by Tom Clancy
“Then you have another problem with them, Comrade Chairman.”
“Oh?”
Yefremov handed over the decrypt. Golovko took it, thanking the man with his accustomed good manners, then settled back in his chair and started reading. In less than five seconds, his eyes widened.
“This is not possible,” his voice whispered.
“Perhaps so, but it is difficult to explain otherwise.”
“I was the target?”
“So it would appear,” Provalov answered.
“But why?”
“That we do not know,” Yefremov said, “and probably nobody in the city of Moscow knows. If the order was given through a Chinese intelligence officer, the order originated in Beijing, and the man who forwarded it probably doesn’t know the reasoning behind it. Moreover, the operation is set up to be somewhat deniable, since we cannot even prove that this man is an intelligence officer, and not an assistant or what the Americans call a ‘stringer.’ In fact, their man was identified for us by an American,” the FSS officer concluded.
Golovko’s eyes came up. “How the hell did that happen?”
Provalov explained. “A Chinese intelligence officer in Moscow is unlikely to be concerned by the presence of an American national, whereas any Russian citizen is a potential counterintelligence officer. Mishka was there and offered to help, and I permitted it. Which leads me to a question.”
“What do you tell this American?” Golovko asked for him.
The lieutenant nodded. “Yes, Comrade Chairman. He knows a good deal about the murder investigation because I confided in him and he offered some helpful suggestions. He is a gifted police investigator. And he is no fool. When he asks how this case is going, what can I say?”
Golovko’s initial response was as predictable as it was automatic: Say nothing. But he restrained himself. If Provalov said nothing, then the American would have to be a fool not to see the lie, and, as he said, the American was no fool. On the other hand, did it serve Golovko‘s—or Russia’s—purposes for America to know that his life was in danger? That question was deep and confusing. While he pondered it, he’d have his bodyguard come in. He beeped his secretary.
“Yes, Comrade Chairman,” Major Shelepin said, coming in the door.
“Something new for you to worry about, Anatoliy Ivan’ch,” Golovko told him. It was more than that. The first sentence turned Shelepin pale.
It started in America with the unions. These affiliations of working people, which had lost power in the preceding decades, were in their way the most conservative organizations in America, for the simple reason that their loss of power had made them mindful of the importance of what power they retained. To hold on to that, they resisted any change that threatened the smallest entitlement of their humblest member.
China had long been a bête noir for the labor movement, for the simple reason that Chinese workers made less in a day than American union automobile workers made during their morning coffee break. That tilted the playing field in favor of the Asians, and that was something the AFL/CIO was not prepared to approve.
So much the better that the government that ruled those underpaid workers disregarded human rights. That just made them easier to oppose.
American labor unions are nothing if not organized, and so every single member of Congress started getting telephone calls. Most of them were taken by staffers, but those from senior union officials in a member’s state or district usually made it all the way through, regardless of which side the individual member stood on. Attention was called to the barbaric action of that godless state which also, by the way, shit on its workers and took American jobs through its unfair labor practices. The size of the trade surplus came up in every single telephone call, which would have made the members of Congress think that it was a carefully orchestrated phone campaign (which it was) had they compared notes on the telephone calls with one another (which they didn’t).
Later in the day, demonstrations were held, and though they were about as spontaneous as those held in the People’s Republic of China, they were covered by the local and/or national media, because it was a place to send cameras, and the newsies belonged to a union, too.
Behind the telephone calls and in front of the TV coverage of the demonstrations came the letters and e-mails, all of which were counted and cataloged by the members’ staffers.
Some of them called the White House to let the President know what was happening on the Hill. Those calls all went to the office of Arnold van Damm, whose own staff kept a careful count of the calls, their position, and their degree of passion, which was running pretty high.
On top of that came the notices from the religious communities, virtually all of which China had managed to offend at once.
The one unexpected but shrewd development of the day didn’t involve a call or letter to anyone in the government. Chinese manufacturers located on the island of Taiwan all had lobbying and public-relations agencies in America. One of these came up with an idea that caught on as rapidly as the powder inside a rifle cartridge. By midday, three separate printers were turning out peel-off stickers with the flag of the Republic of China and the caption “We’re the good guys.” By the following morning, clerks at retail outlets all over America were affixing them to items of Taiwanese manufacture. The news media found out about it even before the process had begun, and thus aided the Republic of China industrialists by letting the public know of their “them not us” campaign even before it had properly begun.
The result was that the American public was reacquainted with the fact that there were indeed two countries called China, and that only one of them killed people of the clergy and then beat up on those who tried to say a few prayers on a public street. The other one even played Little League baseball.
It wasn’t often that union leaders and the clergy both cried out so vociferously, and together they were being heard. Polling organizations scrambled to catch up, and were soon framing their questions in such a way that the answers were defined even before they were given.
The draft note arrived in the Beijing embassy early in the morning. When decrypted by an NS employee, it was shown to the embassy’s senior watch officer, who managed not to throw up and decided to awaken Ambassador Hitch at once. Half an hour later, Hitch was in the office, sleepy and crabby at being awakened two hours before his accustomed time. The content of the note wasn’t contrived to brighten his day. He was soon on the phone to Foggy Bottom.
“Yes, that’s what we want you to say,” Scott Adler told him on the secure phone.
“They’re not going to like it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, Carl.”
“Okay, just so you know,” Hitch told the SecState.
“Carl, we do think about these things, but the President is seriously pissed about—”
“Scott, I live here, y’know? I know what happened.”
“What are they going to do?” EAGLE asked.
“Before or after they take my head off?” Hitch asked in return. “They’ll tell me where to stick this note—a little more formally, of course.”
“Well, make it clear to them that the American people demand some sort of amends. And that killing diplomats cannot be done with impunity.”
“Okay, Scott. I know how to handle it. I’ll get back to you later.”
“I’ll be awake,” Adler promised, thinking of the long day in the office he was stuck with.
“See ya.” Hitch broke the connection.
CHAPTER 33
Square One
You may not talk to us this way,” Shen Tang observed. ”Minister, my country has principles which we do not violate. Some of those are respect for human rights, the right of free assembly, the right to worship God as one wishes, the right to speak freely. The government of the People’s Republic has seen fit to violate those principles, hence America’s response. Every other great power in the world recognizes those rights. China must as well.”
“Must? You tell us what we must do?”
“Minister, if China wishes to be a member of the community of nations, then, yes.”
“America will not dictate to us. You are not the rulers of the world!”
“We do not claim to be. But we can choose those nations with whom we have normal relations, and we would prefer them to recognize human rights as do all other civilized nations.”
“Now you say we are uncivilized?” Shen demanded.
“I did not say that, Minister,” Hitch responded, wishing he’d not let his tongue slip.
“America does not have the right to impose its wishes on us or any other nation. You come here and dictate trade terms to us, and now also you demand that we conduct our internal affairs so as to suit you. Enough! We will not kowtow to you. We are not your servants. I reject this note.” Shen even tossed it back in Hitch’s direction to give further emphasis to his words.
“That is your reply, then?” Hitch asked.
“That is the reply of the People’s Republic of China,” Shen answered imperiously.
“Very well, Minister. Thank you for the audience.” Hitch bowed politely and withdrew. Remarkable, he thought, that normal—if not exactly friendly—relations could come unglued this fast. Only six weeks before, Shen had been over to the embassy for a cordial working dinner, and they’d toasted each other’s country in the friendliest manner possible. But Kissinger had said it: Countries do not have friends; they have interests. And the PRC had just shit on some of America’s most closely felt principles. And that was that. He walked back out to his car for the drive to the embassy.
Cliff Rutledge was waiting there. Hitch waved him into his private office.
“Well?”
“Well, he told me to shove it up my ass—in diplo-speak,” Hitch told his visitor. “You might have a lively session this morning.”
Rutledge had seen the note already, of course. “I’m surprised Scott let it go out that way.”
“I gather things at home have gotten a little firm. We’ve seen CNN and all, but maybe it’s even worse than it appears.”
“Look, I don’t condone anything the Chinese did, but all this over a couple of shot clergymen ...”
“One was a diplomat, Cliff,” Hitch reminded him. “If you got your ass shot off, you’d want them to take it seriously in Washington, wouldn’t you?”
The reprimand made Rutledge’s eyes flare a little. “It’s President Ryan who’s driving this. He just doesn’t understand how diplomacy works.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but he is the President, and it’s our job to represent him, remember?”
“Hard to forget it,” Rutledge groused. He’d never be Undersecretary of State while that yahoo sat in the White House, and Undersecretary was the job he’d had his eye on for the last fifteen years. But neither would he get the job if he allowed his private feelings, however justified, to cloud his professional judgment. “We’re going to be called home or sent home,” he estimated.
“Probably,” Hitch agreed. “Be nice to catch some baseball. How do the Sox look this season?”
“Forget it. A rebuilding year. Once again.”
“Sorry about that.” Hitch shook his head and checked his desk for new dispatches, but there were none. Now he had to let Washington know what the Chinese Foreign Minister had said. Scott Adler was probably sitting in his seventh-floor office waiting for the secure direct line to ring.
“Good luck, Cliff.”
“Thanks a bunch,” Rutledge said on his way out the door.
Hitch wondered if he should call home and tell his wife to start packing for home, but no, not yet. First he had to call Foggy Bottom.
So, what’s going to happen?” Ryan asked Adler from his bed. He’d left orders to be called as soon as they got word. Now, listening to Adler’s reply, he was surprised. He’d thought the wording of the note rather wimpy, but evidently diplomatic exchange had even stricter rules than he’d appreciated. ”Okay, now what, Scott?”
“Well, we’ll wait and see what happens with the trade delegation, but even money we call them and Carl Hitch home for consultations.”
“Don’t the Chinese realize they could take a trade hit from all this?”
“They don’t expect that to happen. Maybe if it does, it’ll make them think over the error of their ways.”
“I wouldn’t bet much on that card, Scott.”
“Sooner or later, common sense has to break out. A hit in the wallet usually gets a guy’s attention,” SecState said.
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” POTUS replied. “’Night, Scott.”
“’Night, Jack.”
“So what did they say?” Cathy Ryan asked.
“They told us to stick it up our ass.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Jack replied, flipping the light off.
The Chinese thought they were invincible. It must be nice to believe that. Nice, but dangerous.
The 265th Motor Rifle Division was composed of three regiments of conscripts—Russians who hadn’t chosen to avoid military service, which made them patriotic, or stupid, or apathetic, or sufficiently bored with life that the prospect of two years in uniform, poorly fed and largely unpaid, didn’t seem that much of a sacrifice. Each regiment was composed of about fifteen hundred soldiers, about five hundred fewer than full authorized strength. The good news was that each regiment had an organic tank battalion, and that all of the mechanized equipment was, if not new, then at least recently manufactured, and reasonably well maintained. The division lacked its organic tank regiment, however, the fist which gave a motor-rifle division its offensive capabilities. Also missing was the divisional antitank battalion, with its Rapier antitank cannons. These were anachronistic weapons which Bondarenko nonetheless liked because he’d played with them as an officer cadet nearly forty years before. The new model of the BMP infantry carrier had been modified to carry the AT-6 antitank missle, the one NATO called “Spiral,” actually a Russian version of the NATO Milan, courtesy of some nameless KGB spy of the 1980s. The Russian troops called it the Hammer for its ease of use, despite a relatively small warhead. Every BMP had ten of these, which more than made up for the missing battalion of towed guns.
What worried Bondarenko and Aliyev most was the lack of artillery. Historically the best trained and best drilled part of the Russian army, the artillery was only half present in the Far East’s maneuver forces, battalions taking the place of regiments. The rationale for this was the fixed defense line on the Chinese border, which had a goodly supply of fixed and fortified artillery positions, albeit of obsolete designs, though with trained crews and massive stocks of shells to pour into predetermined positions.
The general scowled in the confines of his staff car. It was what he got for being smart and energetic. A properly prepared and trained military district didn’t need a man like him, did it? No, his talents were needed by a shithole like this one. Just once, he thought, might a good officer get a reward for good performance instead of another “challenge,” as they called it? He grunted. Not in this lifetime. The dunces and dolts drew the comfortable districts with no threats and lots of equipment to deal with them.
His worst worry was the air situation. Of all the Russian military arms, the air forces had suffered the most from the fall of the Soviet Union. Once Far East had had its own fleets of tactical fighters, poised to deal with a threat from American aircraft based in Japan or on aircraft carriers of their Pacific Fleet, that plus what was needed to face off the Chinese. No more. Now he had perhaps fifty usable aircraft in theater, and the pilots for those got perhaps seventy flight hours per year, barely enough to make sure they could take off and land safely. Fifty modern fighter-class aircraft, mainly for air-to-air combat, not air-to-ground. There were several hundred more, rotting at their bases, mainly in hardened shelters to keep them dry, their tires dry-rotted and internal seals cracked from lack of use because of the spare-parts shortage that grounded nearl
y the entire Russian air force.
“You know, Andrey, I can remember when the world shook with fear of our country’s army. Now, they shake with laughter, those who bother to take note of us.” Bondarenko took a sip of vodka from a flask. It had been a long time since he’d drunk alcohol on duty, but it was cold—the heater in the car was broken—and he needed the solace.
“Gennady Iosifovich, it is not as bad as it appears—”
“I agree! It is worse!” CINC-FAR EAST growled. “If the Chinks come north, I shall learn to eat with chopsticks. I’ve always wondered how they do that,” he added with a wry smile. Bondarenko was always one to see the humor in a situation.
“But to others we appear strong. We have thousands of tanks, Comrade General.”
Which was true. They’d spent the morning inspecting monstrous sheds containing of all things T-34/85 tanks manufactured at Chelyabinsk in 1946. Some had virgin guns, never fired. The Germans had shaken in their jack-boots to see these tanks storm over the horizon, but that’s what they were, World War II tanks, over nine hundred of them, three complete division sets. And there were even troops to maintain them! The engines still turned over, serviced as they were by the grandchildren of the men who’d used them in combat operations against the fascisti. And in the same sheds were shells, some made as recently as 1986, for the 85-mm guns. The world was mad, and surely the Soviet Union had been mad, first to store such antiques, then to spend money and effort maintaining them. And even now, more than ten years after the demise of that nation-state, the sheer force of bureaucratic inertia still sent conscripts into the sheds to maintain the antique collection. For what purpose? No one knew. It would take an archivist to find the documents, and while that might be of interest to some historian of a humorous bent, Bondarenko had better things to do.
“Andrey, I appreciate your willingness to see the lighter side of every situation, but we do face a practical reality here.”
