by Tom Clancy
That, of course, was the job of his G-2 Intelligence Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Tom Richmond, and training for it was the problem assigned to his G-3 Operations Officer, Colonel Duke Masterman, whom Diggs had dragged kicking and screaming from the Pentagon. It was not exactly unknown in the United States Army for a senior officer to collect about him younger men whom he’d gotten to know on the way up. It was his job to look after their careers, and their jobs to take care of their mentor—called a “rabbi” in the NYPD or a “Sea Daddy” in the United States Navy—in a relationship that was more father/son than anything else. Neither Diggs nor Richmond nor Masterman expected much more than interesting professional time in the 1 st Armored Division, and that was more than enough. They’d seen the elephant—a phrase that went back in the United States Army to the Civil War to denote active participation in combat operations—and killing people with modern weapons wasn’t exactly a trip to Disney World. A quiet term of training and sand-table exercises would be plenty, they all thought. Besides, the beer was pretty good in Germany.
“Well, Mary, it’s all yours,” outgoing Major General (promotable) Sam Goodnight said after his formal salute. “Mary” was a nickname for Diggs that went back to West Point, and he was long since past getting mad about it. But only officers senior to him could use that moniker, and there weren’t all that many of them anymore, were there?
“Sam, looks like you have the kids trained up pretty well,” Diggs told the man he’d just relieved.
“I’m especially pleased with my helicopter troops. After the hoo-rah with the Apaches down in Yugoslavia, we decided to get those people up to speed. It took three months, but they’re ready to eat raw lion now—after they kill the fuckers with their pocketknives.”
“Who’s the boss rotor-head?”
“Colonel Dick Boyle. You’ll meet him in a few minutes. He’s been there and done that, and he knows how to run his command.”
“Nice to know,” Diggs allowed, as they boarded the World War II command car to troop the line, a goodbye ride for Sam Goodnight and welcome for Mary Diggs, whose service reputation was as one tough little black son of a bitch. His doctorate in management from the University of Minnesota didn’t seem to count, except to promotion boards, and whatever private company might want to hire him after retirement, a possibility he had to consider from time to time now, though he figured two stars were only about half of what he had coming. Diggs had fought in two wars and comported himself well in both cases. There were many ways to make a career in the armed services, but none so effective as successful command on the field of battle, because when you got down to it, the Army was about killing people and breaking things as efficiently as possible. It wasn’t fun, but it was occasionally necessary. You couldn’t allow yourself to lose sight of that. You trained your soldiers so that if they woke up the next morning in a war, they’d know what to do and how to go about it, whether their officers were around to tell them or not.
“How about artillery?” Diggs asked, as they drove past the assembled self-propelled 155-mm howitzers.
“Not a problem there, Mary. In fact, no problems anywhere. Your brigade commanders all were there in 1991, mainly as company commanders or battalion S-3s. Your battalion commanders were almost all platoon leaders or company XOs. They’re pretty well trained up. You’ll see,” Goodnight promised.
Diggs knew it would all be true. Sam Goodnight was a Major General (promotable), which meant he was going to get star number three as soon as the United States Senate got around to approving the next bill with all the flag officers on it, and that couldn’t be rushed. Even the President couldn’t do that. Diggs had screened for his second star six months earlier, just before leaving Fort Irwin, to spend a few months parked in the Pentagon—an abbreviated “joint-ness” tour, as it was called—before moving back to Germany. The division was slated to run a major exercise against the Bundeswehr in three weeks. First AD vs. four German brigades, two tanks, two mechanized infantry, and that promised to be a major test of the division. Well, that was something for Colonel Masterman to worry about. It was his neck on the line. Duke had come to Germany a week early to meet with his also-outgoing predecessor as divisional operations officer and go over the exercise’s rules and assumptions. The German commander in the exercise was Generalmajor Siegfried Model. Siggy, as he was known to his colleagues, was descended from a pretty good Wehrmacht commander from the old-old days, and it was also said of him that he regretted the fall of the USSR, because part of him wanted to take the Russian Army on and rape it. Well, such things had been said about a lot of German, and a few American senior officers as well, and in nearly every case it was just that—talk, because nobody who’d seen one battlefield ever yearned to see another.
Of course, Diggs thought, there weren’t many Germans left who had ever seen a battlefield.
“They look good, Sam,” Diggs said, as they passed the last static display.
“It’s a hell of a tough job to leave, Marion. Damn.” The man was starting to fight back tears, which was one way of telling who the really tough ones were in this line of work, Diggs knew. Walking away from the command of soldiers was like leaving your kid in the hospital, or maybe even harder. They’d all been Sam’s kids, and now they would be his kids, Diggs thought. On first inspection, they looked healthy and smart enough.
Yeah, Arnie,” President Ryan said. His voice betrayed his emotions more than a growl or a shout could have.
“Nobody ever said the job was fun, Jack. Hell, I don’t know why you’re complaining. You don’t have to schmooze people to raise money for your reelection campaign, do you? You don’t have to kiss ass. All you have to do is your work, and that saves you a good hour—maybe an hour and a half—per day to watch TV and play with your kids.” If there was anything Arnie loved, Ryan thought, it was telling him (Ryan) how easy he had it in this fucking job.
“But I still spend half my day doing unproductive shit instead of doing what I’m paid to do.”
“Only half, and still he complains,” Arnie told the ceiling. “Jack, you’d better start liking this stuff, or it’ll eat you up. This is the fun part of being President. And, hell, man, you were a government employee for fifteen years before you came here. You should love being unproductive!”
Ryan nearly laughed, but managed to contain himself. If there was anything Arnie knew how to do, it was to soften his lessons with humor. That could be annoying as hell.
“Fine, but exactly what do I promise them?”
“You promise that you’ll support this dam and barge-canal scheme.”
“But it’s probably a waste of money.”
“No, it is not a waste of money. It provides employment in this two-state area, which is of interest to not one, not two, but three United States Senators, all of whom support you steadfastly on the Hill, and whom you, therefore, must support in turn. You reward them for helping you by helping them get reelected. And you help them get reelected by allowing them to generate about fifteen thousand construction jobs in the two states.”
“And screw with a perfectly good river for”—Ryan checked the briefing folder on his desk—“three and a quarter billion dollars ... Jesus H. Christ,” he finished with a long breath.
“Since when have you been a tree-hugger? Cutthroat trout don’t vote, Jack. And even if the barge traffic up the river doesn’t develop, you’ll still have one hell of a recreation area for people to water-ski and fish, toss in a few new motels, maybe a golf course or two, fast-food places ...”
“I don’t like saying things and doing things I don’t believe in,” the President tried next.
“For a politician, that is like color blindness or a broken leg: a serious handicap,” van Damm noted. “That’s part of the job, too. Nikita Khrushchev said it: ‘Politicians are the same all over the world, we build bridges where there aren’t any rivers.’ ”
“So wasting money is something we’re supposed to do? Arnie, it isn’t our money! It’s
the people’s money. It belongs to them, and we don’t have the right to piss it away!”
“Right? Who ever said this is about what’s right?” Arnie asked patiently. “Those three senators who’re”—he checked his watch—“on their way down here right now got you your defense appropriations bill a month ago, in case you didn’t remember, and you may need their votes again. Now, that appropriations bill was important, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, of course it was,” President Ryan responded with guarded eyes.
“And getting that bill through was the right thing for the country, wasn’t it?” van Damm asked next.
A long sigh. He could see where this was going. “Yes, Arnie, it was.”
“And so, doing this little thing does help you to do the right thing for the country, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose.” Ryan hated conceding such things, but arguing with Arnie was like arguing with a Jesuit. You were almost always outgunned.
“Jack, we live in an imperfect world. You can’t expect to be doing the right thing all the time. The best you can expect to do is to make the right thing happen most of the time—actually, you will do well to have the right things outbalance the not-so-right things over the long term. Politics is the art of compromise, the art of getting the important things you want, while giving to others the less important things they want, and doing so in such a way that you’re the one doing the giving, not them doing the taking—because that’s what makes you the boss. You must understand that.” Arnie paused and took a sip of coffee. “Jack, you try hard, and you’re learning pretty well—for a fourth-grader in graduate school—but you have to learn this stuff to the point that you don’t even think about it. It has to become as natural as zipping your pants after you take a piss. You still have no idea how well you’re doing.” And maybe that’s a good thing, Arnie added to himself alone.
“Forty percent of the people don’t think I’m doing a good job.”
“Fifty-nine percent do, and some of those forty percent voted for you anyway!”
The election had been a remarkable session for write-in candidates, and Mickey Mouse had done especially well, Ryan reminded himself.
“What am I doing to offend those others?” Ryan demanded.
“Jack, if the Gallup Poll had been around in ancient Israel, Jesus would probably have gotten discouraged and gone back to carpentry.”
Ryan punched a button on his desk phone. “Ellen, I need you.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Mrs. Sumter replied to their not-so-secret code. Thirty seconds later, she appeared through the door with her hand at her side. Approaching the President’s desk, she extended her hand with a cigarette in it. Jack took it and lit it with a butane lighter, removing a glass ashtray from a desk drawer.
“Thanks, Ellen.”
“Surely.” She withdrew. Every other day Ryan would slip her a dollar bill to pay off his cigarette debt. He was getting better at this, mooching usually no more than three smokes on a stressful day.
“Just don’t let the media catch you doing that,” Arnie advised.
“Yeah, I know. I can get it on with a secretary right here in the Oval Office, but if I get caught smoking, that’s like goddamned child abuse.” Ryan took a long hit on the Virginia Slim, also knowing what his wife would say if she caught him doing this. “If I were king, then I’d make the goddamned rules!”
“But you’re not, and you don’t,” Arnie pointed out.
“My job is to preserve, protect, and defend the country—”
“No, your job is to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution, which is a whole lot more complicated. Remember, to the average citizen ’preserve, protect, and defend’ means that they get paid every week, and they feed their families, get a week at the beach every year, or maybe Disney World, and football every Sunday afternoon in the fall. Your job is to keep them content and secure, not just from foreign armies, but from the general vicissitudes of life. The good news is that if you do that, you can be in this job another seven-plus years and retire with their love.”
“You left out the legacy part.”
That made Arnie’s eyes flare a bit. “Legacy? Any president who worries too much about that is offending God, and that’s almost as dumb as offending the Supreme Court.”
“Yeah, and when the Pennsylvania case gets there—”
Arnie held up his hands as though protecting against a punch. “Jack, I’ll worry about that when the time comes. You didn’t take my advice on the Supreme Court, and so far you’ve been lucky, but if—no, when that blows up in your face, it won’t be pretty.” Van Damm was already planning the defense strategy for that.
“Maybe, but 1 won’t worry about it. Sometimes you just let the chips fall where they may.”
“And sometimes you look out to make sure the goddamned tree doesn’t land on you.”
Jack’s intercom buzzed just as he put out the cigarette. It was Mrs. Sumter’s voice. “The senators just came through the West Entrance.”
“I’m out of here,” Arnie said. “Just remember, you will support the dam and canal on that damned river, and you value their support. They’ll be there when you need them, Jack. Remember that. And you do need them. Remember that, too.”
“Yes, Dad,” Ryan said.
You walked here?” Nomuri asked, with some surprise.
“It is only two kilometers,” Ming replied airily. Then she giggled. “It was good for my appetite.”
Well, you went through that fettuccine like a shark through a surfer, Nomuri thought. I suppose your appetite wasn’t hurt very much. But that was unfair. He’d thought this evening through very carefully, and if she’d fallen into his trap, it was his fault more than hers, wasn’t it? And she did have a certain charm, he decided as she got into his company car. They’d already agreed that they’d come to his apartment so that he could give her the present he’d already advertised. Now Nomuri was getting a little excited. He’d planned this for more than a week, and the thrill of the chase was the thrill of the chase, and that hadn’t changed in tens of thousands of years of male humanity ... and now he wondered what was going on in her head. She’d had two stiff glasses of wine with the meal—and she’d passed on dessert. She’d jumped right to her feet when he’d suggested going to his place. Either his trap had been superbly laid, or she was more than ready herself.... The drive was short, and it passed without words. He pulled into his numbered parking place, wondering if anyone would take note of the fact that he had company today. He had to assume that he was watched here. The Chinese Ministry of State Security probably had an interest in all foreigners who lived in Beijing, since all were potential spies. Strangely, his apartment was not in the same part of the building as the Americans and other Westerners. It wasn’t overt segregation or categorization, but it had worked out that way, the Americans largely in one section, along with most of the Europeans ... and the Taiwanese, too, Nomuri realized. And so, whatever surveillance existed was probably over on that end of the complex. A good thing now for Ming, and later, perhaps, a good thing for himself.
His place was a corner second-story walk-up in a Chinese interpretation of an American garden-apartment complex. The apartment was spacious enough, about a hundred square meters, and was probably not bugged. At least he’d found no microphones when he’d moved in and hung his pictures, and his sweep gear had discovered no anomalous signals—his phone had to be bugged, of course, but just because it was bugged didn’t mean that there was somebody going over the tapes every day or even every week. MSS was just one more government agency, and in China they were probably little different from those in America, or France for that matter, lazy, underpaid people who worked as little as possible and served a bureaucracy that didn’t encourage singular effort. They probably spent most of their time smoking the wretched local cigarettes and jerking off.
He had an American Yale lock on the door, with a pick-resistant tumbler and a sturdy locking mechanism. If asked about this, he’d e
xplain that when living in California for NEC, he’d been burglarized—the Americans were such lawless and uncivilized people—and he didn’t want that to happen again.
“So, this is the home of a capitalist,” Ming observed, looking around. The walls were covered with prints, mainly movie posters.
“Yes, well, it’s the home of a salaryman. I don’t really know if I’m a capitalist or not, Comrade Ming,” he added, with a smile and arched eyebrow. He pointed to his couch. “Please have a seat. Can I get you anything?”
“Another glass of wine, perhaps?” she suggested, spotting and then looking at the wrapped box on the chair opposite the couch.
Nomuri smiled. “That I can do.” He headed off into the kitchen, where he had a bottle of California Chardonnay chilling in the fridge. Popping the cork was easy enough, and he headed back to the living room with two glasses, one of which he handed to his guest. “Oh,” he said then. “Yes, this is for you, Ming.” With that he handed over the box, wrapped fairly neatly in red—of course—gift paper.
“May I open it now?”
“Certainly.” Nomuri smiled, in as gentlemanly a lustful way as he could manage. “Perhaps you would want to unwrap it, well ...”
“Are you saying in your bedroom?”
“Excuse me. Just that you might wish some privacy when you open it. Please pardon me if I am too forward.”
The mirth in her eyes said it all. Ming took a deep sip of her white wine and walked off into that room and closed the door. Nomuri took a small sip of his own and sat down on the couch to await developments. If he’d chosen unwisely, she might throw the box at him and storm out ... not much chance of that, he thought. More likely, even if she found him too forward, she’d keep the present and the box, finish her wine, make small talk, and then take her leave in thirty minutes or so, just to show good manners—effectively the same result without the overt insult—and Nomuri would have to search for another recruitment prospect. No, the best outcome would be ...
