Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan by Peter von Bleichert Page B

shortly.
    “Destination?”   Richard checked his phone again.   There
was still no signal.   “Hey, who’s your
cell carrier?” he asked the agent.   This
time there was no answer at all.   They
neared the White House.   Richard cursed
to himself and straightened his tie.   The
car passed protestors from both sides of the Taiwan issue who hurled insults at
each other and the mansion.   A thin blue
line of police separated them.
    The car turned up Executive Avenue and approached one of the
White House’s gates.   The agent directed
Richard to prepare identification as they stopped at the Park Service
guardhouse.   The window came down and the
air-conditioned car quickly filled with muggy air heavily scented by fresh cut
grass and roses.   Richard sneezed.   Continuing up the semicircular drive toward
the East Wing, Richard noticed several marines on the building’s rooftop.   The car pulled into the shade of the
porte-cochere and stopped at an ornate pillared doorway.
    Richard and the agent passed through a metal detector built
into the door frame, and entered the East Wing’s lobby.   Another Secret Service agent asked if Richard
was armed, though he did not wait to start patting him down.   Satisfied, the agent pointed to the far
door.   Richard began a silent, escorted
walk.   An old African-American butler gave
a nod and continued to wind a centuries-old grandfather clock.   Richard passed an office where he noticed
several computer screens that displayed Andy Warhol’s ‘Mao.’   The colorfully abstract Chinese Communist
leader smiled back at frustrated American staff that repeatedly pushed
Crtl-Alt-Del on their keyboards.   With a
pat on his shoulder, the escort pushed Richard along, inducing him to an
elevator guarded by two marines in full dress.
    After a recheck of credentials, one of the marines inserted
and turned a key, and the waiting elevator opened.   The Marine’s bright-white gloves pointed the
way.   Surprised to be proceeding alone,
Richard hesitated and then entered.   The
elevator descended slowly into the city’s bedrock before it stopped with a
gentle bounce.   The doors slid open at
the arched basement level where Secretary Pierce waited.
    “Read.” She shoved a file at Richard.   Just three lines of the Chinese action
summary were enough to visibly awe the young man.   She pulled him along as he continued reading,
bumping him into a four-star army general as they all pushed into the
Presidential Emergency Operations Center.   PEOC’s heavy vault door clanged shut as senior staff settled around an
oval table flanked by large video screens.
    Secretary Pierce took her seat among the group that included
the president, several of the joint chiefs, and the assistant to the president
for national security affairs, better known as the national security
advisor.   Richard found a chair among the
other civilian and military aides.   Settling in, he continued to read.   Richard felt eyes upon him and looked up to find the army general
staring.   Richard nodded cordially, though
he also recognized the suspicion in the man’s look.   He has fought Asians before, Richard thought,
probably Koreans and Vietnamese, maybe even Chinese, too.   We all look the same to him.   Loathing simmered beneath the general’s thin,
politically correct crust.   That crust had
been cracked today, blown open by Chinese missiles.   Richard looked away from the suspicious glare
of the man he had sized up.   A map of the
Pacific theater came up on the screen with red marks on Guam, Okinawa, and in
the middle of the Philippine Sea.   Pictures of the damaged supercarrier George
Washington appeared, along with still and video shots of the wrecked island
air bases.   The Chairman of the Joint
Chiefs—a silver-haired admiral—began the meeting with continuity of government
protocols.
    “Mr. President, NAOC has departed Omaha, and Vice President
Campos is at Mount Weather.   Air