by Robert Gandt
Standing at the entrance to the palace were a half dozen Vietnamese of varying ages. Ferrone recognized the older man in the middle of the group. He was small in stature. He wore a dark suit with a bright red tie.
President Van Duc Chien smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “Welcome to the Presidential Palace, Mr. Ambassador.”
Ferrone bowed his head deferentially. “I am grateful that you have agreed to this meeting on short notice, Mr. President.”
Van’s interpreter repeated Ferrone’s greeting in Vietnamese. Van smiled his gold-toothed smile again. “It is I who should be grateful that you have come to help us with our problem.”
Ferrone kept a blank face while Trunh translated it into English. His Vietnamese was still rudimentary, but he had understood everything Van had said. The homework with Kim was paying off.
“Will the Chinese ambassador be joining us?” Ferrone asked.
“He’s waiting in the conference hall,” Van said.
They walked down the long, carpeted hallway to the conference hall. Ferrone tried not to limp, but he couldn’t help it. The goddamn leg was still aching from being bent during the fifteen minute limo ride. He caught Van watching him with a curious expression.
Inside the square-shaped conference room, Qian Shouyi, ambassador from the Peoples Republic of China to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, was waiting. Quian was a plump, thin-haired man with what seemed to be a permanent scowl on his round face. He lowered his tea cup and gave Ferrone and Van an appraising look as they entered the room.
After the ritual bowing and exchange of introductions followed by the necessary translations into English, Vietnamese, and Chinese, the principal parties took seats at the large rosewood table. Tea was served in flowered china pots. The translators took their places at the sides of their respective emissaries.
Van opened the meeting by looking directly at the Chinese ambassador. “To begin this discussion, we would be grateful for a complete explanation of why the Peoples Republic of China has perpetrated acts of war on the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.”
The Chinese ambassador’s face didn’t change expression. “You have no grounds for making such a preposterous accusation.”
“And China had no grounds for destroying the White Tiger oil drilling facility.”
“Despite the fact that Vietnam has no right to install such a facility, the Peoples Republic denies any involvement with the loss of Vietnam’s illegal oil drilling platform. The loss of the platform was clearly a natural calamity, probably due to inept construction.”
Van’s face reddened. “Would you also blame the destruction of three of our aircraft and the torpedoing of a fifteen-thousand-ton freighter on a ‘natural calamity?’”
“These are more reckless statements. I must warn you, such irresponsible accusations by a head of state will not be tolerated by the Peoples Republic of China.”
Ferrone watched, fascinated, as the argument heated up. At the urging of President Benjamin, Ferrone had brought the parties together to broker an armistice. Some broker he was. Two minutes into the meeting, and it was in meltdown.
Ferrone loudly cleared his throat. A silence fell over the table, and Quian and Van both stared at him. “Excuse me, gentlemen. We’ve gotten off to a bad start. I believe we’re here to seek an agreement, not to expand on our differences. The President of the United States has directed me to assist in a negotiated settlement between your two countries of the Spratly Island matter.”
Quian said, “May I ask what reason the United States has for interfering in a dispute between Vietnam and China?”
“The United States does not wish to interfere, Mr. Ambassador. Our interest is in preserving peace and stability in Southeast Asia.”
“Does the United States intend to preserve peace in the same way it has in the Middle East? By attacking a sovereign country?”
“No, Mr. Ambassador. We do not.”
Quian seemed to be enjoying himself. He sipped at his tea, then said, “Does the United States deny its own clandestine involvement in the recent conflict in the South China Sea?”
Ferrone knew this was coming. “The United States does not wish to become involved in any armed conflict in the region. But. . .” he waited while the translator caught up, “. . .the U.S. will lend support to any beleaguered nation who is threatened by another.”
“That is very interesting, Mr. Ferrone, but you didn’t answer my question. I will ask again. Do you deny that the United States has engaged in clandestine military operations against my country?”
Ferrone met the Chinese ambassador’s hard-eyed gaze. Okay, the sonofabitch wants to play hardball. “It is not my position as the ambassador to Vietnam to deny or affirm your allegations.”
“Which I can only interpret to mean that the United States is lending military support to Vietnam. Is that not true, Mr. Ferrone?”
Ferrone felt all the eyes around the table on him as he composed his answer. Damn. Who the hell’s idea was it to send an amateur like him to play diplomat? He knew the answer. The President of the United States, whose brilliant notion of brokering a deal between the Viets and the Chinese was going straight down the crapper.
Ferrone said, “Vietnam and the United States have a mutual security pact. Just as we do with many other nations of the world.”
Quian listened to the translation. “Your devious answer simply makes it clear to me, Mr. Ferrone. You are telling me that the U.S. will make war on China on behalf of Vietnam. True?”
Ferrone shook his head in frustration. “What my President has instructed me to tell you, sir, is that the U.S. will not condone the use of a powerful country’s military forces against a weaker nation. There must be a peaceful solution to the Spratly Island dispute.”
Quian’s eyes narrowed, and he paused to scribble a note on the pad before him. Ferrone glanced around and saw Van Duc Chien looking at him with the same curious gaze. What is he thinking? Ferrone wondered.
Abruptly Quian shoved his chair back from the table. “It is clear that this meeting is a sham. Neither Vietnam nor the United States has any intention of recognizing the rights of the Peoples Republic of China in the Spratly Island dispute. I regret that I must report to my superiors that my efforts to reach a reasonable agreement have failed.”
With that, Quian rose, gathered his pad and spectacles from the table, and marched out. His translator and two aides scurried out behind him.
A heavy silence hung over the table. Ferrone felt a sense of gloom coming over him. His first shot at international diplomacy had lasted less than five minutes. Beaver Benjamin should never have expected an old warhorse like Ferrone to pull off a stunt like this.
Van was giving him that curious look again.
“You speak Vietnamese,” Van said in English.
Ferrone tried not to show his surprise. “And you, sir, speak English.”
Van’s wrinkled face broke into a smile. “Only when I want to. Like you, I find it convenient to let the translators do their work.”
“This meeting did not go well.”
“It went as we should have expected. The Chinese ambassador did not come to negotiate a settlement.”
Ferrone’s mood darkened. More damned surprises. He had the growing feeling that he was just along for the ride. “Okay, so what did he come here for?”
“I’ll explain,” said Van. “In private. May I suggest we take a walk in the palace gardens?”
Ferrone glanced around the table. He saw Trunh watching him with a rapt expression on his face. So was Mike Medford.
“With our translators?” Ferrone said.
“No. Just you and I.”
<>
“Bugs?”
“I believe that’s what you call them,” said Van. “Listening devices. We’ve recently found them in the offices and meeting rooms of the palace.”
Ferrone and Van were alone. They followed a wide gravel path that wound through the gardens. On either side grew a stately row
of mature Ficus trees. The afternoon had turned warm and sultry. The two men had left their suit coats in the palace.
“Who planted them?” said Ferrone.
Van shrugged. “Spies are common in Hanoi. Chinese, Korean, Russian.” A smile came over his face. “Even American. The palace is so infested with listening devices that I can not conduct sensitive meetings there. Only here in the garden can we can talk in privacy.”
Ferrone had to concentrate to follow everything the Vietnamese president said. Van would begin in English, then shift without warning to his own language. Ferrone was getting a headache trying to keep up. Worse, his goddamn leg felt like it had a flaming hot poker stuck in it.
“So why did the Chinese ambassador show up today if he didn’t intend to negotiate?” Ferrone said.
“To test you. And to hear what you would say when he challenged you. Quian has no authority to negotiate. His orders from Beijing are very specific. He is to deny any involvement with the actions in the South China Sea and accuse the U.S. of giving military support to Vietnam.”
Ferrone nodded. He knew better than to ask how Van knew what orders the Chinese ambassador had received from Beijing. Spies are common in Hanoi. Vietnam obviously had some of its own.
President Van Duc Chien, Ferrone knew from his briefing dossier, was a long time Communist Party official and member of the Vietnamese National Assembly. He had just been elected to his second five year term as President. Van was sixty-six, the same age as Ferrone, which meant that he had almost certainly fought in the long war with the U.S.
“What will it take to make them negotiate?” said Ferrone.
“More than diplomacy. The Chinese leadership must understand that they can not seize the Spratly Islands without a serious challenge from us.”
“I’ve already explained to you the position of our President. The United States will not engage the Chinese in open warfare. Not over the Spratly Island oil rights.”
“It doesn’t matter. Vietnam will fight to the death.”
Ferrone was surprised at Van’s change in tone. His voice had a hard ring to it. “With all respect, Mr. President, I don’t think fighting to the death is a productive strategy.”
“There is no other strategy for us. For a thousand years China has been our traditional enemy. Fighting them to the death is the only way we have prevailed. It is how we prevailed over the French. It is also how we won the war with the Americans.”
Ferrone didn’t reply. The subject of the war was one that both he and his Vietnamese counterparts had learned to treat with extreme delicacy.
As if triggered by the thought, another stab of pain flashed down Ferrone’s right leg.
Van was watching him intently. “Your leg has been injured?”
“A long time ago.”
“In the war?”
“Yes.”
“When you were a prisoner.” It was a statement, not a question.
Ferrone nodded. He wondered how much Van knew about his years as a POW.
“It was a terrible war,” said Van. “You should hate the Vietnamese.”
Ferrone shrugged. “I’ve gotten over that.” But I’ll always hate the evil bastards who did this to me. He made an extra effort not to limp. It was time to change the subject.
“Sometimes I still hate the Americans,” said Van.
“Because?”
“Because of this.” Van stopped and turned his back to Ferrone. He pulled his shirt tail up, exposing a mass of gnarled scar tissue. “My back, shoulders, my legs. All scarred like this.”
Ferrone stared at the destroyed flesh on Van’s back. He had a good idea what had caused it.
“It was 1968,” said Van. “Soon after the Tet Offensive. We were operating near Lao Bao, just after nightfall. We thought our convoy was safe, crossing a valley. A flight of American jets spotted us and dropped napalm. Over two hundred were burned alive, and only a few in my battalion escaped with their lives. It was the end of the war for me. I spent five years in constant pain, hating Americans every minute of the day.”
Ferrone had to avert his eyes from Van’s destroyed flesh. Van pulled his shirt down and stuffed it back inside his trousers.
“But we Vietnamese no longer have the luxury of hating former enemies. We have to reserve our hatred for the current adversary.”
“The Chinese?”
“Our oldest enemy. For a thousand years the Chinese have threatened Vietnam. They have seized territory, seaports, fleets of ships, islands, even our culture. Now they want our oil.”
“And that’s the problem, Mr. President. They don’t agree that it’s your oil.”
“It doesn’t matter. It is Vietnam’s oil, and we must challenge them.”
Ferrone knew what Van meant. The only serious challenge to the Chinese would have to come from the United States.
“You know the position of our President. We will not engage the Chinese in open warfare. Not over the Spratly oil rights.”
“Then Vietnam will fight the Chinese alone.”
“President Benjamin sympathizes with your position,” said Ferrone. “But he—and I—urge you not to provoke China any further. We believe that we can persuade China to negotiate.”
“Vietnam has just lost an investment of over fifty million dollars in the White Tiger platform.”
Ferrone nodded. This wasn’t a good moment to remind Van that the majority of the funding for the offshore drilling rig came from the United States. “The platform can be replaced. So can the lost vessels and aircraft. Those are small losses compared to what may be lost if Vietnam goes to war with China.”
“China only understands force.”
“Force can be applied,” said Ferrone, measuring his words carefully. “But in an invisible way. As invisible as the weapons they are using against you.”
Van peered at him with new interest. “Invisible? You mean—”
“There are means at our disposal,” said Ferrone. “I’m not at liberty to describe them. In order for this strategy to work, it is critical that Vietnam avoids engaging China in open warfare.”
For a while Van didn’t reply. His face wrinkled into its contemplative expression again, and he trudged along the path, hands clasped behind his back.
Finally he stopped and looked at Ferrone. “As President of the Republic, I am in direct command of the military. It will cause me many problems with the National Assembly, but I will give the order to our commanders. No direct offensive action will be taken—unless China commences open aggression against us.”
Ferrone nodded. For the first time today, he was beginning to feel a sense of optimism.
As quickly as it came, the feeling passed.
“But only for two weeks,” he heard Van say. “Then we go to war.”
Chapter 6 — Dragons
The White House
0905 Thursday, 12 April
“Two weeks?” said the President of the United States into the video cam. “You gotta be kidding, Skipper.”
“That’s what the man says,” Ferrone said.
After the usual three second delay, he saw Beaver Benjamin shake his head. “Shit, it takes longer than that just to get the Chinese to answer the phone.”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“And Van knows it too. Sounds to me like blackmail. Is he trying to coerce us into a shooting war with the Chinese?”
Ferrone glanced at the two clocks on the wall. The hands of the Hanoi clock were at ten minutes before four in the afternoon. The other clock, the one displaying Washington time, showed ten till five in the morning. Beaver Benjamin was still an early riser.
“I doubt it,” said Ferrone. “He’s under the gun from his own legislators in the National Assembly. They’re the ones who elected him, and they’ll throw him out if they think he might be getting soft on the Chinese.”
“Sounds familiar,” said Benjamin. A wry smile flashed over his face. “Except that on this end, I get the sack if they think I’m too hard on t
he Chinese.”
“Speaking of Senator Wagstaff, how’s he behaving these days?”
“No change. Like a pit bull in a meat locker. He wants a full Senate inquiry into what he calls ‘the Spratly Island cover up.’ Says he’ll sponsor an initiative to impeach me if necessary.”
“What about our other diplomatic efforts? Will we get any support from the United Nations?”
“Are you kidding? The United Nations wouldn’t support us if we offered the world free condoms. The Security Council votes this afternoon on Resolution 1705. You’ll get a copy of it on the net. It’s an inspirational document mandating ‘free and unencumbered’ access to all mineral rights in the Spratly Island archipelago.”
“It’s a joke. As a voting member of the Council, China will veto it.”
“That is the joke. China is the country sponsoring the resolution. They’re just reinforcing the illusion that they’re not carrying out any offensive military ops in the region. They didn’t dump the oil platform. They didn’t shoot down the Vietnamese aircraft or our F/A-18. They’re innocent because there’s no visible evidence and they’re sticking to their story.”
“What about Swallow Reef? Pretty hard to hide the fact that they’ve overrun the island and captured the Vietnamese garrison there.”
“They claim they were already there. It was the Viets who landed illegally, not them.”
Ferrone thought for a moment. It was preposterous—but perfectly logical. “The good old United Nations. At least they’re consistent.”
“You have that right, Skipper. What it means is that it’s going to be up to us. You and me and Red Boyce.”
Ferrone nodded. He knew that was as far as Benjamin would go with the details about Boyce and his black ops boys. Nothing of extreme sensitivity was ever discussed on the videoconferencing net even though the satellite-relayed signal was scrambled and passed through an NSA—National Security Agency—cryptologic processor.
“Can we expect help to show up soon?”
“The players are in motion as we speak. In the meantime, persuade our Vietnamese friends to stand down.”