by Tom Clancy
“You know, it would be better if they started working their navy and threatening Taiwan. We are in a better position to forestall that than—”
“You really think so?” SecTreas asked, cutting his President off.
“The Russians do,” Jack confirmed.
“Then why are the Russians selling the Chinese so much hardware?” Winston demanded. “That doesn’t make sense!”
“George, there is no rule demanding that the world has to make sense.” That was one of Ryan’s favorite aphorisms. “That’s one of the things you learn in the intelligence business. In 1938, guess who was Germany’s number one trading partner?”
SecTreas saw that sandbag coming before it struck. “France?”
“You got it.” Ryan nodded. “Then, in ‘40 and ’41, they did a lot of trade with the Russians. That didn’t work out so well either, did it?”
“And everyone always told me that trade was a moderating influence,” the Secretary observed.
“Maybe it is among people, but remember that governments don’t have principles so much as interests—at least the primitive ones, the ones who haven’t figured it all out yet...”
“Like the PRC?”
It was Ryan’s turn to nod. “Yeah, George, like those little bastards in Beijing. They rule a nation of a billion people, but they do it as though they were the new coming of Caligula. Nobody ever told them that they have a positive duty to look after the interests of the people they rule—well, maybe that’s not true,” Ryan allowed, feeling a little generous. “They have this big, perfect theoretical model, promulgated by Karl Marx, refined by Lenin, then applied in their country by a pudgy sexual pervert named Mao.”
“Oh? Pervert?”
“Yeah.” Ryan looked up. “We had the data over at Langley. Mao liked virgins, the younger the better. Maybe he liked to see the fear in their cute little virginal eyes—that’s what one of our pshrink consultants thought, kinda like rape, not so much sex as power. Well, I guess it could have been worse—at least they were girls,” Jack observed rather dryly, “and their culture is historically a little more liberal than ours on that sort of thing.” A shake of the head. “You should see the briefs I get whenever a major foreign dignitary comes over, the stuff we know about their personal habits.”
A chuckle: “Do I really want to know?”
A grimace: “Probably not. Sometimes I wish they didn’t give me the stuff. You sit them down right here in the office, and they’re charming and businesslike, and you can spend the whole fucking meeting looking for horns and hooves.” That could be a distraction, of course, but it was more generally thought that as in playing poker for high stakes, the more you knew about the guy on the other side of the table, the better, even if it might make you want to throw up during the welcoming ceremony on the White House South Lawn. But that was the business of being President, Ryan reminded himself. And people actually fought like tigers to get there. And would again, when he left, POTUS reminded himself. And so, Jack, is it your job to protect your country from the kind of rat who lusts to be where all the really good cheese is stored? Ryan shook his head again. So many doubts. It wasn’t so much that they never went away. They just kept getting bigger all the time. How strange that he understood and could recount every small step that had led him to this office, and yet he still asked himself several times every hour how the hell he’d come to be in this place ... and how the hell he’d ever get out. Well, he had no excuses at all this time. He’d actually run for election to the Presidency. If you could call it that—Arnie van Damm didn’t, as a matter of fact—which you could, since he’d fulfilled the constitutional requirements, a fact on which just about every legal scholar in the nation had agreed, and talked about on every major news network ad nauseam. Well, Jack reminded himself, I wasn’t watching much TV back then, was I? But it all really came down to one thing: The people you dealt with as President were very often people whom you would never willingly invite into your home, and it had nothing to do with any lack of manners or personal charm, which, perversely, they usually displayed in abundance. One of the things Arnie had told Jack early on was that the main requirement to enter the political profession was nothing more nor less than the ability to be pleasant to people whom you despised, and then to do business with them as if they were bosom friends.
“So, what do we know about our heathen Chinese friends?” Winston asked. “The current ones, that is.”
“Not much. We’re working on that. The Agency has a long way to go, though we are started on the road. We still get intercepts. Their phone system is leaky, and they use their cell phones too much without encrypting them. Some of them are men of commendable vigor, George, but nothing too terribly scandalous that we know about. Quite a few of them have secretaries who are very close to their bosses.”
The Secretary of the Treasury managed a chuckle. “Well, a lot of that going around, and not just in Beijing.”
“Even on Wall Street?” Jack inquired, with a theatrically raised eyebrow.
“I can’t say for sure, sir, but I have heard the occasional rumor.” Winston grinned at the diversion.
And even right here in this room, Ryan reminded himself. They’d changed the rug long since, of course, and all the furniture, except for the Presidential desk. One of the problems associated with holding this job was the baggage piled on your back by previous officeholders. They said the public had a short memory, but that wasn’t true, was it? Not when you heard the whispers, followed by chuckles, and accompanied by knowing looks and the occasional gesture that made you feel dirty to be the subject of the chuckles. And all you could do about it was to live your life as best you could, but even then the best you could hope for was for people to think you were smart enough not to get caught, because they all did it, right? One of the problems with living in a free country was that anyone outside this palace/prison could think and say whatever he wished. And Ryan didn’t even have the right that any other citizen might have to punch out whatever twit said something about his character that the twit was unwilling to back up. It hardly seemed fair, but as a practical matter, it would force Ryan to visit a lot of corner bars, and break a lot of knuckles, to little gain. And sending sworn cops or armed Marines out to handle matters wasn’t exactly a proper use of Presidential power, was it?
Jack knew that he was far too thin-skinned to hold this job. Professional politicians typically had hides that made a rhinoceros’s look like rose petals, because they expected to have things hurled at them, some true, some not. By cultivating that thick covering, they attenuated the pain somehow, until eventually people stopped hurling things at them, or such was the theory. Maybe it actually worked for some. Or maybe the bastards just didn’t have consciences. You paid your money and you took your choice.
But Ryan did have a conscience. That was a choice he’d made long before. You still had to look in the mirror once a day, usually at shaving time, and there was no easy fix for not being able to like the face you saw there.
“Okay, back to the PRC’s problems, George,” the President commanded.
“They’re going to juice up their trade—one way, that is. They’re discouraging their own citizens from buying American, but all they can sell, they sell. Including some of Mao’s young virgins, probably.”
“What do we have to prove that?”
“Jack, I pay close attention to results, and I have friends in various businesses who shake the bushes and talk to people over drinks. What they learn frequently gets back to me. You know, a lot of ethnic Chinese have some weird medical condition. You get one drink into them, it’s like four or five for us—and the second drink is like chugging a whole bottle of Jack Daniel‘s, but some of the dummies try to keep up anyway, some hospitality thing, maybe. Anyway, when that happens, well, the talk becomes freer, y’know? It’s been going on quite a while, but lately Mark Gant set up a little program. Senior executives who go to certain special places, well, I do own the Secret Service now, a
nd the Secret Service does specialize in economic crimes, right? And a lot of my old friends know who I am and what I do now, and they cooperate pretty nice, and so I get a lot of good stuff to write up. It mainly goes to my senior people across the street.”
“I’m impressed, George. You cross-deck it to CIA?”
“I suppose I could, but I was afraid they’d get all pissy over turf rights and stuff.”
Ryan rolled his eyes at that bit of information. “Not Ed Foley. He’s a real pro from way back, and the bureaucracy over at Langley hasn’t captured him yet. Have him over to your office for lunch. He won’t mind what you’re doing. Same thing with Mary Pat. She runs the Directorate of Operations. MP’s a real cowgirl, and she wants results, too.”
“Duly noted. You know, Jack, it’s amazing how much people talk, and the things they talk about under the proper circumstances.”
“How’d you make all that money on The Street, George?” Ryan asked.
“Mainly by knowing a little more than the guy across the street,” Winston replied.
“Works the same way for me here. Okay, if our little friends go forward with this, what should we do?”
“Jack—no, now it’s Mr. President—we’ve been financing Chinese industrial expansion for quite a few years now. They sell things to us, we pay cash for them, and then they either keep the money for their own purposes on the international money markets, or they purchase things they want from other countries, often things they could as easily buy from us, but maybe half a percent more expensive from an American manufacturer. The reason it’s called ‘trade’ is that you theoretically exchange something of yours for something of the other guy’s—just like kids with baseball cards, okay?—but they’re not playing the game that way. They’re also dumping some products just to get dollars, selling items here for less than what they sell them to their own citizens. Now, that is technically in violation of a couple federal statues. Okay,” Winston shrugged, “it’s a statute we enforce somewhat selectively, but it is on the books, and it is the law. Toss in the Trade Reform Act that we passed a few years ago because of the games the Japs were playing—”
“I remember, George. It kinda started a little shooting war in which some people got killed,” POTUS observed dryly. Worst of all, perhaps, it had begun the process that had ended up with Ryan in this very room.
SecTreas nodded. “True, but it’s still the law, and it was not a bill of attainder meant only to apply to Japan. Jack, if we apply the same trade laws to China that the Chinese apply to us, well, it’ll put a major crimp in their foreign-exchange accounts. Is that a bad thing? No, not with the trade imbalance we have with them now. You know, Jack, if they start building automobiles and play the same game they’re playing on everything else, our trade deficit could get real ugly real fast, and frankly I’m tired of having us finance their economic development, which they then execute with heavy equipment bought in Japan and Europe. If they want trade with the United States of America, fine, but let it be trade. We can hold our own in any truly fair trade war with any country, because American workers can produce as well as anybody in the world and better than most. But if we let them cheat us, we’re being cheated, Jack, and I don’t like that here any more than I do around a card table. And here, buddy, the stakes are a hell of a lot higher.”
“I hear you, George. But we don’t want to put a gun to their head, do we? You don’t do that to a nation-state, especially a big nation-state, unless you have a solid reason for doing so. Our economy is chugging along rather nicely now, isn’t it? We can afford to be a little magnanimous.”
“Maybe, Jack. What I was thinking was a little friendly encouragement on our part, not a pointed gun exactly. The gun is always there in the holster—the big gun is most-favored-nation status, and they know it, and we know they know it. TRA is something we can apply to any country, and I happen to think the idea behind the law is fundamentally sound. It’s been fairly useful as a club to show to a lot of countries, but we’ve never tried it on the PRC. How come?”
POTUS shrugged, with no small degree of embarrassment. “Because I haven’t had the chance to yet, and before me too many people in this town just wanted to kiss their collective ass.”
“Leaves a bad taste in your mouth when you do that, Mr. President, doesn’t it?”
“It can,” Jack agreed. “Okay, you want to talk this over with Scott Adler. The ambassadors all work for him.”
“Who do we have in Beijing?”
“Carl Hitch. Career FSO, late fifties, supposed to be very good, and this is his sunset assignment.”
“Payoff for all those years of holding coats?”
Ryan nodded. “Something like that, I suppose. I’m not entirely sure. State wasn’t my bureaucracy.” CIA, he didn’t add, was bad enough.
It was a much nicer office, Bart Mancuso thought. And the shoulderboards on his undress whites were a little heavier now, with the four stars instead of the two he’d worn as COMSUBPAC. But no more. His former boss, Admiral Dave Seaton, had fleeted up to Chief of Naval Operations, and then the President (or someone close to him) had decided that Mancuso was the guy to be the next Commander in Chief, Pacific. And so he now worked in the same office once occupied by Chester Nimitz, and other fine—and some brilliant—naval officers since. It was quite a stretch since Plebe Summer at Annapolis, lo those many years before, especially since he’d had only a single command at sea, USS Dallas, though that command tour had been a noteworthy one, complete with two missions he could still tell no one about. And having been shipmates once and briefly with the sitting President probably hadn’t hurt his career very much.
The new job came with a plush official house, a sizable team of sailors and chiefs to look after him and his wife—the boys were all away at college now—the usual drivers, official cars, and, now, armed bodyguards, because, remarkably enough, there were people about who didn’t much care for admirals. As a theater commander Mancuso now reported directly to the Secretary of Defense, Anthony Bretano, who in turn reported directly to President Ryan. In return, Mancuso got a lot of new perks. Now he had direct access to all manner of intelligence information, including the holy of holies, sources and methods—where the information came from, and how we’d gotten it out—because as America’s principal executor for a quarter of the globe’s surface, he had to know it all, so that he’d know what to advise the SecDef, who would, in turn, advise the President of CINCPAC’s views, intentions, and desires.
The Pacific, Mancuso thought, having just completed his first morning intel brief, looked okay. It hadn’t always been like that, of course, including recently, when he’d fought a fairly major conflict—“war” was a word that had fallen very much out of favor in civilized discourse—with the Japanese, and that had included the loss of two of his nuclear submarines, killed with treachery and deceit, as Mancuso thought of it, though a more objective observer might have called the tactics employed by the enemy clever and effective.
Heretofore he’d been notified of the locations and activities of his various submarines, but now he also got told about his carriers, tin cans, cruisers, and replenishment ships, plus Marines, and even Army and Air Force assets, which were technically his as a theater commander-in-chief. All that meant that the morning intel brief lasted into a third cup of coffee, by the end of which he looked longingly to the executive head, just a few feet away from his desk. Hell, his intelligence coordinator, called a J-2, was, in fact, an Army one-star doing his “joint” tour, and, in fairness, doing it pretty well. This brigadier, named Mike Lahr, had taught political science at West Point, in addition to other assignments. Having to consider political factors was a new development in Mancuso’s career, but it came with the increased command territory. CINCPAC had done his “joint” tour along the way, of course, and was theoretically conversant with the abilities and orientation of his brother armed services, but whatever confidence he’d had along those lines diminished in the face of having the command respon
sibility to utilize such forces in a professional way. Well, he had subordinate commanders in those other services to advise him, but it was his job to know more than just how to ask questions, and for Mancuso that meant he’d have to go out and get his clothes dirty seeing the practical side, because that was where the kids assigned to his theater would shed blood if he didn’t do his job right.
The team was a joint venture of the Atlantic Richfield Company, British Petroleum, and the largest Russian oil exploration company. The last of the three had the most experience but the least expertise, and the most primitive methods. This was not to say that the Russian prospectors were stupid. Far from it. Two of them were gifted geologists, with theoretical insights that impressed their American and British colleagues. Better still, they’d grasped the advantages of the newest exploration equipment about as quickly as the engineers who’d designed it.
It had been known for many years that this part of eastern Siberia was a geological twin to the North Slope region of Alaska and Northern Canada, which had turned into vast oil fields for their parent countries to exploit. The hard part had been getting the proper equipment there to see if the similarity was more than just cosmetic.
Getting the gear into the right places had been a minor nightmare. Brought by train into southeastern Siberia from the port of Vladivostok, the “thumper trucks”—they were far too heavy to airlift—had then spent a month going cross-country, north from Magdagachi, through Aim and Ust Maya, finally getting to work east of Kazachye.
