The confrontation with China had already seen two Presidents fall from power and Deangelo or Zhao might well be next. The situation in Russia remained tense and General Morozov was expected to take over formally as president within the hour. For Morozov, China would be a low priority, and Beijing was already pulling its forces back from the border with Russia, able now to reinforce the south without fear of a Russian attack.
Thorn had grown increasingly exasperated by the passive nature of some of the arguments, angry that the sacrifices already made might soon be worthless. Unable to hold his frustration in check any longer, Thorn finally spoke his mind, no deference made to his Commander-in-Chief.
“You talk of compromise,” he said bitterly, not addressing anyone specifically but clearly aiming his comments at Deangelo. “Beijing will only throw it back in your face; if not in a year, then in five or ten. It won’t then be a handful of poorly protected reefs but a well-defended island network, and truly a sea China can call her own. The whole of the South-East Asia will effectively be under Beijing’s control, and we sit here and argue over whether to reward Beijing for murdering three hundred Vietnamese and a hundred Americans. Their sacrifice cannot just be ignored.”
“That assumes,” responded Deangelo, his tone curt, his eyes angry, “the status quo returns to that of a year ago. That simply won’t happen. China’s economic survival is also under threat and they need a long-term resolution as much as anyone. Any peace will only come with suitable guarantees…”
Thorn still wouldn’t let it lie, “Guarantees mean little to Beijing. We need to push them to the limit; maybe the Paracel Islands is a step too far but the Spratly chain is seven hundred miles from the Chinese mainland; China’s claim is based on some romantic notion of history and they must be forced to abandon it.”
“We can’t change their view of history,” interjected Burgess. “If we offer them a convenient way out, Beijing will listen. China is still sitting on more than a dozen other reefs in the Spratly Group; are we really willing to risk another few hundred American lives just to frustrate the Politburo?”
Thorn and Adams apparently were, Deangelo not yet convinced. The hardliners were now definitely in the minority, Jensen’s earlier analysis of Burgess well wide of the mark, and if it wasn’t for Thorn then some sort of accommodation would already be resting on the table in front of them. Jensen knew he might be reading too much into every gesture and word but the relationship between the President and his Secretary of Defence wasn’t quite that of world leader and adviser. Thorn always had a habit of speaking his mind but there was an added element here that had never been present before, even with President Cavanagh, Thorn seeming to expect a certain influence as of right.
“Admiral,” said Deangelo, his mind finally made up, “for the moment we will maintain our forces on alert but make no aggressive moves. If we need to force Beijing to the negotiating table, what’s the earliest we can start occupying the remaining reefs?”
“Three days, Mr President,” replied Adams without needing to check. The lessons from Mischief Reef had been well learnt, the operational plans modified to ensure the unacceptable loss of life would not be repeated. As to whether America opted for a full-blown offensive or staggered the attacks was down to Deangelo, the U.S. Navy and the Marines having to cope with multiple threats, the fear of intervention by North Korea and a subsequent escalation very real.
It was another fifteen minutes before Deangelo took the easy option, the final decision put on hold until the Sunday; in the meantime every avenue was to be pursued in order to persuade Beijing it was now time for formal talks with no pre-conditions, a deal best for everyone. It was an outcome Thorn had fought hard to avoid and he made no attempt to hide his irritation, a second angry exchange with Deangelo his parting gift as the meeting broke up.
Jensen left the White House feeling equally frustrated and his concerns as to Thorn’s undue influence continued to plague him throughout the afternoon; on reflection, he was even willing to accede that Flores’ suspicions had some merit. Thorn was becoming a serious problem for the President, one which was entirely of his own making and ridding himself of the Secretary without some embarrassing about-face would be difficult.
Jensen sat at his desk in semi-darkness, slowly convincing himself that Thorn would ensure Deangelo couldn’t back down and settle for some inferior accord with Beijing. The willingness of the Pentagon to act unilaterally was a prime example of Thorn’s special status and the news media would soon wake up to the fact, invariably casting doubt as to Deangelo’s perceived authority. Thorn might yet be confirmed as Secretary of Defence on the Saturday and having fought so hard to have him in the Cabinet, the President could hardly sack him; Jensen even wondered whether Deangelo still secretly hoped Congress would come to his rescue, thereby saving him from admitting he had made a mistake.
Anderson and Flores might have a differing perspective as to Thorn’s ultimate fate but Jensen remained sceptical, their reasoning based mainly on personal prejudice than cold hard facts. Yet, if he was honest, it did have a certain appeal, and almost by default Jensen was becoming one of Deangelo’s closest allies. Dick Thorn’s influence would continue to be divisive, the Secretary of Defence doing all that he could to push America ever deeper into a war with China – if Flores and Anderson were right, then maybe McDowell should be roundly applauded and left to do his job.
The FBI investigation into Thorn’s personal contact list had been complex but thorough, it made more difficult by Jensen’s refusal to use the counter-intelligence skills of the Defence Department’s National Security Agency. Even so, many of Thorn’s private messages had now been duly analysed and dissected, an unexpected pattern or hidden meaning searched for. A handful of the subsequent intercepts had been intriguing if inconclusive, suggesting much but proving little. However, if Thorn intended to mount some form of coup or force America into a war, the Chief of the National Guard Bureau and the Admiral commanding the U.S. Pacific Command would be useful allies, the latter responsible for all military operations from America’s West Coast to India, reporting directly to the Secretary of Defence. Whether almost daily personal contact with each of them over the past week should be considered routine or suspicious was a question Jensen was struggling to determine, the content of the calls seemingly legitimate and relatively mundane.
Whatever Thorn’s true plans, he would be unwise to delay for more than a day or two, and Beijing was finally opening the door to formal talks, everything moving swiftly after the first tentative steps. Ryan Burgess was due to arrive in Kazakhstan in a couple of hours, his planned trip to Canberra put off for at least two days; China’s Foreign Minister was already in Kazakhstan’s capitol, Astana, and representatives from Russia and the Philippines would soon be joining him. Quite what was on offer was debatable and it might still come to nothing, but from Thorn’s perspective even a ceasefire would be a serious setback.
Jensen himself had argued that Thorn wasn’t one to give-up easily, perhaps willing to push his luck to the very limit, and Jensen slowly scrolled back through the long list of Thorn’s recent contacts, focusing on the last twenty-four hours. The FBI’s experts had already examined each email, text message and phone call, nothing incriminating reported, and Jensen was merely trying to put his mind at rest, worried that he was missing something obvious.
One forty-minute conversation was more of a curious anomaly than anything dramatic, the video call from Thorn to his son unusual for its length and the fact it was instigated by Thorn, rather than his wife. Captain Jake Thorn was halfway through a six-month secondment to Hawaii, and while post-Thanksgiving might be a good excuse for a father-to-son chat, it just seemed out of place. If a war with China and North Korea was inevitable then maybe it might seem necessary. Or was Thorn warning his son about something much closer to home?
It was barely enough to be of concern but Jensen’s intuition was working overtime, the consequences of simply waiting for something m
ore conclusive potentially disastrous. The lack of time was proving a problem for everyone and decisions were having to be made without a full appreciation of the facts, the embarrassment of a false accusation needing to be carefully weighed against the fear of future regret.
Thorn’s allies were well-placed to exploit any opportunity, however slight, and Jensen’s next move would likely involve a certain element of personal risk; yet he needed something definitive to take to the President, one fact likely to be far more compelling than any amount of conjecture or suspicion.
* * *
People started to gather for the vigil soon after five, visitors invariably drawn to the WW2 Memorial once it became dark, the walls and fountain bathed in light with the Washington Monument a towering beacon away to the east. If Thorn was going to get maximum publicity out such an event, then Anderson was guessing that either the initial address or the vigil on Capitol Hill would seem a good choice, each with their own significance. McDowell’s inside sources would doubtless give him a detailed heads-up on the Secretary’s routine for the day but maybe this would be more of a spontaneous act by Thorn – even perhaps a genuine gesture of sympathy for the people of Vietnam.
By six o’clock numbers had grown to around three thousand, the master of ceremonies leaving it for another few minutes before starting. An experienced speaker, he stood in front of the Freedom Wall, his introduction a clever blend of eloquence and emotion; on the giant screen behind him, the tragic images from that brutal day were revealed, each one only serving to emphasise the depth of Vietnam’s suffering. The next four speakers had actually been in Hanoi during the attack, the first unable to hold back the tears as he described the scene outside of his hotel; finally it was the turn of a Vietnamese mother of three, her son killed that day in front of her, her own injuries clear to see.
The handing out of the candles in their protective shields was a slightly less sombre affair than the address; large candles first, one for each victim of the attack, some with a name painted in red. The glow of lit candles quickly spread out from the Freedom Wall, people sharing a few words with their neighbours while they waited, and the snow that had threatened all day finally made an appearance as prayers were said, a minute’s respectful silence again held to honour those that had died. To Anderson it was a fitting tribute, people standing silent and motionless, the snow and flickering light from several thousand candles almost magical.
But that wasn’t why he and Flores were there. They stood on the fringe of the crowd, facing north-west, Anderson definitely feeling out of place, guilty that his main focus was somewhere other than the vigil. The march would progress along the Mall to finish at the steps of the Capitol, the organisers wanting to stretch out the line of candles so as to make it more effective for the cameras. Although the number of those taking part might be less than had been hoped for, the media were well represented, public opinion needing a gentle reminder as to why America might soon be at war. Some of those presently there could well have been part of the anti-war protest from the previous day, the vigil illustrating the pointlessness of war as much as the need to punish China.
The start of the march was pretty much a free-for-all, people setting off as they saw fit and at their own pace, the candleholders and plastic shields not always proving that effective against the snow and a gusting wind. Mayor Henry appeared almost immediately, a few dozen hands shaken, a single candle lit, the media taking the obligatory photographs – then he was gone, the TV crews and reporters also taking it as their cue to leave.
Anderson hadn’t even manged to get close, Flores doing little better. McDowell would have found it equally tricky if he’d bothered to turn up, the Mayor swallowed-up by the crowd within seconds. His bodyguards certainly seemed to have had everything well in hand and the single argumentative protestor had been quickly bundled away. Anderson had even reverted to scanning every face in his search for McDowell, his actions drawing the odd look and comment; not that he could have done much anyway, Flores the only one of them carrying a gun.
With Mayor Henry safely back in his bullet-proof limousine, Anderson tracked the leading marchers from the south as they walked slowly towards the Washington Monument. The snow was getting heavier by the minute, the Mall now lightly covered and it was becoming harder to see beyond the far fringe of trees; yet Anderson still wasn’t yet ready to give up for the day, prepared to spend another hour or so trudging his way through the snow.
Flores followed-on to the north, slightly fed-up, his expectations verging on the non-existent, but at least he was doing something more constructive than simply sitting at home and moping. Pat McDowell had turned his house from a welcoming sanctuary to a place where his wife was nervous to be alone or even open the front door, and it would take time to get back to something approaching normality. McDowell needed to be repaid for the pain he had caused and if a cold and lonely trek along the Mall could offer a slim chance of vengeance, then so be it.
* * *
It was well after six o’clock when Jensen left his office, official transport and security detail abandoned for the anonymity of his Buick crossover. Fort Meyer was a twenty-five minute drive away and the base’s Grant Avenue was always a drive through U.S. military history, Generals Eisenhower and McCarthy once residents there. Quarters Six was the official home of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and Admiral Adams greeted him at the door, curious as to why such a late meeting and why the request to keep it confidential.
They moved into the privacy of the sun room, it offering a magnificent sweeping view across the Potomac of the National Mall, the lights of the Capitol lost in the distance, and Jensen even managed to feel nervous, worried he was going to make a fool of himself and that his fears would prove totally groundless. Adams gestured Jensen to a chair, his offer of a drink politely declined, the pleasantries kept to a minimum.
“Your call was intriguing,” said Adams with a half-smile. “I assume your wish to talk in private has something to do with China or are we back to your conspiracy theory?”
“Possibly both,” replied Jensen, feeling his way. “It’s also to do with Secretary Thorn.” Whether he was wise to put his trust in Adams would soon become clear: the Admiral might be a hardliner like Thorn but that didn’t make him a willing ally in some nefarious deed.
Adams didn’t seem particularly surprised at Jensen’s continued pursuit of Thorn, resurgent paranoia an expected characteristic of Jensen’s security role. “I sense you’re still reading too much into things,” he observed drily. “Bob Deangelo became President because of Cavanagh’s mistakes and a free vote from Congress; he then picked by far the best Secretary of Defence we could get, someone committed to the military. Dick Thorn might be overly keen to put forward his point of view but that doesn’t make him complicit in some imaginary coup. You couldn’t find any evidence of it before and I’m guessing you haven’t got any now. And if you’re suggesting Bob Deangelo was also part of a plot to overthrow Will Cavanagh, then I would strongly advise you leave while you can.”
This wasn’t going as well as Jensen had wanted – less than five minutes in and he’d already got the Admiral’s back up.
“I’m not blind to the possibility of some political manoeuvring to get rid of Cavanagh,” continued Adams with a shrug. “And I’m happy to admit I support what Thorn is trying to do. Does that make me one of your conspirators?”
Jensen sidestepped answering, trying to move the conversation forward. “We all have an agenda here; me as much as anyone. And you’re right to question my concerns. There is absolutely no evidence to suggest Bob Deangelo has acted in any way other than honestly. With Dick Thorn, there is a certain amount of circumstantial evidence but that’s as far as it goes.”
“Then why exactly are you here, Paul?”
Jensen picked his words carefully, needing Adams’ help but unable to offer anything convincing to guarantee he would get it. “I appreciate we have very different views as to how to deal with Ch
ina and that is not the issue here. I can’t be specific but there are indications the talks in Kazakhstan may be sabotaged even before they begin; not because of some attack in Astana but something related to the South China Sea.” Jensen was making most of it up as he went along, the ‘indications’ little more than his own personal interpretation of events and the key names of Thorn’s recent contacts. He had come this far and if he ended up exiting via the window then at least it would be a good story to tell the grandchildren.
Adams looked at Jensen in surprise, not quite open-mouthed but certainly taken aback at what he was suggesting. Jensen knew he could always throw in the FBI or even the National Security Agency as the source, national security invariably a good excuse not to go into details, especially when they didn’t actually exist.
Jensen pressed on regardless, needing to get to specifics. “I have the greatest respect for your office, Admiral, and that of the navy. I’m just concerned the Secretary of Defence might be circumventing the President with regard to the South China Sea; specifically within the last twenty-four hours in terms of the future deployment of our forces or new orders involving some sort of attack.”
“An attack? Against what – another reef?”
“That I can’t say, Admiral. But I can assure you it would derail any possibility of peace with China… I trust you can understand my concern.”
“As you know,” Adams hedged, his frown deepening, “my role is purely advisory but I have oversight of planning and resources; if the Secretary has made any unilateral changes, I’m not convinced he would be able to keep them secret.”
The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3) Page 29
