They Eat Puppies, Don't They?

by Christopher Buckley

  The president sat back in his chair and frowned. “Was I briefed on this?”

  To lie or not to lie? This is the question.

  “I don’t like to load you down with a lot of extraneous stuff when you have so much on your plate. If my right ear looks a bit chewed on, it’s because Ambassador Ding had it for breakfast. I told him the story was nonsense, so he’ll conclude that it’s word-forword accurate. I don’t mind having the Chinese think we’re working on something that could cause the rivets on their naval vessels to evaporate. I’d rather they think that than know what it actually does. As Churchill said, ‘In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.’ Doggett says Beijing’s cranking up a major naval exercise in the Taiwan Strait. Let’s hope that General Han reads the New York Times. It might give him pause to think we’ve got something on the shelf that could turn his surface ships into submarines in less than ten seconds.”

  The president considered. “What do I tell Fa when we talk again? We seem to have become regular phone buddies. What if he asks me about our muon weapon?”

  “He’s a gentleman,” Fancock said. “Gentlemen do not ask each other about their weapons systems.”

  “Rog.”

  “Sir, we are doing everything we can to help President Fa. You don’t owe him any apologies at this point.”

  “Might be easier at this point if he just defected,” the president said.

  The Oval Office door clicked shut behind him. Fancock let out a sigh of relief. How many lies had he just told? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. What worried him was how good he had gotten at telling them. But didn’t presidents, like the truth, need a bodyguard of lies?

  CHAPTER 32

  DRAGON GREATNESS

  General Han was in a state.

  “The American president—your great friend—did he have anything to say about this?” He waved the Times article. “Did he? Well?”

  Fa decided to let him go on a bit more.

  Han continued. “No? Nothing, eh? Nothing about how they are working to destroy us?”

  When he could stand it no longer, Fa gently said, “No, General, strange as it may seem, the American president did not share with me the details of his latest top-secret military program. Normally, it’s the first thing he brings up.”

  Han’s eyes flashed. “Again and again they provoke us—and what do you do? Yawn!” He slammed his palm on the table.

  “Would you like a gavel?” Fa said. “It might be easier on your hand.”

  Han grunted. “No! Give me a hammer and I’d know what to do with it!” He threw himself back into his chair. “This is intolerable!”

  “Comrade General,” Fa said, “I think we have spent enough time on your indignation. Let us move on.”

  Han was about to launch a fresh salvo when Lo put a restraining hand on his forearm.

  “Shall we discuss,” Minister Lo said, “the incident at our embassy in Copenhagen yesterday?”

  Foreign Minister Wu said, “I have sent a strongly worded protest to the Danish foreign minister.”

  “Yes,” Fa said, “it was unfortunate. I was not aware the Danes felt so passionately about the Lotus. But we can’t have hooligans breaking into our embassies and spray-painting our ambassadors. How is Ambassador Xin?”

  “More shaken up than hurt. We sent a plane. He’s on his way back. And the Danish ambassador is on his way back to Copenhagen.”

  “Maybe we should have spray-painted him before sending him home. Give Xin my regards. Tell him that he conducted himself with dignity.”

  “Xin will survive,” Lo said. “Dip him in turpentine.”

  Fa said, “Comrade Minister Lo, I trust that none of this unpleasantness is being reported in our media?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Our firewall is in good working order?”

  “Some slippage, nothing serious.”

  “You are the guardian of China’s pride, Lo. How sad it would be if our people saw what was going on in the world. Seeing their country treated with such disrespect.”

  “We are vigilant, Comrade President.”

  “I have no doubt. All right then, General, why don’t you tell us about this . . . exercise of yours?”

  The room darkened. General Han narrated his PowerPoint presentation. When the room lights came back up, there was a blinking of eyes and a nervous silence.

  “Well, Comrade General,” Fa said, “the scale of this, it’s certainly impressive.”

  “Half measures are for the halfhearted.”

  And the half-brained. Fa said, “Operation Longwei. Dragon Greatness?”

  General Han smiled. “Does the name not sit well with Comrade President?”

  “No, I like it. It’s an apt name for a display of such immensity. Something like this you couldn’t call ‘Dragon Good-Enoughness.’ Or ‘Dragon Adequateness.’ No. May I ask—do you have in mind to inform the governments of Nepal, Bhutan, and India that we will be dropping tens of thousands of paratroops along their borders? As well as sealing those borders? Or did you have in mind the element of surprise?”

  “They will receive some advance notification.”

  “Ah. Good. Wouldn’t want them to start panicking, would we? And Seoul—do you have in mind to tell the South Koreans about the mine laying in the Yellow Sea?”

  “They’re dummy mines,” Han said. “As I made very clear in my presentation.”

  “So you did, yes. But they won’t know that they’re dummies, will they? I suppose it’s part of the game for them to find that out on their own. Give them a feeling of accomplishment.”

  “Without the Americans?” Han said. “The Koreans couldn’t piss without the Americans holding their cocks.”

  Laughter.

  Listening in, Gang wondered if the president, too, should start making profane jokes. The committee members seemed to enjoy them so.

  “I was coming to the Americans,” Fa said. “Or, as you would put it, ‘To my dear friends the Americans.’ So are we going to give them some warning of all this? Or is it to be a big surprise for them as well?”

  “Like Pearl Harbor!” said one of the ministers to hearty laughter.

  “If Comrade President will recall from the presentation,” Han said, “a key element in Longwei’s strategic objective is to determine just what the American response would be in the event of an actual operation. If we tell them what we’re going to do, we won’t be able to know what their actual response would be. It’s not so complicated, really.”

  “Ah. Yes. The Heisenberg principle.”

  Han stared.

  Lo came to Han’s rescue. “This is exactly what the general intends. As the Heisenberg principle states, the observed body reacts differently if it is aware that it is being observed.”

  Han nodded knowingly. “Maybe we’ll learn something about their muon capability.”

  Minister Fu Yin said, “I think General Han’s plan is truly excellent. Whatever else is accomplished, it will certainly get everyone’s mind off the Dung Lotus.”

  Murmurs, nods.

  “Then we’re all agreed?” Han asked.

  “No,” Fa said. He spoke so quietly that the others had to lean in to hear him. “I am not for this. This dragon may have greatness, but I greatly fear that it could end up devouring its own tail.”

  “Perhaps ‘greatness’ is a concept too elusive for Comrade President.” General Han smiled.

  “OH, IS THIS REALLY WISE, Comrade President?” Gang asked.

  “I am not doing it because I believe it not to be wise, Gang.”

  “If Han and Lo find out, and you know they will, aren’t you just handing them a sword?”

  “Dial, Gang.”

  Gang began to press the buttons on his cell phone, the special one. He paused. “Will you be able to hear? With all this water going?”

  “Yes, Gang.”

  Gang dialed.

  “Yes. Hello. Is Dr. Kissinger avai
lable, please? It is the president of the People’s Republic of China who wishes to converse with him.”

  “YES, BLETCHIN?”

  Bletchin looked oddly exhilarated. A surfeit of caffeine?

  “Sir,” he whispered reverentially. “It’s Dr. Kissinger.”

  “Oh?” Fancock sat up. “Oh. Well then.” He reached for the phone. Bletchin turned to leave.

  “Bletchin? Sit down. Listen in.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Might as well—he’d only go listen in on his phone.

  Fancock picked up. “Henry? . . . How very good to hear your voice. Where are you? . . . Mumbai? Good God. No rest for the wicked, eh? . . . Yes, well, it is a bit of a mess, but we’re doing what we can to stay on course . . . Une belle ordure? Yes, that’s about right . . . De Gaulle? No, I never got to know him. We just missed . . . Oh? Really? Fa himself? . . . When? . . . Great Dragon? . . . Dragon Greatness. Mm. Don’t much like the sound of that . . . Well, that’s comforting to know, but he’s going to have to do something by way of a response. He’s catching hell from the right and left. You saw that Penelope Kent—dreadful woman—called him a ‘wimp’ yesterday in front of ten thousand Tea Partiers . . . Oh, believe me, I hope she does run. If we’re really in the endgame of the American experiment, why not elect her president and get it over with in one fell swoop? . . . Henry, he can’t just sit on his hands . . . Believe me, I, too, wish they’d just bury him and move on, but they’re absolutely convinced the Chinese are going to cave . . . I’ve told them. They can put him in the Fancock family plot at Mount Auburn . . . What’s that? Arlington? Well, yes, that is a thought, I must say, Henry, that’s rather elegant. Yes. Oh, I certainly will. I’ll present it to him right away. All right, well thank you. Thank you. Stay out of trouble in Mumbai. Love to Nancy. Dorothy sends hers. Good-bye.”

  Fancock cradled the phone.

  “That, Bletchin, is one of the truly great minds of our time.”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Not a word of this, Bletchin. Not a whisper.”

  “No sir. But you are going to bring it to the president?”

  “Yes, of course. But first get me whatsisname. And while I’m on with him, call Doggett and have him get onto the commandant at Arlington. Find out if there’s any impediment. And Bletchin?”

  “Sir?”

  “Tell them there had better goddamn well not be any impediment. I don’t want to hear that we can’t bury the Dalai Lama at Arlington National Cemetery because he didn’t serve in the goddamn U.S. military.”

  “I’ll make that very clear, sir.”

  “Now get me whosis.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bletchin?”

  “Sir?”

  “What the hell is his name?”

  “Jangpom, sir. Jangpom Gadso. He’s the seventh reincarnation of—”

  “Never mind, Bletchin. Just get him.”

  CHAPTER 33

  WAR IS HELL

  Bird was in the kitchen, his fingers barely able to keep pace with his brain, banging away at the final chapter of the novel. Even now he couldn’t decide whether Turk should live or die.

  Bouncing Betty O’Toole circled above the desperate, sanguinary scene at the controls of the death-dealing AC-130 gunship, low on fuel, low on ammo, but the needle on her heart gauge still pointed to “FULL.”

  Bird paused. Great stuff. Where did sentences like that come from? No, don’t ask. Keep going.

  “Turk! Turk! Do you read me? Come in, Turk! Damn you, Turk, come in!”

  “Walter? Walter? Walter, pick up if you’re there!”

  Bird’s fingers paused. Myndi’s voice on the answering machine. Why had he turned it back on?

  “Walter! Pick up the phone!”

  What time is it? He sat up. A jolt of pain shot through his neck. How long had he been at it?

  He looked at the kitchen wall clock. Eleven-something. God bless analog clocks—they still told time the old-fashioned way. Eleven-something. But eleven-something p.m. or a.m.? That was the question.

  There was light beneath the curtains. Light. Morning? Jeez. When did he sit down to work? Six p.m. Six p.m . . . yesterday. Whoa, he had been at it a long time.

  “Walter! Are you there? Please, please pick up the phone!”

  Was that . . . sobbing? Uh-oh.

  “Myn? You okay?”

  “No!”

  “Are you . . . hurt?”

  “Yes!”

  “Oh, jeez. Oh, jeez. Okay. Stay calm. It’s going to be okay. Can you get to a phone, baby? Can you dial 911?”

  “Walter—I’m on the stupid phone!”

  Fair point. Good point.

  “What happened? Did you—”

  “Walter, we’ve been canceled.” Sob.

  “Canceled?”

  “The Tang Cup!” Sob. “Sam just called. He heard over the radio. Because of the Chinese navy boat and that idiot Taiwanese shrimp boat.” Sob.

  “What boat?”

  “Walter, where you been? On Mars?”

  Bird scratched his head. “No, just crashing on this . . . presentation. What’s going on?”

  “All because of this stupid Dalai Lama business . . .” Sob.

  “What—”

  “And this stupid Chinese navy exercise!”

  “I heard something about that. What happened?”

  “Some Chinese navy boat sank some Taiwanese shrimp boat, and it’s turned into this huge thing. The Chinese say the Taiwanese started it. Is that supposed to mean they attacked them with shrimp? The Taiwanese say the Chinese rammed them. The TV has satellite footage of the Chinese boat ramming them. Anyway, everyone’s in a stink now. All because a bunch of stupid monks are refusing to bury the Dalai Lama. Since when is Buddhism about starting wars?”

  “It’s a complicated situation,” Bird ventured. “But what about the Tang Cup?”

  “They announced it this morning, from the White House. And they’re postponing President Fu’s U.S. visit.”

  “I think his name is Fa.”

  “I don’t care what his name is! They’re suspending other things. Trade shows. Student exchanges. Museum exhibits. Sport events. But the Tang Cup! Oh, Walter.”

  Bird massaged his temples. His mind was six thousand miles away in Iran, in a bomb crater in the middle of a desperate firefight.

  Empathy. Make empathy.

  “Well, babe, war is hell.”

  From the sound of renewed sobbing, Bird gathered that his attempt to assuage Myndi’s grief had not been a success.

  Do-over. Switch gears. Laugh—make her laugh. You can do it!

  “Look on the bright side. Now you don’t have to get all those shots!”

  Silence.

  “Didn’t you tell me you needed a lot of shots? You know how you hate shots. Myn? Babe? You there?”

  No, she was not.

  He got up to go to the refrigerator. Water. Must have water. He started at his reflection in the mirror. Ooh. Unshaven, unkempt, hollow-eyed, and bleary, an untidy version of himself: the Gen-X Mr. Hyde.

  Bird suddenly felt tired. Rest. Must . . . rest. He would take a short nap, shower, have coffee, then get up and finish the novel. Finish . . . his Armaggedon Quartet! As for Turk’s fate, he would let his unconscious decide, as he slept, whether Turk should live or die. He shuffled off to bed like a mental patient.

  He woke. Looked at the digital clock. It read 9:07—p.m. He felt as though an undertaker had embalmed him as he slept. He could barely move. He lay there deciding what to do next when he remembered the call from Myndi.

  He managed to get out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen and call her. Apparently his apology had been adequate, for she mounted no strong protest when he told her that he’d be home by midnight.

  He phoned Angel from the car.

  “Where the hell have you been? I called you twenty times. I hate it when you turn off your cell!”

  “Explain later.”

  “Get your ass over here
on the double, mister. It’s happening. The Chinese rammed a Taiwanese shrimp boat. Fa’s visit is off. The Security Council is meeting! Yess.”

  “They scratched the Tang Cup.”

  “The what? Oh, please, who gives a shit?”

  “Ange. She’s in tears.”

  “Well, tell her to put on her big-girl panties and suck it up.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “Darling. The world is going up in flames. And we lit the match! So her horse meet got scrubbed. Tell her war is hell.”

  “I did. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m in the car. These roads . . .”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. To console my wife. She may be drinking cleaning fluid for all I know.”

  “What about me?”

  “You don’t sound suicidal. You sound thrilled.”

  “I thought you might want to share this extraordinary, historical moment with me. I’m in the war room. Our war room, darling. The electricity is—God, you can practically reach out and feel the history. Oh, by the way, the Washington Post called. They’re doing a huge story on us.”

  “Us?”

  “The institute. Me. And you, if you’d stop with this ridiculous wallflower act. For heaven’s sake, Bird, take a bow. They’ll be talking about us a hundred years from now.”

  “A hundred years from now, no problem. Now? Major problem.”

  Silence. “Fine. Run home to Miffy. Give her a lump of sugar for me.”

  “Her name is Myndi.”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” Angel said, and hung up.

  Bird was about to press the End Call button when—

  CHAPTER 34

  PLEASE, SIR, MAY I HAVE MORE?

  Walter? Walter? Dar-ling? Wakey-wakey.”

  “Mm.”

  Bird opened his eyes to a blurry non sequitur of bright light and strange, metronomic noises. Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep. He felt as though he were underwater. And yet it was pleasant. Very pleasant. His eyelids closed.