, chief of the Tanzanian Army, walked over to the map on the wall. “As best we can tell, the CIA pulled its mercenaries and special forces units out of both cities yesterday, and sent them toward the Kenyan border.”

  “That implies,” said Mkembe, “that the invasion is imminent.”

  “Exactly. The naval radar stations at Wete and Kilindoni have tracked unidentified aircraft out over international waters in the last two days—quite a few of them. They match the radar signatures of American naval aircraft. And of course you know about the base at Narok.”

  “Of course.” The covert American air base had been a buzzing hive of activity for more than a week; Tanzanian air-defense radars on Mount Meru had tracked one transport after another flying in from somewhere to the north.

  “All this together—” The general spread his hands. “Certainty belongs only to God. Still, I would be lying to you if I said I expected the Americans to wait another week.”

  “Understood,” said Mkembe. “And the Chinese?”

  That was the only question that mattered, he knew. If the Chinese meant Tanzania to go down under the American assault, then down it would go. If otherwise—

  “I think they are preparing something,” said Kashilabe. “I have no idea what. I cannot even point to any one thing to prove the thing. But our forces are ready to follow their plan—and so are those of our very good friends in Zambia and Mozambique.”

  “That is something,” Mkembe admitted. “The others?”

  Kashilabe turned to the foreign minister, who said, “They are—waiting, I suppose would be the best word. Like the rest of us, they want to know what the Chinese will do.”

  “I wish we had that option,” said Mkembe. “Well.” Then, after a moment: “If this thing could begin at any moment, it would be idiocy to stay here longer. I will be flying to Dodoma this afternoon. The rest of you have your instructions. Any questions? No? Then may God have mercy on Tanzania in this hour.”

  23 July 2029: The White House, Washington DC

  Jameson Weed came into the White House situation room watch area, waved the staff back to their consoles, stood there as the screens brought information via satellite link from the far side of the planet. The start of the Tanzanian operation was only hours away. He walked over to the station of the information officer, asked, “Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, sir. Anything in particular you want to see?”

  Weed considered that, shook his head. “No. Keep me posted if anything comes up.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Weed left the room, started
back toward the residence. The West Wing was never quiet these days, what with the situation room staff and the other presidential offices there, but this afternoon the murmur of voices and activity he heard around him seemed hushed, tense. No doubt, he told himself. We're about to go to war.

  He stopped there in the middle of the corridor, shook his head, allowed a rueful little laugh. War, he thought. In the months leading up to Operation Blazing Torch, plenty of words had been bandied about, but not that one. You didn't say “war” nowadays. You used some nice clean euphemism that didn't have anything to do with young people in uniform facing off against young people in some other uniform and going at it with guns.

  He shook his head again, went to the door of the Navy Mess. Andie already knew not to expect him for dinner; the National Security Council would be there by five, the operation would start at six, and it would be a long night after that. Might as well get something to eat now, he told himself, and tried not to think about the soldiers and sailors and marines who were telling themselves the same thing.

  24 July 2029: Aboard the USS Ronald Reagan, CVN-76

  The Ronald Reagan's Tactical Flag Command Center, TFCC for short, was belowdecks, next to the Combat Information Center, the captain's station once the fighting started. Both were right up under the flight deck, far enough forward that when planes took off, the pounding of the catapults shook the dimly lit space like the inside of a drum. Just then, though, all was quiet. Officers bent over glowing consoles, monitoring data from the fleet and the ground units via satellite uplink. In the middle of it all, one hand cupping his chin and the other gripping a cup of coffee long since gone cold, Admiral Deckmann waited.

  One of the officers swiveled around in his chair. “Sir? General Seversky. Quote good to go, unquote.”

  “Anything last minute from DC or AFRICOM?”

  “No, sir.” The digital clock above the man's console showed zero one fifty-eight local time—two minutes before go time for Operation Blazing Torch.