by Tom Clancy
The spotting glasses were Chinese copies of a German Zeiss model adopted for use by the Soviet Army of old. They zoomed from twenty-to fifty-power, allowing him an intimate view of the other side of the river. Peng came up here once a month or so, which allowed him to inspect his own border troops, who stood what was really a defensive watch, and a light one at that. He had little concern about a Russian attack into his country. The People’s Liberation Army taught the same doctrine as every army back to the Assyrians of old: The best defense is a good offense. If a war began here, better to begin it yourself. And so Peng had cabinets full of plans to attack into Siberia, prepared by his operations and intelligence people, because that was what operations people did.
“Their defenses look ill-maintained,” Peng observed.
“That is so, Comrade,” the colonel commanding the border-defense regiment agreed. “We see little regular activity there.”
“They are too busy selling their weapons to civilians for vodka,” the army political officer observed. “Their morale is poor, and they do not train anything like we do.”
“They have a new theater commander,” the army’s intelligence chief countered. “A General-Colonel Bondarenko. He is well regarded in Moscow as an intellect and as a courageous battlefield commander from Afghanistan.”
“That means he survived contact once,” Political observed. “Probably with a Kabul whore.”
“It is dangerous to underestimate an adversary,” Intelligence warned.
“And foolish to overestimate one.”
Peng just looked through the glasses. He’d heard his intelligence and political officer spar before. Intelligence tended to be an old woman, but many intelligence officers were like that, and Political, like so many of his colleagues, was sufficiently aggressive to make Genghis Khan seem womanly. As in the theater, officers played the roles assigned to them. His role, of course, was to be the wise and confident commander of one of his country’s premier striking arms, and Peng played that role well enough that he was in the running for promotion to General First Class, and if he played his cards very carefully, in another eight years or so, maybe Marshal. With that rank came real political power and personal riches beyond counting, with whole factories working for his own enrichment. Some of those factories were managed by mere colonels, people with the best of political credentials who knew how to kowtow to their seniors, but Peng had never gone that route. He enjoyed soldiering far more than he enjoyed pushing paper and screaming at worker-peasants. As a new second lieutenant, he’d fought the Russians, not very far from this very spot. It had been a mixed experience. His regiment had enjoyed initial success, then had been hammered by a storm of artillery. That had been back when the Red Army, the real Soviet Army of old, had fielded whole artillery divisions whose concentrated fire could shake the very earth and sky, and that border clash had incurred the wrath of the nation the Russians had once been. But no longer. Intelligence told him that the Russian troops on the far side of this cold river were not even a proper shadow of what had once been there. Four divisions, perhaps, and not all of them at full strength. So, however clever this Bondarenko fellow was, if a clash came, he’d have his hands very full indeed.
But that was a political question, wasn’t it? Of course. All the really important things were.
“How are the bridging engineers?” Peng asked, surveying the watery obstacle below.
“Their last exercise went very well, Comrade General,” Operations replied. Like every other army in the world, the PLA had copied the Russian “ribbon” bridge, designed by Soviet engineers in the 1960s to force crossings of all the streams of Western Germany in a NATO/Warsaw Pact war so long expected, but never realized. Except in fiction, mainly Western fiction that had had the NATO side win in every case. Of course. Would capitalists spend money on books that ended their culture? Peng chuckled to himself. Such people enjoyed their illusions …
… almost as much as his own country’s Politburo members. That’s the way it was all over the world, Peng figured. The rulers of every land held images in their heads, and tried to make the world conform to them. Some succeeded, and those were the ones who wrote the history books.
“So, what do we expect here?”
“From the Russians?” Intelligence asked. “Nothing that I have heard about. Their army is training a little more, but nothing to be concerned about. If they wanted to come south across that river, I hope they can swim in the cold.”
“The Russians like their comforts too much for that. They’ve grown soft with their new political regime,” Political proclaimed.
“And if we are ordered north?” Peng asked.
“If we give them one hard kick, the whole rotten mess will fall down,” Political answered. He didn’t know that he was exactly quoting another enemy of the Russians.
CHAPTER 43 Decisions
The colonel flying Air Force One executed an even better landing than usual. Jack and Cathy Ryan were already awake and showered to alertness, helped by a light breakfast heavy on fine coffee. The President looked out the window to his left and saw troops formed up in precise lines, as the aircraft taxied to its assigned place.
“Welcome to Poland, babe. What do you have planned?”
“I’m going to spend a few hours at their big teaching hospital. Their chief eye-cutter wants me to look at his operation.” It was always the same for FLOTUS, and she didn’t mind. It came from being an academic physician, treating patients, but also teaching young docs, and observing how her counterparts around the world did their version of her job. Every so often, you saw something new that was worth learning from, or even copying, because smart people happened everywhere, not just at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine. It was the one part of the First Lady folderol that she actually enjoyed, because she could learn from it, instead of just being a somewhat flat-chested Barbie doll for the world to gawk at. To this end she was dressed in a beige business suit, whose jacket she would soon exchange for a doc’s proper white lab coat, which was always her favorite item of apparel. Jack was wearing one of his dark-blue white-pinstriped President-of-the-United-States suits, with a maroon striped tie because Cathy liked the color combination, and she really did decide what Jack wore, except for the shirt. SWORDSMAN wore only white cotton shirts with button-down collars, and despite Cathy’s lobbying for something different, on that issue he stood firm. This had caused Cathy to observe more than once that he’d wear the damned things with his tuxedos if convention didn’t demand otherwise.
The aircraft came to a halt, and the stagecraft began. The Air Force sergeant-this one always a man-opened the door on the left side of the aircraft to see that the truck-mounted stairs were already in place. Two more non-coms scurried down so that they could salute Ryan when he walked down. Andrea Price-O’Day was talking over her digital radio circuit to the chief of the Secret Service advance team to make sure it was safe for the President to appear in the open. She’d already heard that the Poles had been as cooperative as any American police force, and had enough security deployed here to defend against an attack by space aliens or Hitler’s Wehrmacht. She nodded to the President and Mrs. Ryan.
“Showtime, babe,” Jack told Cathy, with a dry smile.
“Knock ’em dead, Movie Star,” she said in reply. It was one of their inside jokes.
John Patrick Ryan, President of the United States of America, stood in the door to look out over Poland, or at least as much of it as he could see from this vantage. The first cheers erupted then, for although he’d never even been close to Poland before, he was a popular figure here, for what reason Jack Ryan had no idea. He walked down, carefully, telling himself not to trip and spill down the steps. It looked bad to do so, as one of his antecedents had learned the hard way. At the bottom, the two USAF sergeants snapped off their salutes, which Ryan unconsciously returned, and then he was saluted again by a Polish officer. They did it differently, Jack saw, with ring and little finger tucked in, like A
merican Cub Scouts. Jack nodded and smiled to this officer, then followed him to the receiving line. There was the U.S. ambassador to introduce him to the Polish president. Together they walked down a red carpet to a small lectern, where the Polish president welcomed Ryan, and Ryan made remarks to demonstrate his joy at visiting this ancient and important new American ally. Ryan had a discordant memory of the “Polack” jokes so popular when he’d been in high school, but managed not to relate any to the assembled throng. This was followed by a review past the honor guard of soldiers, about three companies of infantrymen, all spiffed up for this moment; Jack walked past them, looking in each face for a split second and figuring they just wanted to go back to barracks to change into their more comfortable fatigues, where they’d say that this Ryan guy looked okay for a damned American chief of state, and wasn’t it good that this pain-in-the-ass duty was over. Then Jack and Cathy (carrying flowers given to her by two cute Polish kids, a boy and a girl, age six or so, because that was the best age to greet an important foreign woman) got into the official car, an American limo from the U.S. Embassy, for the drive into town. Once there, Jack looked over to the ambassador.
“What about Moscow?”
Ambassadors had once been Very Important People, which explained why each still had to be approved by vote of the United States Senate. When the Constitution had been drafted, world travel had been done by sailing ship, and an ambassador in a foreign land was the United States of America, and had to be able to speak for his country entirely without guidance from Washington. Modem communications had transformed ambassadors into glorified mailmen, but they still, occasionally, had to handle important matters with discretion, and this was such a case.
“They want the Secretary to come over as soon as possible. The backup aircraft is at a fighter base about fifteen miles from here. We can get Scott there within the hour,” Stanislas Lewendowski reported.
“Thanks, Stan. Make it happen.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the ambassador, a native of Chicago, agreed with a curt nod.
“Anything we need to know?”
“Aside from that, sir, no, everything’s pretty much under control.”
“I hate it when they say that,” Cathy observed quietly. “That’s when I look up for the falling sandbag.”
“Not here, ma’am,” Lewendowski promised. “Here things are under control.”
That’s nice to hear, President Ryan thought, but what about the rest of the fucking world?
Eduard Petrovich, this is not a happy development,” Golovko told his president.
“I can see that,” Grushavoy agreed tersely. “Why did we have to learn this from the Americans?”
“We had a very good source in Beijing, but he retired not long ago. He’s sixty-nine years old and in ill health, and it was time to leave his post in their Party Secretariat. Sadly, we had no replacement for him,” Golovko admitted. “The American source appears to be a man of similar placement. We are fortunate to have this information, regardless of its source.”
“Better to have it than not to have it,” Eduard Petrovich admitted. “So, now what?”
“Secretary of State Adler will be joining us in about three hours, at the Americans’ request. He wishes to consult with us directly on a ‘matter of mutual interest.’ That means the Americans are as concerned with this development as we are.”
“What will they say?”
“They will doubtless offer us assistance of some sort. Exactly what kind, I cannot say.”
“Is there anything I don’t already know about Adler and Ryan?”
“I don’t think so. Scott Adler is a career diplomat, well regarded everywhere as an experienced and expert diplomatic technician. He and Ryan are friends, dating back to when Ivan Emmetovich was Deputy Director of CIA. They get along well and do not have any known disagreements in terms of policy. Ryan I have known for over ten years. He is bright, decisive, and a man of unusually fine personal honor. A man of his word. He was the enemy of the Soviet Union, and a skilled enemy, but since our change of systems he has been a friend. He evidently wishes us to succeed and prosper economically, though his efforts to assist us have been somewhat disjointed and confused. As you know, we have assisted the Americans in two black operations, one against China and one against Iran. This is important, because Ryan will see that he owes us a debt. He is, as I said, an honorable man, and he will wish to repay that debt, as long as it does not conflict with his own security interests.”
“Will an attack on China be seen that way?” President Grushavoy asked.
Golovko nodded decisively. “Yes, I believe so. We know that Ryan has said privately that he both likes and admires Russian culture, and that he would prefer that America and Russia should become strategic partners. So, I think Secretary Adler will offer us substantive assistance against China.”
“What form will it take?”
“Eduard Petrovich, I am an intelligence officer, not a gypsy fortune-teller …” Golovko paused. “We will know more soon, but if you wish me to make a guess…”
“Do so,” the Russian president commanded. The SVR Chairman took a deep breath and made his prediction:
“He will offer us a seat on the North Atlantic Council.” That startled Grushavoy:
“Join NATO?” he asked, with an open mouth.
“It would be the most elegant solution to the problem. It allies us with the rest of Europe, and would face China with a panoply of enemies if they attack us.”
“And if they make this offer to us …?”
“You should accept it at once, Comrade President,” the chief of the RSV replied. “We would be fools not to.”
“What will they demand in return?”
“Whatever it is, it will be far less costly than a war against China.”
Grushavoy nodded thoughtfully. “I will consider this. Is it really possible that America can recognize Russia as an ally?”
“Ryan will have thought this idea through. It conforms to his strategic outlook, and, as I said, I believe he honestly admires and respects Russia.”
“After all his time in CIA?”
“Of course. That is why he does. He knows us. He ought to respect us.”
Grushavoy thought about that one. Like Golovko, he was a Russian patriot who loved the very smell of Russian soil, the birch forests, the vodka and the borscht, the music and literature of his land. But he was not blind to the errors and ill fortune his country had endured over the centuries. Like Golovko, Grushavoy had come to manhood in a nation called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and had been educated to be a believer in Marxism-Leninism, but he’d gradually come to see that, although the path to political power had required worshiping at that godless altar, the god there had been a false one. Like many, he’d seen that the previous system simply didn’t work. But unlike all but a small and courageous few, he’d spoken out about the system’s shortcomings. A lawyer, even under the Soviet system when law had been subordinated to political whim, he’d crusaded for a rational system of laws which would allow people to predict the reaction of the state to their actions with something akin to confidence. He’d been there when the old system had fallen, and had embraced the new system as a teenager embraced his first love. Now he was struggling to bring order-lawful order, which was harder still-to a nation which had known only dictatorial rule for centuries. If he succeeded, he knew he’d be remembered as one of the giants of human political history. If he failed, he’d just be remembered as one more starry-eyed visionary unable to turn his dream into reality. The latter, he thought in quiet moments, was the more likely outcome.
But despite that concern, he was playing to win. Now he had the gold and oil discoveries in Siberia, which had appeared as if gifts from the merciful God his education had taught him to deny. Russian history predicted-nay, demanded-that such gifts be taken from his country, for such had always been their hateful ill luck. Did God hate Russia? Anyone familiar with the past in his ancient co
untry would think so. But today hope appeared as a golden dream, and Grushavoy was determined not to let this dream evaporate as all the others had. The land of Tolstoy and Rimsky-Korsakov had given much to the world, and now it deserved something back. Perhaps this Ryan fellow would indeed be a friend of his country and his people. His country needed friends. His country had the resources to exist alone, but to make use of those resources, he needed assistance, enough to allow Russia to enter the world as a complete and self-sufficient nation, ready to be a friend to all, ready to give and to take in honor and amity. The wherewithal was within his reach, if not quite within his hand. To take it would make him an Immortal, would make Eduard Petrovich Grushavoy the man who raised up his entire country. To do that he’d need help, however, and while that abraded his sense of amour propre, his patriotism, his duty to his country required that he set self aside.