Point of Contact

by Tom Clancy

“He might be afraid of a leak on our end—a real possibility with some of the old ‘China hands’ lurking in the bureaucracy. Or he’s worried that we’ll reject his proposal and then we’ll tell someone else about it,” Adler said.

  “It must be something big,” Ryan said. “Something that affects his position, or the factions that oppose him. What do we know about the political power structure inside China right now?”

  “Frankly, not enough,” Mary Pat admitted. “The tectonic plates are still shifting.”

  Ryan turned to Adler. “Can we trust Zhao?”

  “We don’t have any reason not to at this point, but frankly, we don’t know enough about him, either.”

  “But he needs to keep his cards close to the vest on this thing. That tells me his position might not yet be fully secure,” Ryan said, the wheels turning in his mind. “And the fact he needs to keep this secret and to do it quickly sounds like this will be a decisive action. Something strategic, not tactical.” Ryan turned to his SecDef. “Sound about right, Robert?”

  “I think you’re onto something, sir.”

  Van Damm leaned forward. “Excuse me, but I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves here. If he doesn’t want to tell us up front, why can’t he fly over here to tell us what’s going on?”

  Ryan grinned. “Maybe the new Chinese president is afraid of flying.”

  “More likely, he’s afraid of leaving his country. Again, it speaks to the idea he’s still consolidating his position,” Mary Pat said.

  Adler added, “And Zhao must think he needs you standing at his side to carry out his plan, not to mention draw the other heads of state to the summit.”

  “Or Zhao wants the President standing there next to him holding the bag when the summit goes sideways,” Van Damm countered.

  Ryan sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers in front of him, thinking. “Scott, what happens if we turn the summit down?”

  “If we turn Zhao down and he’s committed to North Korean regime change, he’ll turn to the Russians, since Zhao obviously can’t do it on his own—otherwise, why call us? Given the current geopolitical realities in Europe and Asia, we don’t want a renewed Chinese-Russian alliance. That would strengthen China’s hand in the South and East China Seas, and that means we’d have to devote even more of our air and naval assets to the region, potentially weakening our ability to respond to any new Russian threats in Europe.”

  “I agree with that assessment,” the SecDef said.

  “So do I,” Ryan said. “And that ain’t good. Now give me the downsides to showing up for this thing.”

  “This summit might be another huge waste of time where everyone gets all excited but nothing substantive actually happens,” Van Damm said.

  SecDef Burgess added, “Maybe the Chinese want us to waste our time and only appear to be concerned so they can continue their buildup of North Korea.” He pointed at the monitor. “They know that we know what’s going on over there, and they know we’re concerned. This might just be sleight of hand on their part.”

  “It’s also a prestige play for them,” Secretary Adler said. “No matter the outcome of the summit, the fact that they invited us to Beijing to solve a regional crisis and that we accepted the invitation reinforces the impression that they are the dominant power in Asia and coequals with us. And if the summit fails, they’ll blame us.”

  Van Damm added, “To some, it might even look more like a summons than an invitation. Especially since this is the second time you will have flown to Beijing to meet with a Chinese president.”

  “And perception is reality in politics,” Adler was quick to add. “Especially in Asia.”

  “There’s one other possibility,” Van Damm said. “You show up and he springs a plan on you that puts us in a bind.”

  Adler shook his head. “If he does that, we’d walk away and he’d look the fool. I don’t think Zhao will offer anything that we can’t agree to.”

  “So there are plenty of downsides,” Ryan said. “But despite those, there’s still the real possibility that the Chinese have a plan that will permanently change the situation on the Korean peninsula,” Ryan said. “That interests me.”

  The President’s eyes narrowed, his mind concentrating. The others watched in silence as he put all of the pieces together. Finally, he leaned forward on the table.

  “The dilemma as I see it is this: risk wasting our time and looking like fools at a worthless summit, or risk losing the opportunity to solve the North Korean problem once and for all. Is that about the size of it?”

  They all agreed.

  Ryan smiled a little. “When I put it that way, the decision seems clear. It’s worth the risk, given the possible reward, even if it means another long damn airplane ride. Let’s do this.”

  “I’ll contact the foreign minister directly and tell him that we’re interested,” Adler said.

  “I’ve got a better idea. Arrange for me to speak with President Zhao directly. I want to take the measure of the man myself and show him I’m serious.”

  Adler smiled. “That’s an excellent idea, Mr. President.”

  Ryan stood, signaling that the meeting was over. The others stood, too. “Thank you all. I’ll be in touch.”

  As the others shuffled out, Ryan poured himself another coffee. The Chinese could be handing him an opportunity for sure. But he also knew from boot camp that the bullet you didn’t hear was the one that took your head off.

  8

  BUILDING 19

  PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA

  They met in the underground bunker deep beneath the drab and unassuming five-story granite building on the outskirts of the city, far from the central government district. Nominally it was the subheadquarters of the State Ministry of Fisheries, just another administrative organ in North Korea’s micromanaged, state-owned command economy.

  Aboveground, harried black-coated technocrats exerted enormous bureaucratic energies administering the regulations and procedures of the vast ministry, which, unsurprisingly, had very little productive impact on North Korea’s fishing industry. Most of the bureaucrats’ work was designed to justify the generous food ration cards they received, the less cramped public housing they lived in, and the meager but regular salaries their privileged jobs paid them.

  What these bureaucrats didn’t realize was that both their work and their lives were meant only as camouflage. Neither the building nor the ministry appeared to have any strategic significance and therefore would hardly qualify for targeting by American or South Korean military planners. But down here, in the nuclear-proof bomb shelter that served as one of the regime’s many secret conference rooms, the truly important business of the state was being conducted. Chairman Choi Ha-guk met with his most trusted civilian and military advisers. He trusted them only because they feared him. The three empty chairs around the long teak table were a grim reminder of the cost of failure.

  Unlike his cousin Choi Ji-hoon, Choi Ha-guk was a seasoned military officer, leading the elite Army unit that had killed Ji-hoon’s bodyguard two years earlier in a violent coup and overthrown the young, spoiled fool. Choi Ha-guk’s father, Choi Sang-u, was freed from his labor camp and installed as the new supreme leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. But years of forced labor had destroyed his father’s health, and within weeks of leaving the camp, he died. With his father’s blessing and the Army behind him, Ha-guk’s unanimous election to the nation’s presidency, the chairmanship of the party, and promotion to the supreme marshal of the armed forces was assured.

  The chairman’s first order of business was to repair his relationship with China, grossly undermined by his idiot cousin. Having trained with some of China’s top military units and fluent in Mandarin, the chairman had deep personal and political ties with key members of the Chinese Politburo and PLA staff officers.

  Changing pol
icy course was vital but difficult. Undermining his cousin’s failed initiative potentially delegitimized his own position. Choi Ha-guk was careful to preserve the hagiographies of his violent predecessors—a cousin, his father, his uncle, and his grandfather. North Korea was the inheritance of the Choi family, and he would do nothing to risk that inheritance for himself or his own children, who stood in the line of succession now that his uncle and cousin were dead.

  But Choi Ha-guk also had a vision. He knew he was destined to play a decisive role on the world stage and finally elevate North Korea to its rightful place among the nations. Kant and Hegel were essentially right. All of History was marching toward an Idea. What neither philosopher realized was that he, Choi Ha-guk, was that Idea—at least in Asia.

  But all of that was at risk now. His next decision would determine the fate of the country, he was certain.

  Sitting at the head of the table, Chairman Choi Ha-guk surveyed the row of grim military officers on his left, each stern face directed toward him, their spines stiff, hands neatly folded in their laps. Their hair was cropped uniformly short in the regulation military style and their broad caps stood in a perfect row in front of them down the table—with the exception of the missing officer and his empty chair. A man who had recently disappointed the chairman.

  Each military uniform was resplendent with hard-won badges, medals, and ribbons from the shoulder tabs to the hems of the coats—enough “fruit salad” for a dozen wars and a hundred battles. But not one of them had served in the great Fatherland Liberation War or in sustained combat of any kind.

  But the chairman knew these were hard men, highly trained and motivated—one of the great legacies bestowed upon him by his uncle and grandfather. Each of these admirals and generals had been vetted and monitored for their ideological fervor and political reliability, both of which were reinforced by the privileges and perks of their positions, and the extensive kinship networks that linked them by blood to the dominant Choi family.

  But even more important, these flag officers were part of North Korea’s great warrior class, the sons and grandsons of DPRK troops who fought and sacrificed valiantly, fanatically, and skillfully against the South Korean bandits and later against more heavily armed American and UN invaders. Family honor and patriotic pride drove these men seated at the table like Harpies’ whips. They were the Spartans of Asia.

  On Choi’s right sat his equally focused civilian advisers, each wearing identical Mao-styled black jackets buttoned to the top of their throats and short-cropped hair like the military men. It would be easy for outsiders to dismiss the civilians as bureaucratic sycophants, but they were each as talented, driven, and proven in state security matters as their military counterparts were. Two of the seven chairs on the civilian side were empty. Failure came at a high price.

  What each man in the room knew was that, unlike his predecessors, the chairman eschewed fawning subservience. Instead, he demanded flawless performance from his subordinates, a far more difficult and dangerous proposition than effusive boot-licking.

  In the back left corner of the room was a secretary who was seated at a small desk, recording the proceedings on a shorthand machine. In the back right corner of the room opposite the secretary sat a young man in a single chair. His face and body screamed military, but he wore civilian clothes. The anonymous man was unknown to everyone but the chairman. He sat in a silent, disquieting strength.

  Choi Ha-guk turned toward one of his key spymasters, the new head of the RGB—Reconnaissance General Bureau. “When was this confirmed?”

  “My South Korean informant confirmed it yesterday.”

  “And he is reliable?”

  The RGB minister resented the question. The clandestine bureau had spent decades successfully cultivating a vast network of highly placed and reliable South Korean agents. “Perfectly reliable, sir. She is a secretary in the president’s travel office.”

  “How can we be certain she isn’t a double agent?”

  “She is a loyal daughter of our glorious revolution, working tirelessly for our imminent reunification with the bandit South. But it is also true that her great-uncle is a pensioner in one of our senior public housing units, where he is well cared for by our benevolent government. She has expressed her undying gratitude for his continued well-being.”

  The chairman nodded. “Very good.”

  The RGB minister continued. “She forwarded this by courier.” The minister passed the single-page document to the man on his left, who in turn passed it along, one after another, until it was carefully placed in front of Choi Ha-guk. He left it on the table in front of him, unread.

  “Do we have any specifics about the summit? What is it they plan to talk about? What do they want to accomplish?” Choi turned toward the head of the 225th Bureau, one of several overseas covert operations departments at his disposal. The 225th Bureau’s target was South Korea, infiltrating operatives across the border and recruiting South Korean agents.

  “Unknown at this time, sir.”

  The chairman glanced around the table. “Anybody?”

  Heads shook.

  Choi sighed, frustrated. “We know that the Chinese called the summit, and we know that the Americans and the others can’t do anything without their permission or cooperation.” He turned to his foreign minister. “So the questions are: What is Beijing up to? And to what lengths will they go? What will they permit the Americans to do to us?”

  “I have spoken with the Chinese foreign minister. He was very vague and expressed his government’s displeasure at the firing of our MIRV’d SLBM.”

  That was surprising news to the chairman, but his stoic gaze didn’t betray him. His cousin had grossly overreached in his desire for long-range ICBMs that could hit the United States. How could President Ryan not respond to such a strategic threat?

  But apparently, he himself had also miscalculated the effect that a medium-range MIRV missile test would have on the superpowers. That was troubling, in part, because the technology had come from friendly Chinese sources.

  Either the power struggle on the mainland had intensified or his so-called Chinese friends had set him up for a fall. Either way, his situation was untenable.

  “What assurances regarding our interests did he give you?”

  “None.”

  Another surprise. Choi’s gaze held steady. “That’s disturbing news.”

  China had always been North Korea’s advocate and shield on the world stage, even when they misbehaved. China shed more than a million lives in the great Fatherland Liberation War after the Americans intervened and threatened to cross the Yalu River. The mutual sacrifice and shared ideology formed a strong bond between the neighboring dictatorships, particularly among the militaristic factions.

  Strategically, the North Koreans played a key role in China’s foreign policy, keeping Japan and South Korea on edge and at the same time currying Chinese favor to intervene against Pyongyang’s ambitions.

  But two years ago, President Ling and President Ryan had conspired to initiate the overthrow of Ji-hoon and his reckless policies. Fortunately, the replacement of President Ling by President Zhao had given Choi time to consolidate his position.

  What were the two great powers up to now?

  —

  We must assume, then, that regime change is their unstated goal,” Choi said. “How will they try to overthrow us? War?” War was always on the forefront of Choi’s mind as the commander-in-chief of all military forces and as an ardent student of history.

  “We must not preclude the possibility of a full-scale invasion from the south, supported by naval and air assets from the coalition partners,” the Korean People’s Army Ground Force general said. “And perhaps with Chinese troops pouring across our northern border.”

  “But it is highly unlikely,” Choi said. “There would be horrible bloodshed and widespread destruc
tion. What would be left for them to take over?”

  “Let them try. We’ll smash them all!” one of the generals said. The military heads all nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t doubt our military capabilities, gentlemen. But even if we smashed them, they would still surely smash us. War is to be avoided if at all possible, if we want the Revolution to survive.” He sat back in his chair. “But as a precaution, let’s quietly redirect ten additional divisions north. We’ll use the pretense of border security and drug trafficking—no, sex trafficking—but move them at night and under cover whenever possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” an Army general replied.

  “What other military options do they have, short of total war or invasion?” Choi asked.

  The general of the strategic rocket forces leaned forward. “If I were the Americans, I would make tactical strikes on our missile facilities and submarine pens.”

  “Our underground nuclear facilities are impervious to aerial bombardment,” a technocrat said. “But the Americans will drop chemical or biological agents around our facilities to slow production and transport.”

  The chairman nodded. “I’ve thought of these myself. I want a plan drawn up immediately to relocate as many civilians as we can to surround these facilities—new schools, hospitals, whatever it takes. The Americans won’t dare strike then.”

  He scanned the military faces again. “So that’s it? It sounds as if the coalition’s military options are quite limited.”

  Heads nodded in agreement.

  Choi turned to an economic official. “Besides military action, what else could the coalition do?”

  “A total economic blockade,” the minister offered. Clearly Choi already knew what the man’s answer would be.

  “That would only be possible with a complete air and naval blockade,” the Korean People’s Army Navy admiral said.

  “China and South Korea account for the vast majority of our imports and exports. A blockade would hardly be necessary,” Choi said. “But I would hate to lose our business with Pakistan and Iran.” Some of North Korea’s nuclear and missile technology came from them.