by Clancy, Tom
“None, sir. It is as you said.”
“What of the yachts?” Tam Li asked.
“Your associates from Japan have radioed that they are in position,” the security director informed him. “The third target, from Australia, will be at his coordinates in an hour.”
“You confirmed the escape plans?”
“The owners will all depart the yachts by helicopter, fearing for their safety, at precisely the time the enemy fleet appears on their radar,” the security officer told him. “The vessels themselves will turn and follow when it becomes clear to them that they are the targets.”
Tam Li smiled. “The yachts will broadcast one another to that effect?”
“Immediately, sir.”
“And we will record and intercept the transmission?”
“We will.”
“Thank you,” the general replied. “I will come down to the command center in a few minutes.”
“I will let them know, General.”
Tam Li heard the door click. A moment later the moon came out clearly and splashed light on the sea. It was a beautiful sight, but not as arresting as it would be in just a few hours.
He and his generals were quietly organizing the largest military counterstrike in modern Chinese history. It had been planned in phases so that absolute secrecy could be maintained, even from his own government. Over one hundred PLAAF and PLAN fighter jets were on regular and continuous patrol of the Chinese coast. Shoreline security was the primary function of Chinese military pilots. Long before the Taiwanese aircraft reached their fail-safe lines, before they could double back, eighty Chinese planes would be diverted in a targeted attack on the rearmost Taiwanese aircraft. That would cut the forward squadrons from retreat and allow them to be picked off by a second wave of Chinese aircraft, consisting of the remaining twenty airborne jets as well as another fifty that would immediately be scrambled from bases along the eastern seaboard. At the same time, three of the modern Song-class submarines, already at sea, would maneuver behind the Taiwanese Navy. The escort ships in the battle groups would be sunk and the destroyers surrounded.
By then, of course, Beijing would have learned what was going on. But it would be too late to recall the attack without losing face. Taipei would protest, saying that the patrol was routine. But the protest would be too little and much too late. Based on information provided by Tam Li, Beijing would argue that the Taiwanese expeditionary force was far from a standard patrol. The enemy intended to launch a surprise attack after the accident they would be suspected of having caused. The general’s suspicions would be sent out at once. The panicked audio recordings from the yachts would also be released. They would make the first impression. It would put Taiwan on the offensive.
That, too, was a showdown they could not hope to win.
The Taiwanese sailors would be brought to China and held until the grand gesture of their release could be used for political gain. Chou Shin would be tried, convicted, and executed for masterminding that explosion as well as the blast in the United States. That would rid the general of one nemesis. At the same time, the Taiwanese would suffer a swift and decisive defeat in the strait. Because of their defense pact, the United States would be forced into a confrontation they, too, could not hope to win. The best the Americans could hope for was a standoff. One that would diminish their status and elevate Beijing.
Tam Li thought very little about the price of the “trigger,” as he called it: the destruction of the satellite. The rocket would blow up on the launch pad, where the blast and the radiation would kill or poison all of the Chinese leaders in attendance. It would distract the government while the military moved against the Taiwanese expeditionary force. In the days to come, Tam Li and his allies would be very visible defenders of the realm. They would be populist heroes.
They would become the leaders of a new, militarized, and expansive China.
THIRTY-NINE
Beijing, China Wednesday, 11:08 P.M.
Mike Rodgers had the plans for the Xichang space center spread on his bed. The detailed map was nearly the size of the blanket. Satellite photographs of the facility were arrayed on his laptop. Rodgers had printed out blueprints of the rocket and payload. Those were on the floor with a map of the region beside them. The map was marked with public transportation that came virtually to the southeastern gate of the facility. Most of the scientists lived on site for convenience and security.
The former general stood in the middle of the papers. He was looking down at all of them, his eyes moving from one to the other. Rodgers had always solved problems best by “grazing the options,” as he called it. He would get a first impression from one and move to the next. Those initial ideas were usually the best ones.
Assuming there was to be an attack on the rocket, he felt comfortable with one of three scenarios. First, that the rocket would be destroyed over a specific target. That would contaminate the region below with radiation and cause a long-term setback to the use of plutonium-powered satellites. That would be a loss to General Tam Li and would boost his rival Chou Shin in the long term. Second, that the rocket would be destroyed upon takeoff. That would take out a chunk of the Chinese command as well as their capability to launch any kind of rockets, military or domestic. Both men had their eye on power. Both men would gain from a temporary power vacuum. The third possibility was that the satellite itself would be targeted once it was in orbit. That would be a setback for Unexus but not the Chinese military. That, too, would help Chou Shin, who was an advocate of isolationism.
Any of these were plausible. The question was how to pull it off. Rodgers’s eyes drifted toward the blueprints of the rocket. His technical staff had marked off places where a bomb could do the most damage. Rodgers would have the Chinese science crew inspect them all.
Paul Hood would have to let him know who showed up and who left early. That would give the team some indication whether an attack would take place at launch. With an explosion of this magnitude, a potential mastermind would want to be a considerable distance away. Even so, Rodgers was planning to be close by to prevent the individual from leaving and supervise the counterattack.
There was a call from Op-Center. It was Bugs Benet. He gave Rodgers contact information for the leader of the field team.
“He will come to your hotel in about an hour as a messenger,” Benet said.
Rodgers thanked him. “How are things going for you?” he asked.
“Tentative,” Benet answered. “General Carrie will be wanting a military aide. We are pretty lean right now. I’m not sure there is any place she can shift me.”
“Can you go to work for Paul?”
“He has not asked,” Benet said.
“Maybe he will,” Rodgers said. “If not, I will talk with the people in my organization.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Benet said.
Rodgers put away his cell phone and went back to studying the documents. He bent low over them in case the room had video surveillance. Whenever he walked away, he folded them over. Rodgers used a grease pencil to mark spots on the rocket that his scientists had told him were not just vulnerable but relatively invisible. Bombs in these locations would weigh the rocket down without necessarily destabilizing it. Even five pounds of explosives, positioned off-center—on a stabilizing fin, for example—would pull the rocket quickly off course. That would only help an attacker if the goal were a near-site explosion. Then he folded the blueprints and turned to studying the plans of the launch complex. He had four marines to cover 1,200 square kilometers of terrain. If they ruled out a possible attack from a rocket-propelled grenade, they could limit the patrol area to just the launch pad. Could they afford to make that assumption?
We might have to, he thought.
Besides, a rocket-propelled grenade was not the modus operandi of either man. There was also a chance that a oneor two-man team would be spotted by Chinese security forces. They had to assume that any attack would be executed as close to the
rocket as possible.
Working on these scenarios, Rodgers felt less like an officer of Unexus and more like an officer of Op-Center. Despite the risks to his employer, he liked the excitement. He also liked the fact that he was in this with a military professional and not Paul Hood. General Carrie may not have liked what he requested, but she asked the right questions and reached the right decision.
Now he had to do the same thing.
Rodgers ordered room service as he worked on the map. He circled several points around the pad and gantry where virtually all the personnel would be visible going about their activities. An explosive device might be placed late in the countdown to avoid detection. If so, they might be able to spot it from these positions.
Exactly an hour after Benet’s call, the front desk called. There was a visitor to see Mr. Rodgers. The former general asked who it was.
“A messenger with a package from a man named Herbert,” the caller informed him.
Rodgers asked to have the messenger sent up. He took a bite of seared tuna from his neglected dinner tray, then walked over to the TV and turned it on. He did not know whether the rooms of foreigners were still bugged in Beijing. He did not intend to take the risk.
The young man who appeared at his door was exactly what Rodgers had expected. Dressed in an olive green jacket with a reflective orange stripe down the back, he was a somber young man with hard eyes, full shoulders, and a ramrod-straight posture. He looked like someone who rode a motor scooter around town and then bench-pressed it. He handed the general a package and a clipboard.
“I require a signature, sir,” the messenger said.
Rodgers invited him in. The young man entered, and Rodgers looked down the hall.
The messenger pointed to his own eyes then made a zero with his fingers. That meant he had checked, and no one was there. He also understood that the room might be bugged.
Rodgers nodded and shut the door. He went to the television.
The messenger followed. He looked down at the papers as they walked past the bed. They were unfolded now, but shielded by Rodgers and the new arrival. His eyes were like little machines, stopping on each for a moment before moving on. It was a standard reconnoitering process: floating data. If the marine saw anything important, he would keep it in his head until he could mention it or write it in a secure place.
The former general did not ask the marine his name or any other personal information about himself or the team.
“What do you know of this situation?” Rodgers asked.
“We were told you would brief us,” the young marine said.
“The plan is still evolving,” Rodgers said quietly. He threw a glance at the papers. “I will be working on it for at least another few hours. There’s a map. I want to pick a spot to meet you before we go in—”
“Sir, General Carrie has ordered that there be no civilian component to our mission,” the marine told him.
Rodgers did not know quite what to say. He said nothing.
“I am sorry, sir. I assumed you understood,” the marine added.
“No,” Rodgers said.
The marine had spoken without emotion or apology. Rodgers expected no less. Marines regarded themselves as representatives of their commanders. As such, they were unfailingly proud and loyal. For his part, though, Rodgers was anything but unemotional. He did not like being left out or outsmarted. He had already agreed that Hood could represent them in the viewing area. If Rodgers did not go to Xichang with the marines as one of the new “technical advisers,” he had no way of getting in. And if he tried that, Carrie might pull her team.
“Wait here,” Rodgers said and went to get his cell phone. “And help yourself to some dinner. I don’t feel like eating at the moment.”
Rodgers grabbed the phone from the bed and went into the bathroom. He shut the door and turned on the shower so he would not be heard. Then he called General Carrie’s office. Benet put her on the line.
“I understand my messenger is there. Have you got all the answers I asked for?” Carrie asked.
“Nearly,” Rodgers informed her. “First I have one more question. Why was I excluded?”
“You were not excluded. You were never included. This has always been members only,” she said. She was still being vague, thus reminding Rodgers that they could still be overhead.
“I would like to change that.”
“No,” Carrie replied.
“Ten eyes are better than eight. They are better for the work and for security,” Rodgers insisted.
“My view is that two or more eyes will be on you, making sure you are all right. That is a net loss, not a gain.”
“You act like I’ve never gone into business with new partners,” Rodgers said through his teeth.
“I am not in a position to rate your performance, which is why I am denying your request.”
“Talk to August,” Rodgers said.
Colonel Brett August was the head of Striker, the former military detachment at the NCMC. When Striker was disbanded, he went to work at the Pentagon.
“I have my plate full reviewing current personnel,” she said. “Talking to a former employee about another former employee is not at the top of my to-do list. Do we have an understanding or not? I have a lot to do.”
“Of course we do,” Rodgers said. The security of the rocket had to come first. “But I can help them.”
“I believe that is why the messenger is there—”
“Would you leave this up to him?” Rodgers asked suddenly.
“No,” she answered.
General Carrie hung up. Rodgers closed the phone and slowly tucked it in his pocket. He had a hand on the white porcelain sink. His fingertips were white. He had not realized how tightly he was squeezing the rim. He released it and flexed his fingers. He glanced at the door. He thought he saw a shadow move on the highly polished parquet floor. Rodgers did not know if the marine had been listening. Nor did it matter. There was nothing to hear. Rodgers considered calling Hood to try to rescind their agreement. But he had probably already told the prime minister. In any case, Rodgers was unsure of his own motives. At this moment he did not know whether he wanted to protect the rocket or whether he wanted to go just to shout a big “screw you” at General Carrie. He turned off the shower and went back into the room. Rodgers stood beside the TV, facing the marine. The former general’s eyes were on the floor.
“Is everything all right, sir?” the marine asked.
Not entirely, Rodgers decided. He wanted to be there to look after the Unexus payload, and he wanted to teach Carrie manners. He understood her protectiveness but not her intransigence. Military protocol gave leeway for civilian involvement. At Op-Center he had often worked with outsiders on missions. In Vietnam, he had helped to recruit them as guides. Even though Rodgers no longer wore the uniform of his country, he had served it with his life and his blood, his mind and his soul, for decades. He deserved better than Carrie’s cool dismissal.
What was worse, he needed a place to put the increasing anger he felt about it. But that was not this marine’s problem.
“Let me go over the data with you,” Rodgers said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And let me ask you something,” Rodgers said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six, sir.”
“I was a soldier for more years than that.”
“I know, sir.”
“They gave you a file on me?”
“Yes, sir,” the marine said.
“What was your impression?”
“Sir, it’s not my place—”
“I asked,” Rodgers said.
“Sir, I’m humbled by your question,” the young marine replied. “If I serve half as well as you did, I will consider my life very well spent.”
That was a surprise. “You’re not just blowing sunshine?”
“I took your request as if it were an order, General. May I add, sir, that for someone who wasn’t a marine, you surely kic
ked some tail.”
Rodgers could not help but smile at that. He felt the sword leave his hand. It was not yet sheathed, but he did not feel the need to lop heads.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some food, a beverage?” Rodgers asked.
“Thank you, no.”
“Then let’s go to my command center,” Rodgers said, patting him on the shoulder as they walked to the papers that lay on the bed and floor.
FORTY
Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 12:00 P.M.
Liz Gordon left General Carrie’s office to check her E-mail and her voice mail. She had her PowerBook under one arm and her coffee mug in the other hand. Between them was a heart that was drumming just a little more than she would have liked, and a shortness of breath that alarmed her.
Liz did not know whether the cause of her anxiety was the topic of her own employment or something else. Liz knew that she would have to undergo the same kind of scrutiny the others were getting. What the psychologist did not know was whether she would be part of that selfevaluation process or not. It would be interesting to see how the general handled that.
Interesting and possibly humiliating, she thought.
Liz had never seen her own dossier. The file was only available to the director of the NCMC and to the head of Human Resources. But Liz knew one thing that had to be there. Because of the potential one-strike nature of the offense, Paul Hood would have been obligated to record it.
Liz swung into her sparse office. The safe, familiar surroundings allowed her to relax a little. Liz did not have, nor require, nor want a human assistant. The Chips Family did everything for her. That was how she anthropomorphized her computers. Her former roommate, an artist, drew little Post-it faces for her to affix to her office equipment. The blue pen drawings were the various foodlike avatars of the microprocessor. Potato Chip stored her audio messages, Corn Chip stored her E-mails, Paint Chip managed her calendar, and the infamous Buffalo Chip held sway over her personnel files. Blue Chip kept track of her budget here, which was easy. Except for occasional outside consultants, there was no budget beyond her salary. Black ops files, including profiles of foreign and domestic leaders, were the province of Chocolate Chip. Those files were comaintained by her and Bob Herbert.
