by Tom Clancy
“Kuwait writ large?” Ryan asked.
“Larger and more complex, but, yes, Mr. President, the situation is fundamentally similar. They regard oil both as a commodity and as an entry card into international legitimacy. They figure that if they have it, the rest of the world will have to do business with them. The gold angle is even more obvious. It’s the quintessential trading commodity. If you have it, you can sell it for anything you care to purchase. With those assets and the cash they can buy with them, they figure to bootstrap their national economy to the next level, and they just assume that the rest of the world will play along with them because they’re going to be rich, and capitalists are only interested in money.”
“They’re really that cynical, that shallow?” Adler asked, somewhat shocked at the thought, even after all he’d already been through.
“Their reading of history justifies that outlook, Mr. Secretary. Their analysis of our past actions, and those of the rest of the world, lead them to this conclusion. I grant you that they fail to appreciate what we call our reasons for the actions we took, but in strictly and narrowly factual terms, that’s how the world looks to them.”
“Only if they’re idiots,” Ryan observed tiredly. “We’re dealing with idiots.”
“Mr. President, you’re dealing with highly sophisticated political animals. Their outlook on the world is different from ours, and, true, they do not understand us very well, but that does not make them fools,” Weaver told the assembly.
Fine, Ryan thought for what seemed the hundredth time, but then they’re Klingons. There was no sense saying that to Weaver. He’d simply launch into a long-winded rebuttal that wouldn’t take the discussion anywhere. And Weaver would be right. Fools or geniuses, you only had to understand what they were doing, not why. The what might not make sense, but if you knew it, you also knew what had to be stopped.
“Well, let’s see if they understand this,” Ryan said. “Scott, tell the PRC that if they attack into Russia, America will come to Russia’s aid, as required by the North Atlantic Treaty, and—”
“The NATO Treaty doesn’t actually say that,” Adler warned.
“I say it does, Scott, and more to the point, I told the Russians it does. If the Chinese realize we’re not kidding, will it make a difference?”
“That opens up a huge can of worms, Jack,” Adler warned. “We have thousands of Americans in China, thousands. Businessmen, tourists, a lot of people.”
“Dr. Weaver, how will the Chinese treat foreign nationals in time of war?”
“I would not want to be there to find out. The Chinese can be fine hosts, but in time of war, if, for example, they think you’re a spy or something, it could get very difficult. The way they treat their own citizens—well, we’ve seen that on TV, haven’t we?”
“Scott, we also tell them that we hold their government leaders personally responsible for the safety and well-being of American citizens in their country. I mean that, Scott. If I have to, I’ll sign the orders to track them down and bury their asses. Remind them of Tehran and our old friend Daryaei. That Zhang guy met him once, according to the former Indian Prime Minister, and I had him taken all the way out,” Ryan announced coldly. “Zhang would do well to consider that.”
“They will not respond well to such threats,” Weaver warned. “It’s just as easy to say we have a lot of their citizens here, and—”
“We can’t do that, and they know it,” Ryan shot back.
“Mr. President, I just told you, our concept of laws is alien to them. That sort of threat is one they will understand, and they will take it seriously. The question then is how valuable they regard the lives of their own citizens.”
“And that is?”
“Less than we do,” Weaver answered.
Ryan considered that. “Scott, make sure they know what the Ryan Doctrine means,” he ordered. “If necessary, I will put a smart bomb through their bedroom windows, even if it takes us ten years to find them.”
“The DCM will make that clear. We can also alert our citizens to get the next bird out.”
“Yeah, I’d want to get the hell out of Dodge City,” Robby Jackson observed. “And you can get that warning out over CNN.”
“Depending on how they respond to our note. It’s eight-thirty in the morning over there. Scott, that note has to be in their hands before lunch.”
SecState nodded. “Right.”
“General Moore, we have warning orders cut to the forces we can deploy?”
“Yes, sir. We can have Air Force units in Siberia in less than twenty-four hours. Twelve hours after that, they’ll be ready to launch missions.”
“What about bases, Mickey?” Jackson asked.
“Tons of ’em, from when they worried about splashing B-52s. Their northern coast is lousy with airstrips. We have our Air Attaché in Moscow sitting down with their people right now,” General Moore said. The colonel in question was pulling a serious all-nighter. “The Russians, he says, are being very cooperative.”
“How secure will the bases be?” the Vice President asked next.
“Their main protection will be distance. The Chinese will have to reach the best part of a thousand miles to hit them. We’ve tagged ten E-3B AWACS out of Tinker Air Force Base to go over and establish continuous radar coverage, plus a lot of fighters to do BARCAP. Once that’s done, we’ll think about what missions we’ll want to fly. Mainly defensive at first, until we get firmly established.”
Moore didn’t have to explain to Jackson that there was more to moving an Air Force than just the aircraft. With each fighter squadron went mechanics, ordnancemen, and even air-traffic controllers. A fighter plane might have only one pilot, but it needed an additional twenty or more personnel to make it a functioning weapon. For more complex aircraft, the numbers just went higher.
“What about CINCPAC?” Jackson asked.
“We can give their navy a serious headache. Mancuso’s moving his submarines and other ships.”
“These images aren’t all that great,” Ryan observed, looking down at the radar overheads.
“We’ll have visuals late tomorrow,” Ed Foley told him.
“Okay, when we do, we’ll have to show them to NATO, see what they’ll do to help us out.”
“First Armored has orders to stand by to entrain. The German railroads are in better shape today than they were in 1990 for DESERT SHIELD,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs informed them. “We can change trains just east of Berlin. The Russian railroads have a different gauge. It’s wider. That actually helps us, wider cars for our tracks to ride on. We figure we can move First Armored to the far side of the Urals in about seven days.”
“Who else?” Ryan asked.
“Not sure,” Moore answered.
“The Brits’ll go with us. Them we can depend on,” Adler told them all. “And Grushavoy was talking to their Prime Minister. We need to talk to Downing Street to see what developed from that.”
“Okay, Scott, please look into that. But first let’s get that note drafted for Beijing.”
“Right,” SecState agreed, and headed for the door.
“Jesus, I hope we can get them to see sense,” Ryan said to the maps and imagery before his eyes.
“Me, too, Jack,” the Vice President agreed. “But don’t bet the farm on it.”
What Adler had said to him on the flight from Warsaw came back to him. If only America still had ballistic missiles, deterrence would have been far easier. But Ryan had played a role in eliminating the damned things, and it seemed a very strange thing for him to regret now.
The note was generated and sent to the embassy in Beijing in less than two hours. The Deputy Chief of Mission, or DCM, in the embassy was a career foreign-service officer named William Kilmer. The formal note arrived as e-mail, and he had a secretary print it up in proper form and on expensive paper, which was folded into an envelope of creamy texture for hand delivery. He called the Chinese Foreign Ministry, requesting an urgent mee
ting with Foreign Minister Shen Tang. This was granted with surprising alacrity, and Kilmer walked to his own automobile, a Lincoln Town Car, and drove himself to the Ministry.
Kilmer was in his middle thirties, a graduate of the College of William and Mary in Virginia and Georgetown University in Washington. A man on his way up, his current position was rather ahead of his years, and the only reason he’d gotten it was that Ambassador Carl Hitch had been expected to be a particularly good mentor for bringing him along fromAAA ball into the bigs. This mission, delivering this note, made him think about just how junior he was. But he couldn’t very well run from the job, and career-wise he was taking a big step. Assuming he didn’t get shot. Unlikely, but ...
The walk to Shen’s office was a lonely one. The corridor seemed to stretch into infinity as he stepped down it in his best suit and shiny black shoes. The building and its appointments were supposed to be imposing, to show representatives of foreign countries just how impressive the People’s Republic of China was. Every country did it this way, some better than others. In this case the architect had earned his money, Kilmer thought. Finally—but sooner than he’d expected when he’d begun—he found the door and turned right to enter the secretaries’ anteroom. Shen’s male executive assistant led the American into a more comfortable waiting room and fetched water for him. Kilmer waited for the expected five minutes, because you didn’t just barge in to see a senior government minister of a major power, but then the high doors—they were always double doors at this level of diplomacy—opened and he was beckoned in.
Shen was wearing a Mao jacket today instead of the usual Western-style business suit, a dark blue in color. He approached his guest and extended his hand.
“Mr. Kilmer, a pleasure to see you again.”
“Thank you for allowing this impromptu audience, Minister.”
“Please have a seat.” Shen waved to some chairs surrounding the usual low table. When both of them were seated, Shen asked, “What can I do for you this day?”
“Minister, I have a note from my government to place into your hand.” With that, Kilmer pulled the envelope from his coat pocket and handed it across.
The envelope was not sealed. Shen withdrew the two-page diplomatic message and leaned back to read it. His face didn’t alter a dot before he looked up.
“This is a most unusual communication, Mr. Kilmer.”
“Minister, my government is seriously concerned with recent deployments of your military.”
“The last note delivered from your embassy was an insulting interference with our internal affairs. Now you threaten us with war?”
“Sir, America makes no threats. We remind you that since the Russian Federation is now a signatory of the North Atlantic Treaty, any hostilities directed at Russia will compel America to honor her treaty commitments.”
“And you threaten the senior members of our government if something untoward should happen to Americans in our country? What do you take us for, Mr. Kilmer?” Shen asked in an even, unexcited voice.
“Minister, we merely point out that, as America extends to all of our visitors the protection of our laws, we hope that the People’s Republic will do the same.”
“Why should we treat American citizens any differently from the way we treat our own?”
“Minister, we merely request your assurance that this will be the case.”
“Why should it not be the case? Do you accuse us of plotting a war of aggression against our neighbor?”
“We take note of recent military actions by the People’s Republic and request clarification.”
“I see.” Shen folded the papers back up and set them on the table. “When do you request a reply?”
“As soon as you find it convenient to do so, Minister,” Kilmer answered.
“Very well. I will discuss this matter with my colleagues on the Politburo and reply to you as quickly as we can.”
“I will convey that good news to Washington, Minister. I will not take more time from your day, sir. Thank you very much indeed for your time.” Kilmer stood and shook hands one more time. Kilmer walked through the anteroom without a glance left or right, turned left in the corridor, and headed toward the elevators. The corridor seemed just as long for this little walk, he thought, and the clicking of his heels on the tile floor seemed unusually loud. Kilmer had been an FSO long enough to know that Shen should have reacted more irately to the note. Instead he had received it like an invitation to an informal dinner at the embassy. That meant something, but Kilmer wasn’t sure what. Once in his car, he started composing his dispatch to Foggy Bottom, then quickly realized that this was something he’d better report by voice first over the STU.
How good is he, Carl?” Adler asked the ambassador. ”He’s an okay kid, Scott. Photographic memory, talent I wish I had. Maybe he was promoted a little fast, but he’s got the brains he needs, just a little short on field experience. I figure in another three years or so, he’ll be ready to run his own embassy and start his way up the ladder.”
In a place like Lesotho, SecState thought, which was a place to make “backwater” seem a compliment. Well, you had to start somewhere. “How will Shen react?”
“Depends. If they’re just maneuvering troops on routine training, they might be a little angry. If it’s for real and we’ve caught them with their hands in the cookie jar, they’ll act hurt and surprised.” Hitch paused for a yawn. “Excuse me. The real question is whether it’ll make them think things over.”
“Will it? You know most of ’em.”
“I don’t know,” Hitch admitted uncomfortably. “Scott, I’ve been there a while, sure, but I can’t say that I fully understand them. They make decisions on political considerations that Americans have a hard time comprehending.”
“The President calls them Klingons,” Adler told the ambassador.
Hitch smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far, but there is logic in the observation.” Then Adler’s intercom buzzed.
“Call from William Kilmer in Beijing on the STU, Mr. Secretary,” the secretary’s voice said.
“This is Scott Adler,” SecState said when he lifted the phone. “Ambassador Hitch is here with me. You’re on speaker.”
“Sir, I made the delivery. Minister Shen hardly blinked. He said he’d get back to us soon, but not exactly when, after he talked it over with his Politburo colleagues. Aside from that, not much of a reaction at all. I can fax you the transcript in about half an hour. The meeting didn’t last ten minutes.”
Adler looked over at Hitch, who shook his head and didn’t look happy at the news.
“Bill, how was his body language?” Hitch asked.
“Like he was on Prozac, Carl. No physical reaction at all.”
“Shen tends to be a little hyperactive,” Hitch explained. “Sometimes he has trouble sitting still. Conclusions, Bill?”
“I’m worried,” Kilmer replied at once. “I think we have a problem here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kilmer. Send the fax quick as you can.” Adler punched the phone button and looked at his guest. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. How soon will we know how they’re going to react to this?”
“Tomorrow morning, I hope, we—”
“We have a source inside their government?” Hitch asked. The blank look he got in reply was answer enough.
Thanks, Scott,” Ryan said, hanging up the phone. He was back in the Oval Office now, sitting in his personally-fitted swivel chair, which was about as comfortable as any artifact could make him. It didn’t help much at the moment, but he supposed it was one less thing to worry about.
“So?”
“So, we wait to see if SORGE tells us anything.”
“SORGE?” Professor Weaver asked.
“Dr. Weaver, we have a sensitive source of information that sometimes gives us information on what their Politburo is thinking,” Ed Foley told the academic. “And that information does not leave this room.”
“Understood.” Academi
c or not, Weaver played by the rules. “That’s the name for the special stuff you’ve been showing me?”
“Correct.”
“It’s a hell of a source, whoever it is. It reads like a tape of their meetings, captures their personalities, especially Zhang. He’s the real bad actor here. He’s got Premier Xu pretty well wrapped around his little finger.”
“Adler’s met him, during the shuttle talks after the Airbus shoot-down at Taipei,” Ryan said.
“And?” Weaver asked. He knew the name and the words, but not the man.
“And he’s powerful and not a terribly nice chap,” the President answered. “He had a role in our conflict with Japan, and also the fracas with the UIR last year.”
“Machiavelli?”
“That’s pretty close, more a theoretician than a lead actor, the man-behind-the-throne sort of guy. Not an ideologue per se, but a guy who likes to play in the real world—patriot, Ed?” Ryan asked the DCI.
“We’ve had our pshrink profile him.” Foley shrugged. “Part sociopath, part political operator. A guy who enjoys the exercise of power. No known personal weaknesses. Sexually active, but a lot of their Politburo members are. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, eh, Weaver?”
“Mao was like that, as we all know. The emperors used to have rather large stables of concubines.”
“That’s what people did before TV, I suppose,” Arnie van Damm observed.
“Actually that’s not far from the truth,” Weaver agreed. “The carryover to today is cultural, and it’s a fundamental form of personal power that some people like to exercise. Women’s lib hasn’t made it into the PRC yet.”
“I must be too Catholic,” the President thought aloud. “The idea of Mao popping little girls makes my skin crawl.”
“They didn’t mind, Mr. President,” Weaver told him. “Some would bring their little sisters over after they got in bed with the Great Leader. It’s a different culture, and it has different rules from ours.”
