First Strike. Justin Richards

       Prologue

      Rich watched the tanks rolling down the main street. Civilians leaped aside. Children watched wide-eyed from shadowy doorways. Soldiers marched behind the tanks, grim-faced and determined.

      These images were repeated on television screens all round the restaurant. The grim news reports they showed were a stark contrast to the upbeat 1980s dance track that was throbbing through the place. A teenage waitress on roller skates with a red and white striped uniform and braces on her teeth spun to a perfect stop beside Jade and Rich. She smiled at their dad.

      “Can I get you guys some drinks?”

      In the US-themed restaurant, its walls adorned with road signs and music posters from the 1950s, her West Country accent was out of place. Up till then, Rich could have forgotten that he was in England.

      “You’re driving,” Jade warned her dad before he could order. “I’ll have a sparkling mineral water.”

      “Milkshake,” Rich decided. “Chocolate fudge.”

      “That is so bad for you,” Jade told him.

      But Rich just grinned. His twin sister could be such a health freak. “I know.”

      “What draught beer do you have?” John Chance asked.

      The waitress started to list American beers.

      Jade glared at her dad. “I said, you’re driving.”

      “Just curious. I’ll have a pineapple juice,” he said. “With ice. If I’m allowed.”

      “Ice is OK,” Jade confirmed.

      “Made from frozen vodka if you can manage it,” Chance added. He grinned. “Kidding,” he assured the waitress.

      “Right. I’ll be straight back with your drinks, and I’ll take your food order then. OK?” She didn’t wait for a reply.

      On the TV screens a reporter was talking, though the sound was muted. Text flashed up underneath him: Chinese Peacekeepers enter Wiengwei province…No sign of missing US air crew…Chinese deny airmen have been arrested…

      “I don’t know why they do that,” said Jade.

      “They’re worried the rebels are getting more support,” said Rich.

      “The Chinese have had trouble in Wiengwei ever since they invaded back in 1950,” Chance added. “At the time the western world was more concerned about Tibet. They hardly noticed what was happening at the same time down the road.”

      “I meant,” said Jade, “why do they show the news channel with the sound turned down and music blaring out? I mean—what’s the point? You have to guess what’s happening. It’s just like visual noise and a confusing tickertape.”

       …White House accused of abandoning airmen…President refuses to condemn Chinese…

      “You can sort of see what’s going on,” said Rich.

      The scrolling caption across the bottom of the screen now read: Still no sign of rebel leader Marshal Wieng.

      “Only because we saw the news before we came out this evening,” Jade told him. The 6 o’clock broadcast had been almost entirely devoted to the developing story: an American military plane appeared to have gone down over Chinese airspace, but the Americans were refusing to confirm that their men had even been there, and the Chinese were denying having captured them. “And because we’ve got Mr Global Trouble-Shooter here to help.” She turned to her dad. “I bet you were there in Wiengwei