Fenix by Vivek Ahuja Page A

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    “I t is not our fight. Isn’t that what they said to us three years ago?” Wencang said as he kept walking. General Chen kept his pace alongside him as others in the corridor swept aside to make way for the two senior-most officials of the Central Military Commission. The walls of the corridor were covered with red curtains and portraits of past commanders and leaders of the communist party of China. Wencang didn’t bother dropping a glance on either of them. He was in this building far too many times a day for it to matter anymore. But this time he did stop at one of the last portraits before his office. It was of his predecessor, Peng.
                  Peng had been killed three years ago as a result of a deadly Indian ICBM attack on one of the last days of the war. He had died alongside a host of other senior party officials and senior military commanders when their arrival at the national command center west of Beijing had been pre-empted by the Indians. Wencang and Chen had survived that strike because they had not been with that group. In fact, they had been put outside that group by Peng himself, although the reasons for him doing so were far from benign.
                  You bastard! Wencang stared at the portrait You wrought what you had sown!
                  Wencang sighed and turned to Chen, who raised an eyebrow at his commander, guessing his thoughts. Wencang shook his head and started walking towards his office with Chen in tow. The large hall outside his office door was occupied only by the desks of his office adjutants. The red coloration of the various drapes and carpets in the room were hard to miss. The Lt-colonel who was in charge of the team of assistants immediately got up from his seat, sliding his chair back with a grinding noise. He saluted as Wencang walked by. Chen returned the Lt-colonel’s salute. Wencang didn’t bother. Neither man broke their stride as they walked past the man into Wencang’s office.
                  “So what do those bastards want, anyway?” Wencang said as he removed his uniform coat. Chen waited as the Lt-colonel closed the doors behind them.
                  “What the beggars always want,” Chen replied. His eyes followed Wencang as the latter walked around the desk and watched the snow glistening on the grass outside the window.
                  “Satellite intel?” Wencang said after consideration. Chen nodded. “Indeed.”
                  “What else?” Wencang asked, fishing into his pocket for the cheap Mongolian cigarettes that he loved. He had picked up the habit when he had been posted at one of the Mongolian border PLAAF airbases so many decades ago. The last decade had accelerated his habit towards it logical end. He now coughed after every cigarette and wondered each time whether the next one would be his last…
                  “…and additional ammunition supplies to beef up their war reserves,” Chen concluded. Wencang turned to face his colleague and realized he had missed whatever the man had been saying. He looked at Chen and caught his glance. Both men smiled and Chen tossed the file on the massive wooden desk: “You can read the list later if you want. Nothing overtly unorthodox in there. The real question,” he pointed a finger at the closed file, “is whether or not we should provide them any of what’s in here. Not after their betrayal!”
                  “Betrayal, Chen?” Wencang said as he turned away from the window and moved into his seat behind the desk. He extinguished the cigarette. “You mean self-preservation, no? Isn’t that what all animals do? Look out for their survival?”
                  “Very well then,” Chen conceded, “like animals. Self-preservation. Whatever! The point is, every gut in my body wants to tell their ambassador and their military attaché to go fuck