by Mike Maden
Whoever was sinking these ships in the South Pacific had to be stopped. Action was necessary. War was an option.
Today’s meeting could lead to the latter.
* * *
—
“Congratulations, Mr. Ambassador. How does it feel?”
The handsome Russian smiled. “The ceremony itself was rather anticlimactic, to be honest. We exchanged pieces of paper and took pictures.”
“Welcome to the club.”
“The honor for me today was to finally meet you in person, Mr. President. Your reputation in my country is stellar.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Yes, your file is quite thick. ‘Brilliant, ruthless, cunning. Perhaps our country’s greatest nemesis,’ it reads in part. But these are values my superiors respect greatly, as do I.”
“‘Nemesis’? You make me sound like a comic book villain.”
Christyakov grinned infectiously.
“In Russia, Captain America is a villain.”
Christyakov’s English was faultless, as were the porcelain veneers on his million-watt smile. The diamond-studded watch on his thick wrist was probably worth more than the one-bedroom fixer-upper shack he and Cathy had purchased just after they got married.
“Coffee? Tea?” Ryan asked the younger man as he stood at the small service table. He pointed him to the chair across from the famous presidential desk. The Russian fell into it like it was an old friend.
“Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble. Cream, no sugar.”
Ryan poured two cups, dumping too much creamer into the Russian’s. He liked his black, the way that God and the Department of the Navy intended it.
Ryan handed Christyakov his cup and took his seat behind the desk.
“How do you like Washington, Maksim?”
“I find it to be a city of ‘Southern charm and Northern efficiency.’”
Ryan smiled to himself. If he was quoting JFK, he got the quote completely backward. Or perhaps he was just being polite?
“If I’m being perfectly honest, I find it to be neither on most days,” Ryan said.
Christyakov leaned forward in his chair. “The architecture is stunning, and the women are gorgeous.”
Well, he got that right, at least.
“I appreciate your time today. I think it’s important we get to know each other. Scott Adler speaks highly of you.”
“That is kind of the secretary to say. He is a very skilled diplomat and is held in the highest respect among my colleagues and superiors.”
“Scott is a good diplomat, and an outstanding negotiator. But his most important quality to me is that I can trust him completely.”
“A rare thing these days. Trust.”
“Agreed. Perhaps that’s why we’re having this meeting today.”
Christyakov took a sip of his coffee. “Excellent. How might we build trust between our nations?”
“That’s an excellent question. But I can think of a better one.”
“Which is?”
“How can we build trust between ourselves?”
“You mean, between you and I, personally?”
“Yes, of course. At the end of the day, politics is about people, not government. I need to be able to look a man or a woman in the eyes when I’m talking to them and know they’re not shoveling horse hockey in my direction when they move their lips.”
Another smirking smile turned the Russian’s mouth. “You must be very frustrated, then, especially living in this city.”
“I like dealing with honest people. Makes life easier.”
“That is an admirable goal, Mr. President. But I have found that most people are loyal only to themselves, and that honesty is a function of self-interest.”
“That seems rather cynical.”
“Honesty and cynicism are not incompatible.”
“But dishonesty and trust are.”
“I couldn’t disagree more. I prefer the company of liars. A liar is a self-interested man, which means he is a rational man. He lies because he knows the honest truth bears a cost he’s not willing to pay. But the honest man? He’s the dangerous one. He’s the one who insists on telling the truth no matter the cost. Such a man is an irrational man that cannot be reasoned or bargained with. An honest man is either your best friend or your worst enemy. Usually your enemy. Most people can’t handle the truth. If you tell them the real reasons why they’re fat or poor or stupid or unsuccessful in life, generally they will hate you for it—and for the very reason it is the truth. If every congressman on Capitol Hill told the truth, the whole truth, for just one day, your empire would collapse in a heap of ashes.”
The man likes to hear himself talk, Ryan thought.
But he suddenly understood that Christyakov wasn’t appointed just because of his family connections. He was a cold, cunning, ruthless son of a bitch. And someone to keep an eye on.
Christyakov saw Ryan’s face darken.
“I see I have made you uncomfortable with my honesty. Does that mean you are more or less likely to trust me now?”
“I certainly have a clearer sense of who you are and how you think.”
“And is that more or less advantageous for me?”
“We’ll have to wait and see.”
Ryan took a sip of coffee. “I know you come out of the oil and gas business. How did you manage to do any deals with people you knew you couldn’t trust?”
“Numbers don’t lie. There is no ambiguity in a P&L statement. But of course, you come from the business world yourself. You built your first fortune on railroad stock speculation, I believe. And made millions more as a stock trader back in the day.”
“I got lucky every now and then. But even the stock trading business is about trust. We have a saying, ‘Figures don’t lie, but liars figure.’ You need to be able to trust the guy on the other side of the trade for it to work.”
“Trust? Yes, of course. There must be trust for business to work, or politics for that matter.” The ambassador tented his fingers thoughtfully. “But trust is different than honesty, and far easier to come by. A dishonest man will be completely trustworthy so long as he fears the consequences of betrayal.”
“I would rather deal with honest men than fearful ones, in business or in politics.”
The Russian’s eyes widened. “I’m surprised. I would have thought that your Mideast wars taught you otherwise. The mujahideen are honest about their faith and their hatred for you, and have killed thousands of your soldiers and citizens to prove that honesty. Better if they were more fearful than they were honest, don’t you think?”
“I think we’re talking apples and oranges here.”
Christyakov shrugged. “People are the same everywhere, are they not? In my country, trust is rewarded, but lies are punished. The bigger the lie, the bigger the penalty. That doesn’t make men honest, but it does protect the truth.”
Ryan well knew what that meant. Critics of President Yermilov had a nasty habit of suiciding themselves out of apartment windows or shooting themselves with bullets to the back of their own heads. Truth is treason in the empire of lies, Ryan reminded himself, citing his old friend Ron Paul.
The only “truth” in Russia was that opposing Yermilov was a guaranteed death sentence.
Time to change the subject.
“Your uncle was quite successful in his oil and gas business.”
“He is very shrewd. His company employs quite a few Americans, actually.”
Too many, Ryan thought. The sons of two current congressmen and the daughter of an ex-senator sat on the boards of Christyakov corporations.
“He’s a multibillionaire, I believe.”
“I thought success was a good thing, yes? Aren’t we all good capitalists these days?”
“He’s a frien
d of President Yermilov.”
“As are many people in Russia.”
Including the top vory of the Russian mafia, Ryan wanted to say. And they’re probably your friends, too.
“Your uncle is an oligarch.”
The young Russian’s mocking smile suddenly flashed daggers.
“An ugly word in some circles, and an unfortunate choice of one, if I may say so, Mr. President. My uncle is a good man who raised me as his own son after the death of my father. Everything I have achieved I owe to him.”
A career bought and paid for, Ryan reminded himself. Paved with stolen riches, on a path that someday might lead this man to the Kremlin itself.
“I have a habit of speaking my mind and putting my cards on the table so that people know where I stand,” Ryan said.
“I was taught by my uncle that diplomacy is the art of leaving some things unsaid.”
It was Ryan’s turn to shrug and smile. “Whoever said I was a diplomat, Maksim?”
“Which is why I admire you all the more. So, please, what is the real purpose of our meeting today?”
“There are two things I’d like to discuss today.”
“Of course. How would you like to begin?”
Ryan needed to ease in, save the big ask for later.
“I’m concerned about Snow Dragon, the upcoming joint naval exercise you and China have scheduled in the Bering Sea next week.”
“Your country need not be concerned. We have no hostile intentions, and we are conducting all operations in our own national waters.”
“It’s not my country I’m concerned about.”
Christyakov smiled. Smug and condescending. “You must forgive me, but I’m rather new at all of this. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“You’re too young to remember Zhenbao Island. Surely you’ve read about it?”
“An unfortunate skirmish that happened fifty years ago.”
“A skirmish launched by the Chinese against your country that nearly started World War Three. The Chinese have a long memory. You guys took Manchuria from them after the war. They wanted Manchuria back then and they want it back now. Hell, they want the entire Russian Far East, which is forty percent of your landmass occupied by only six million Russians. Russia will never be an equal partner with China; Russia will eventually become a colony of China. Your current relationship is a dangerous one, and just one spark can set off an explosion leading to all-out war.”
“Snow Dragon is merely a practical and natural evolution in our growing relationship. It will be the largest joint naval exercise our two countries have ever conducted. Three hundred thousand soldiers and sailors combined, including an amphibious landing of ten thousand Chinese Marines supported by Russian naval and air assets. But it will be no different than the many joint land-based exercises that have been conducted over the last few years—all very fraternal and cooperative.”
“Be that as it may, we’ll be monitoring your exercises closely. Of course, the Chinese government will be collecting data on your military capabilities as well.”
“And we will collect data on them. As I understand it, that is how the game is played. ‘Trust, but verify’ is what Ronald Reagan once said about the Soviet Union as I recall. Yes?”
“It’s a very dangerous game you’re playing with the Chinese.”
“Surely you realize that it has been your punitive sanctions against my government that have driven us into closer ties with Beijing, a decision that President Yermilov came to quite reluctantly.”
Reluctantly? That sounds like an opening, Ryan thought.
“Those sanctions came as a result of Russian incursions on Lithuanian and Ukrainian soil.”
“Russian forces were withdrawn, and no further incursions have resulted.”
Yeah, after NATO forces kicked your asses.
“Agreed. And it’s a sign of progress in his relationship with the West that President Yermilov has limited his territorial ambitions. I hope that progress will continue.”
“I’m sure President Yermilov shares your hope of continued progress in our relationship. I will convey your message. What else concerns you today, Mr. President?”
Ryan glanced over the Russian’s shoulder at the portrait of George Washington over the fireplace mantel. Why the hell didn’t he have to smile?
“Funny you should ask.”
* * *
—
“There have been rumors of pirates operating in international waters,” Ryan said. “Have you heard of this?”
“Yes, of course,” Christyakov said. “Off the coast of Africa, and in Asia, I believe.”
“I am referring to pirates operating in the South Pacific.”
“Interesting. This I have not heard.”
Exactly what I would expect you to say if you were lying . . . or telling the truth, Ryan thought.
“The Chinese have made great advances in their submarine technology, thanks to your country.”
“And others.”
“That’s right. Some of it purchased, some of it reverse engineered. Some of it just flat-out stolen.”
“And so you suspect the Chinese are behind these piracy acts?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
“I’m no military man.”
“But surely you are aware of your nation’s submarine activity in the South Pacific?”
Christyakov was expressionless. “Again, defense issues are not in my bailiwick. My background is in business, not naval affairs. I’m in Washington to improve business and political relationships with your country.”
“War is bad for both.”
The ambassador’s blue eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”
“Wars sometimes happen by accident, unintentionally. Those are the worst kind and easily avoided, wouldn’t you agree?”
“If they were easily avoided, why would such wars happen at all?”
“Well, here we are, back at the trust issue. If you bump into someone you like at a cocktail party, you laugh and say, ‘Excuse me.’ If you bump into your worst enemy, you might start throwing punches over it. Or worse.”
The younger, taller man sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. “May I speak my mind, Mr. President? Lay my cards on the table?”
“Please do.”
“My predecessor briefed me on you. He mentioned that you are a former Marine Corps officer, and that you are a single-minded American patriot, unafraid of violence at either the personal or national level.”
“I take all of that as a compliment.”
“He also said you were subtle as a snake, and just as dangerous, and that I should never do any business with you without a half-dozen senior FSB analysts on my elbow advising me on every word you speak.”
“Okay, now you’re hurting my feelings.”
Christyakov laughed. “Yes, and he said you were funny as hell, too. So let me cut to the chase. What is it that you want exactly, so that I can go back to my superiors and tell them, and then they can tell me what the hell it is I’m supposed to do about it?”
“Frankly, this meeting today was a chance for me to meet with you, to size you up. But the bottom line is this: I’ve dispatched the Theodore Roosevelt carrier strike group to the South Pacific. You said you’re not a military man, so let me explain the significance of this. I’m sending some of my very best and most powerful weapons to the area, including two Los Angeles–class attack submarines. My intention is to find, capture, and, if necessary, kill the submarine or submarines that are behind the acts of piracy in the region. It would be better for all parties if the perpetrators withdrew before my strike group arrives.”
Christyakov frowned with confusion. “And you’re telling me this because you think my government is somehow involved?”
If the kid is a
cting, he’s doing a damned good job, Ryan thought. But he wouldn’t be in the job if he wasn’t a good actor, would he?
Ryan stood, ending the meeting. So did Christyakov. “I’m telling you this, Maksim, so you can pass along the information to your boss. Clarity is a virtue in diplomacy.”
Ryan extended his hand. The Russian took it.
“I will be sure to pass your information along, Mr. President.” Christyakov’s eyes locked with Ryan’s. “It was an unusual pleasure to meet you. You rose above my expectations, which were considerable, given your reputation.”
“I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again soon, Mr. Ambassador. I wish you much success in your new position.”
Ryan opened the visitor door and pointed the way out.
As Ryan took his seat, the door swung back open and Arnie came in.
“How’d it go?”
“Scott was right. We don’t want to make the mistake of underestimating that guy, family ties or not.”
“He didn’t cough anything up?”
“If I read him correctly, he’s not aware of his government’s involvement with the sinkings.”
“But they are involved, right?”
Ryan shrugged. “That’s still our presumption. I’m not willing to second-guess myself at this point. I gave Christyakov fair warning. If it’s a Russian sub out there we’re going to find it and, if necessary, sink it, unless they get the hell out before we show up. If we’re lucky, they’ll take the hint and vamoose.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then we might have a war on our hands.”
38
SOUTH PACIFIC
ON THE HELO DECK OF THE USS LUZON (CG-74)
Lieutenant Bob “Daisy” Callaway sat in the right-hand pilot’s seat of the MH-60R (Romeo) Seahawk helicopter, the rotors on his bird slowly spinning up, preparing for takeoff. His helmet was festooned with daisy flower stickers, rainbows, and peace symbols, an inside joke among his air crew.
The first raindrops sparkled like rhinestones as they spattered on the windshield, illumined by the overhead deck light. With his naked eyes, Callaway could barely see the blue-shirted chock and chain men kneeling down next to the LSE with his bird’s gear in their hands. That was the first sign he was almost clear to take off.
