by Tom Clancy
“Then we are agreed.”
“You will not object to our naval deployments?”
The Foreign Minister sighed. “The sea is free for the innocent passage of all. It is not our place to give orders to the United States of America, as it is not your place to give orders to the People’s Republic. The movement of your forces gives the impression that you will influence local events, and we will make pro forma comments on this. But in the interests of peace,” he went on in a voice that was both patient and weary, “we will not object too strongly, especially if it encourages the rebels to cease their foolish provocations.”
“It would be useful to know if your naval exercises will end soon. That would be a very favorable gesture.”
“The spring maneuvers will continue. They do not threaten anyone, as your increased naval presence will determine quite clearly. We do not ask you to take our word. Let our deeds speak for us. It would be well also if our rebellious cousins reduce their own activities. Perhaps you might speak to them on this?” Twice now? He hadn’t misspoken before, then.
“If you request it, yes, I would be pleased to add my voice and that of my country to the quest for peace.”
“We value the good offices of the United States, and we trust you to be an honest broker for this occasion, in view of the fact that, regrettably, American lives were lost in this tragic incident.”
Secretary Adler yawned. “Oh, excuse me.”
“Travel is a curse, is it not?” These words came from Zhang, speaking for the first time.
“It truly can be,” Adler agreed. “Please allow me to consult my government. I think our response to your request will be favorable.”
“Excellent,” the Foreign Minister observed. “We seek to make no precedent here. I hope you understand this, but in view of the singular circumstances here, we welcome your assistance.”
“I shall have a reply for you in the morning,” Adler promised, rising. “Forgive me for extending your day.”
“Such is duty, for all of us.”
Scott Adler took his leave, wondering what exactly this bombshell was that had landed on him. He wasn’t sure who’d won the card game, and realized that he wasn’t even sure what game it had been. It certainly hadn’t gone as expected. It seemed like he’d won, and won easily. The other side had been more accommodating than he would have been in their place.
SOME CALLED IT checkbook journalism, but it wasn’t new, and it wasn’t expensive at the working level. Any experienced reporter had people he could call, people who, for a modest fee, would check things. It wasn’t in any way illegal, to ask a favor of a friend, at least not grossly so. The information was rarely sensitive—and in this case was public record. It was just that the offices weren’t always open on Sunday.
A mid-level bureaucrat in the office of Maryland’s Secretary of State drove into his office in Baltimore, used his card-pass to get to his parking place, then walked in and unlocked the right number of doors until he got to a musty file room. Finding the right cabinet, he pulled open a drawer and found a file. He left a marker in the drawer and carried the file to the nearest copying machine. Copies of all the documents were made in less than a minute, and then he replaced everything. With that task done, he walked back to his car and drove home. He did this often enough that he had a personal fax machine at home, and within ten minutes, the documents had been sent off, then taken to the kitchen and dumped in the trash. For this he would receive five hundred dollars. He got extra for working weekends.
JOHN PLUMBER WAS reading the documents even before the transmission was complete. Sure enough, a Ryan, John P., had established a sub-S corporation at the time Holtzman had told him. Control of that corporation had conveyed to Zimmer, Carol (none), four days later (a weekend had stood in the way), and that corporation now owned a 7-Eleven in southern Maryland. The corporate officers included Zimmer, Laurence; Zimmer, Alisha; and one other child, and the stockholders all shared the same surname. He recognized Ryan’s signature on the transfer documents. The legal work had been done by a firm in Washington—a big one, he knew that name, too. There had been some tricky, but entirely legal, maneuvering to make the transaction tax-free for the Zimmer family. There was no further paperwork on that subject. Nothing else was needed, really.
He had other documents as well. Plumber knew the registrar at MIT, and had learned the previous evening, also via fax, that the tuition and housing expenses for Peter Zimmer were paid by a private foundation, the checks issued and signed by a partner in the same law firm that had set up the sub-S corp for the Zimmer family. He even had a transcript for the graduating senior. Sure enough, he was in computer science, and would be staying in Cambridge for his graduate work in the MIT Media Lab. Aside from mediocre marks in his freshman literature courses—even MIT wanted people to be literate, but evidently Peter Zimmer didn’t care for poetry—the kid was straight A.
“So, it’s true.” Plumber settled back in his swivel chair and examined his conscience. “ ‘Why should I trust you? You’re reporters,’ ” he repeated to himself.
The problem with his profession was one that its members almost never talked about, just as a wealthy man will not often bemoan low taxes. Back in the 1960s, a man named Sullivan had sued the New York Times over defamation of character, and had demonstrated that the newspaper had not been entirely correct in its commentary. But the paper had argued, and the court had agreed, that in the absence of true malice, the mistake was not really culpable, and that the public’s interest in learning the goings-on in their nation superseded protection of an individual. It left the door open for suits, technically, and people did still bring action against the media, and sometimes they even won. About as often as Slippery Rock University knocked off Penn State.
That court ruling was necessary, Plumber thought. The First Amendment guaranteed freedom of the press, and the reason for it was that the press was America’s first and, in many ways, only guardian of freedom. People lied all the time. Especially people in government, but others, too, and it was the job of the media to get the facts—the truth—out to the people, so that they could make their own choices.
But there was a trap built into the hunting license the Supreme Court had issued. The media could destroy people. There was recourse against almost any improper action in American society, but reporters had such protections as those once enjoyed by kings, and, as a practical matter, his profession was above the law. As a practical matter, also, it worked hard to stay that way. To admit error was not only a legal faux pas, for which money might have to be paid. It would also weaken the faith of the public in their profession. And so they never admitted error when they didn’t have to, and when they did, the retractions were almost never given the prominence of the initial, incorrect, assertions—the minimum necessary effort defined by lawyers who knew exactly the height of the castle walls they defended. There were occasional exceptions, but everyone knew that exceptions they were.
Plumber had seen his profession change. There was too much arrogance, and too little realization of the fact that the public they served no longer trusted them—and that wounded Plumber. He deemed himself worthy of that trust. He deemed himself a professional descendant of Ed Murrow, whose voice every American had learned to trust. And that was how it was supposed to be. But it wasn’t, because the profession could not be policed from without, and it would never be trusted again until it was policed from within. Reporters called down every other profession—medicine, law, politics—for failing to meet a level of professional responsibility which they would allow no one to enforce on themselves, and which they themselves would too rarely enforce on their own. Do as I say, not as I do was something you couldn’t say to a six-year-old, but it had become a ready cant for grown-ups. And if it got any worse, then what?
Plumber considered his situation. He could retire whenever he wanted. Columbia University had more than once invited him in to be an adjunct professor of journalism ... and ethics, because
his was a trusted voice, a reasoned voice, an honest voice. An old voice, he added to himself. Maybe the last voice?
But it all came down, really, to one man’s conscience, to ideas inculcated by parents long dead, and teachers whose names he had forgotten. He had to be loyal to something. If he were to be loyal to his profession, then he had to be loyal to its foundation. To tell the truth and let the chips fall. He lifted his phone.
“Holtzman,” the reporter answered, because it was the business line in his Georgetown home.
“Plumber. I’ve done some checking. It appears you were right.”
“Okay, now what, John?”
“I have to do this myself. I’ll give you the exclusive on print coverage.”
“That’s generous, John. Thank you,” Bob acknowledged.
“I still don’t like Ryan very much as a President,” Plumber added, rather defensively, the other thought. That made sense. He couldn’t appear to be doing this to curry favor.
“You know that’s not what this is about. That’s why I talked to you about it. When?” Bob Holtzman asked.
“Tomorrow night, live.”
“How about we sit down and work out a few things? This will be a biggie for the Post. Want to share the byline?”
“I might just be looking for another job by tomorrow night,” Plumber observed, with a rueful chuckle. “Okay, we’ll do that.”
“SO, WHAT’S THAT mean?” Jack asked.
“They do not mind anything we’re doing. It’s almost like they want the carrier there. They have requested that I shuttle back and forth to Taipei—”
“Directly?” The President was astonished. Such direct flights would give the appearance of legitimacy to the Republic of China government. An American Secretary of State would be shuttling back and forth, and a ministerial official did so only between capitals of sovereign countries. Lesser disputes were left to “special envoys,” who might carry the same power, but nothing approaching the same status.
“Yeah, that kinda surprised me, too,” Adler replied over the encrypted channel. “Next, the dogs that didn’t bark: a cursory objection to your ‘two Chinas’ gaffe at the press conference, and trade never raised its ugly head. They’re being real docile for people who killed a hundred-plus airline passengers.”
“Their naval exercises?”
“They will continue, and they practically invited us to observe how routine they are.”
Admiral Jackson was listening on the speakerphone. “Mr. Secretary? This is Robby Jackson.”
“Yes, Admiral?”
“They staged a crisis, we move a carrier, and now they say they want us around, am I getting this right?”
“That’s correct. They do not know that we know, at least I don’t think they do—but you know, I’m not sure that matters at the moment.”
“Something’s wrong,” the J-3 said immediately. “Big-time wrong.”
“Admiral, I think you might be correct on that one, too.”
“Next move?” Ryan asked.
“I guess I go to Taipei in the morning. I can’t evade this one, can I?”
“Agreed. Keep me informed, Scott.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” The line went dead.
“Jack—no, Mr. President, I just had a big red flashing light go off.”
Ryan grimaced. “I have to go be political tomorrow, too. I fly out at, uh”—he checked his schedule—“leave the House at six-fifty, to speak in Nashville at eight-thirty. We need an assessment on this in one big hurry. Shit. Adler’s over there, I’m on the road, and Ben Goodley isn’t experienced enough for this. I want you there, Rob. If there’s operational ramifications to this, that’s your bailiwick. The Foleys. Arnie on the political side. We need a good China hand from State ...”
ADLER WAS SETTLING into his bed in the embassy VIP quarters. He went over his notes, trying to figure the angle. People made mistakes at every level. The wide belief that senior officials were canny players was not nearly as true as people thought. They made mistakes. They made slips. They loved to be clever.
“Travel is a curse,” Zhang had said. His only words. Why then, and why those? It was so obvious that Adler didn’t get it then.
“BEDFORD FORREST, EH?” Diggs said, spreading relish on his hot dog.
“Best cavalry commander we’ve ever had,” Eddington said.
“You’ll pardon me, Professor, if I show diminished enthusiasm for the gentleman,” the general observed. “The son of a bitch did found the Ku Klux Klan.”
“I never said the man was politically astute, sir, and I do not defend his personal character, but if we’ve ever had a better man with a cavalry command, I have not learned his name,” Eddington replied.
“He’s got us there,” Hamm had to admit.
“Stuart was overrated, sometimes petulant, and very lucky. Nathan had the Fingerspitzengefühl, knew how to make decisions on the fly, and damned if he made many bad ones. I’m afraid we just have to overlook his other failings.”
History discussions among senior Army officers could last for hours, as this one had, and were as learned as those in any university’s seminar room. Diggs had come over for a chat with Colonel Hamm, then found himself embroiled in the millionth refighting of the Civil War. Millionth? Diggs wondered. No, a lot more than that.
“What about Grierson?” Diggs asked.
“His deep raid was a thing of beauty, but he didn’t actually conceive it, remember. Actually, I think his best work was as commander of the 10th.”
“Now you’re talking, Dr. Eddington.”
“See how the boss’s eyes just lit up. You—”
“That’s right! You had that regiment until a little while ago. Ready and Forward!” the colonel of the Carolina Guard added.
“You even know our regimental motto?” Maybe this guy was a serious historian after all, even if he did admire that racist murderer, Diggs thought.
“Grierson built that regiment from the ground up, mainly illiterate troopers. He had to grow his own NCOs, and they drew every shit job in the Southwest, but they’re the ones who defeated the Apaches—and only one damned movie ever made about ’em. I’ve been thinking about a book on the subject after I retire. He was our first real desert fighter, and he figured things out in a hurry. He knew about deep strike, he knew how to pick his fights, and once he got hold, he didn’t let go. I was glad to see that regimental standard come back.”
“Colonel Eddington, I take back what I was thinking.” Diggs lifted his beer can in salute. “That’s what the cav is all about.”
46
OUTBREAK
IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER to come back Monday morning, but it would have meant getting the kids up too early. As it was, Jack Junior and Sally had to study for tests, and for the moment, Katie needed new arrangements of her own. Camp David had been so different it was very much like returning from a vacation, and coming back was something of a shock. As soon as the Executive Mansion appeared in the windows of the descending helicopter, faces and moods changed. Security was vastly increased. The body count around the perimeter was noticeably different, and that, too, was a reminder of how undesirable this place and the life it contained were for them. Ryan stepped off first, saluted the Marine at the bottom of the stairs then looked up at the south face of the White House. It was like a slap in the face. Welcome back to reality. After seeing his family safely inside, President Ryan headed west for his office.
“Okay, what’s happening?” he asked van Damm, who hadn’t had much of a weekend himself—but then, nobody was trying to kill him or his family, either.
“The investigation hasn’t turned up much of anything yet. Murray says to be patient, things are happening. Best advice, Jack, just keep going with it,” the chief of staff advised. “You have a full day tomorrow. The country’s mood is for you. There’s always an outpouring of sympathy in times like—”
“Arnie, I’m not going out after votes for myself, remember? It’s nice that people thi
nk better of me after some terrorists attack my daughter, but, you know, I really don’t want to look at things in those terms,” Jack observed, his anger returning after two days of relief. “If I ever had thoughts about staying in this job, last week cured me.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“ ‘But,’ hell! Arnie, when it’s all said and done, what will I take away from this place? A place in the history books? By the time that’s written, I’ll be dead, and I won’t be around to care what historians say, will I? I have a friend in the history business who says that all history is really nothing more than the application of ideology to the past—and I won’t be around to read it anyway. The only thing I want to take away from here is my life and the lives of my family. That’s all. If somebody else wants the pomp and circumstance of this fucking prison, then let ’em have it. I’ve learned better. Fine,” POTUS said bitterly, his mood totally back in his office now. “I’ll do the job, make the speeches, and try to get some useful work done, but it ain’t worth it all, Arnie. For goddamned sure it isn’t worth having nine terrorists try to kill your daughter. There’s only one thing you leave behind on this planet. That’s your kids. Everything else, hell, other people just make it up to suit themselves anyway, just like the news.”
“It’s been a rough couple of days, and—”
“What about the agents who died? What about their families? I had a nice two-day vacation. They sure as hell didn’t. I’ve gotten used enough to this job that I hardly thought about them at all. Over a hundred people worked hard to make sure I forgot about it. And I let them do it! It’s important that I don’t dwell on such things, right? What am I supposed to concentrate on? ‘Duty, Honor, Country’? Anybody who can do that and turn his humanity off doesn’t belong here, and that’s what this job is turning me into.”
