by Tom Clancy
“We shall see, Sergey Nikolay’ch. We shall see.”
The time is ripe,” Zhang Han San told his colleagues in the room of polished oak. ”The men and weapons are in place. The prize lies right before our eyes. That prize offers us economic salvation, economic security such as we have dreamed of for decades, the ability,” he went on, ”to make China the world’s preeminent power. That is a legacy to leave our people such as no leader has ever granted his descendants. We need only take it. It lies almost in our hands, like a peach upon a tree.”
“It is feasible?” Interior Minister Tong Jie asked cautiously.
“Marshal?” Zhang handed the inquiry off to the Defense Minister.
Luo Cong leaned forward. He and Zhang had spent much of the previous evening together with maps, diagrams, and intelligence estimates. “From a military point of view, yes, it is possible. We have four Type A Group armies in the Shenyang Military District, fully trained and poised to strike north. Behind them are six Type B Group armies with sufficient infantry to support our mechanized forces, and four more Type C Group armies to garrison the land we take. From a strictly military point of view, the only issues are moving our forces into place and then supplying them. That is mainly a question of railroads, which will move supplies and men. Minister Qian?” Luo asked. He and Zhang had considered this bit of stage-managing carefully, hoping to co-opt a likely opponent of their proposed national policy early on.
The Finance Minister was startled by the question, but pride in his former job and his innate honesty compelled him to respond truthfully: “There is sufficient rolling stock for your purposes, Marshal Luo,” he replied tersely. “The concern will be repairing damage done by enemy air strikes on our rights-of-way and bridges. That is something the Railroad Ministry has examined for decades, but there is no precise answer to it, because we cannot predict the degree of damage the Russians might inflict.”
“I am not overly worried about that, Qian,” Marshal Luo responded. “The Russian air force is in miserable shape due to all their activity against their Muslim minorities. They used up a goodly fraction of their best weapons and spare parts. We estimate that our air-defense groups should preserve our transportation assets with acceptable losses. Will we be able to send railroad-construction personnel into Siberia to extend our railheads?”
Again Qian felt himself trapped. “The Russians have surveyed and graded multiple rights-of-way over the years in their hopes for extending the Trans-Siberian Railroad and settling people into the region. Those efforts date back to Stalin. Can we lay track rapidly? Yes. Rapidly enough for your purposes? Probably not, Comrade Marshal,” Qian replied studiously. If he didn’t answer honestly, his seat at this table would evaporate, and he knew it.
“I am not sanguine on this prospect, comrades,” Shen Tang spoke for the Foreign Ministry.
“Why is that, Shen?” Zhang asked.
“What will other nations do?” he asked rhetorically. “We do not know, but I would not be optimistic, especially with the Americans. They become increasingly friendly with the Russians. President Ryan is well known to be friendly with Golovko, chief advisor to President Grushavoy.”
“A pity that Golovko still lives, but we were unlucky,” Tan Deshi had to concede.
“Depending on luck is dangerous at this level,” Fang Gan told his colleagues. “Fate is no man’s friend.”
“Perhaps the next time,” Tan responded.
“Next time,” Zhang thought aloud, “better to eliminate Grushavoy and so throw their country into total chaos. A country without a president is like a snake without a head. It may thrash about, but it harms no one.”
“Even a severed head can bite,” Fang observed. “And who is to say that Fate will smile upon this enterprise?”
“A man can wait for Fate to decide for him, or he can seize the foul woman by the throat and take her by force-as we have all done in our time,” Zhang added with a cruel smile.
Much more easily done with a docile secretary than with Destiny herself, Zhang, Fang didn’t say aloud. He could go only so far in this forum, and he knew it. “Comrades, I counsel caution. The dogs of war have sharp teeth, but any dog may turn and bite his master. We have all seen that happen, have we not? Some things, once begun, are less easily halted. War is such a thing, and it is not to be undertaken so lightly.”
“What would you have us do, Fang?” Zhang asked. “Should we wait until we run out of oil and wheat? Should we wait until we need troops to quell discord among our own people? Should we wait for Fate to decide for us, or should we choose our own destiny?”
The only reply to that came from Chinese culture itself, the ancient beliefs that came to all of the Politburo members almost as genetic knowledge, unaffected by political conditioning: “Comrades, Destiny awaits us all. It chooses us, not we it. What you propose here, my old friend, could merely accelerate what comes for us in any case, and who among us can say if it will please or displease us?” Minister Fang shook his head. “Perhaps what you propose is necessary, even beneficial,” he allowed, “but only after the alternatives have been examined fully and discarded.”
“If we are to decide,” Luo told them, “then we must decide soon. We have good campaigning weather before us. That season will only last so long. If we strike soon-in the next two weeks-we can seize our objectives, and then time works for us. Then winter will set in and make offensive campaigning virtually impossible against a determined defense. Then we can depend upon Shen’s ministry to safeguard and consolidate what we have seized, perhaps to share our winnings with the Russians … for a time,” he added cynically. China would never share such a windfall, they all knew. It was merely a ploy fit to fool children and mushy-headed diplomats, which the world had in abundance, they all knew.
Through all this, Premier Xu had sat quietly, observing how the sentiments went, before making his decision and calling for a vote whose outcome would, of course, be predetermined. There was one more thing that needed asking. Not surprisingly, the question came from Tan Deshi, chief of the Ministry of State Security:
“Luo, my friend, how soon would the decision have to be made to ensure success? How easily could the decision be called back if circumstances warrant?”
“Ideally, the ‘go’ decision would be made today, so that we can start moving our forces to their preset jumping-off places. To stop them-well, of course, you can stop the offensive up to the very moment the artillery is to open fire. It is much harder to advance than it is to stay in place. Any man can stand still, no matter where he is.” The preplanned answer to the preplanned question was as clever as it was misleading. Sure, you could always stop an army poised to jump off, about as easily as you could stop a Yangtze River flood.
“I see,” Tan said. “In that case, I propose that we vote on conditional approval of a ‘go’ order, subject to change at any time by majority vote of the Politburo.”
Now it was Xu’s turn to take charge of the meeting: “Comrades, thank you all for your views on the issue before us. Now we must decide what is best for our country and our people. We shall vote on Tan’s proposal, a conditional authorization for an attack to seize and exploit the oil and goldfields in Siberia.”
As Fang had feared, the vote was already decided, and in the interests of solidarity, he voted with the rest. Only Qian Kun wavered, but like all the others, he sided with the majority, because it was dangerous to stand alone in any group in the People’s Republic, most of all this one. And besides, Qian was only a candidate member, and didn’t have a vote at this most democratic of tables.
The vote turned out to be unanimous.
Long Chun, it would be called: Operation SPRING DRAGON.
Scott Adler knew Moscow as well as many Russian citizens did, he’d been here so many times, including one tour in the American Embassy as a wet-behind-the-ears new foreign-service officer, all those years before, during the Carter Administration. The Air Force flight crew delivered him on time, and they were ac
customed to taking people on covert missions to odd places. This mission was less unusual than most. His aircraft rolled to a stop at the Russian fighter base, and the official car rolled up even before the mechanical steps unfolded. Adler hustled out, unaccompanied even by an aide. A Russian official shook hands with him and got him into the car for the drive into Moscow. Adler was at ease. He knew that he was offering Russia a gift fit for the world’s largest Christmas tree, and he didn’t think they were stupid enough to reject it. No, the Russians were among the world’s most skillful diplomats and geopolitical thinkers, a trait that went back sixty years or more. It had struck him as sad, back in 1978, that their adroit people had been chained to a doomed political system-even back then, Adler had seen the demise of the Soviet Union coming. Jimmy Carter’s “human rights” proclamation had been that president’s best and least appreciated foreign-policy play, for it had injected the virus of rot into their political empire, begun the process of eating away their power in Eastern Europe, and also of letting their own people start to ask questions. It was a pot that Ronald Reagan had sweetened-upping the ante with his defense buildup that had stretched the Soviet economy to the breaking point and beyond, allowing George Bush to be there when they’d tossed in their cards and cast off from the political system that stretched back to Vladimir ll’ych Ulyanov, Lenin himself, the founding father, even the god of Marxism-Leninism. It was usually sad when a god died …
… but not in this case, Adler thought as the buildings flashed by.
Then he realized that there was one more large but false god out there, Mao Zedong, awaiting final interment in history’s rubbish heap. When would that come? Did this mission have a role to play in that funeral? Nixon’s opening to China had played a role in the destruction of the Soviet Union, which historians still had not fully grasped. Would its final echo be found in the fall of the People’s Republic itself? That remained to be seen.
The car pulled into the Kremlin through the Spaskiy Gate, then proceeded to the old Council of Ministers Building. There Adler alighted and hurried inside, into an elevator to a third-floor meeting room.
“Mr. Secretary.” The greeting came from Golovko. Adler should have found him an eminence gris, he thought. But Sergey Nikolay’ch was actually a man of genuine intellect and the openness that resulted directly from it. He was not even a pragmatist, but a man who sought what was best for his country, and would search for it everywhere his mind could see. A seeker of truth, SecState thought. That sort of man he and America could live with.
“Chairman. Thank you for receiving us so quickly.”
“Please come with me, Mr. Adler.” Golovko led him through a set of high double doors into what almost appeared to be a throne room. EAGLE couldn’t remember if this building went back to the czars. President Eduard Petrovich Grushavoy was waiting for him, already standing politely, looking serious but friendly.
“Mr. Adler,” the Russian president said, with a smile and an extended hand.
“Mr. President, a pleasure to be back in Moscow.”
“Please.” Grushavoy led him to a comfortable set of chairs with a low table. Tea things were already out, and Golovko handled the serving like a trusted earl seeing to the needs of his king and guest.
“Thank you. I’ve always loved the way you serve your tea in Russia.” Adler stirred his and took a sip.
“So, what do you have to say to us?” Grushavoy asked in passable English.
“We have shown you what has become for us a cause for great concern.”
“The Chinese,” the Russian president observed. Everyone knew all of this, but the beginning of the conversation would follow the conventions of high-level talk, like lawyers discussing a major case in chambers.
“Yes, the Chinese. They seem to be contemplating a threat to the peace of the world. America has no wish to see that peace threatened. We’ve all worked very hard-your country and mine-to put an end to conflict. We note with gratitude Russia’s assistance in our most recent conflicts. Just as we were allies sixty years ago, so Russia has acted again lately. America is a country that remembers her friends.”
Golovko let out a breath slowly. Yes, his prediction was about to come true. Ivan Emmetovich was a man of honor, and a friend of his country. What came back to him was the time he’d held a pistol to Ryan’s head, the time Ryan had engineered the defection of KGB chairman Gerasimov all those years before. Sergey Nikolay’ch had been enraged back then, as furious as he had ever been in a long and stressful professional life, but he’d held back from firing the pistol because it would have been a foolish act to shoot a man with diplomatic status. Now he blessed his moderation, for now Ivan Emmetovich Ryan offered to Russia what he had always craved from America: predictability. Ryan’s honor, his sense of fair play, the personal honesty that was the most crippling aspect of his newly acquired political persona, all combined to make him a person upon whom Russia could depend. And at this moment, Golovko could do that which he’d spent his life trying to do: He could see the future that lay only a few short minutes away.
“This Chinese threat, it is real, you think?” Grushavoy asked.
“We fear it is,” the American Secretary of State answered. “We hope to forestall it.”
“But how will we accomplish that? China knows of our military weakness. We have de-emphasized our defense capabilities of late, trying to shift the funds into areas of greater value to our economy. Now it seems we might pay a bitter price for that,” the Russian president worried aloud.
“Mr. President, we hope to help Russia in that respect.”
“How?”
“Mr. President, even as we speak, President Ryan is also speaking with the NATO chiefs of state and government. He is proposing to them that we invite Russia to sign the North Atlantic Treaty. That will ally the Russian Federation with all of Europe. It ought to make China take a step back to consider the wisdom of a conflict with your country.”
“Ahh,” Grushavoy breathed. “So, America offers Russia a full alliance of state?”
Adler nodded. “Yes, Mr. President. As we were allies against Hitler, so today we can again be allies against all potential enemies.”
“There are many complications in this, talks between your military and ours, for example-even talks with the NATO command in Belgium. It could take months to coordinate our country with NATO.”
“Those are technical matters to be handled by diplomatic and military technicians. At this level, however, we offer the Russian Federation our friendship in peace and in war. We place the word and the honor of our countries at your disposal.”
“What of the European Union, their Common Market of economic alliances?”
“That, sir, is something left to the EEC, but America will encourage our European friends to welcome you completely into the European community, and offer all influence we can muster to that end.”
“What do you ask in return?” Grushavoy asked. Golovko hadn’t offered that prediction. This could be the answer to many Russian prayers, though his mind made the leap to see that Russian oil would be a major boon to Europe, and hence a matter of mutual, not unilateral, profit.
“We ask for nothing special in return. It is in the American interest to help make a stable and peaceful world. We welcome Russia into that world. Friendship between your people and ours is desirable to everyone, is it not?”
“And in our friendship is profit also for America,” Golovko pointed out.
Adler sat back and smiled agreement. “Of course. Russia will sell things to America, and America will sell things to Russia. We will become neighbors in the global village, friendly neighbors. We will compete economically, giving and taking from each other, as we do with many other countries.”
“The offer you make is this simple?” Grushavoy asked.
“Should it be more complicated?” the SecState asked. “I am a diplomat, not a lawyer. I prefer simple things to complex ones.”
Grushavoy considered all this for h
alf a minute or so. Usually, diplomatic negotiations lasted weeks or months to do even the simplest of things, but Adler was right: Simple was better than complex, and the fundamental issue here was simple, though the downstream consequences might be breathtaking. America offered salvation to Russia, not just a military alliance, but the opening of all doors to economic development. America and Europe would partner with the Russian Federation, creating what could become both an open and integrated community to span the northern hemisphere. It stood to make Eduard Petrovich Grushavoy the Russian who brought his country a full century into the present/future of the world, and for all the statues of Lenin and Stalin that had been toppled, well, maybe some of his own likeness would be erected. It was a thought to appeal to a Russian politician. And after a few minutes, he extended his hand across the low table of tea things.
“The Russian Federation gladly accepts the offer of the United States of America. Together we once defeated the greatest threat to human culture. Perhaps we can do so again-better yet, together we may forestall it.”
“In that case, sir, I will report your agreement to my President.”
Adler checked his watch. It had taken twenty minutes. Damn, you could make history in a hurry when you had your act together, couldn’t you? He stood. “I must be off then to make my report.”
“Please convey my respects to President Ryan. We will do our best to be worthy allies to your country.”
“He and I have no doubts of that, Mr. President.” Adler shook hands with Golovko and walked to the door. Three minutes after that, he was back in his car and heading back to the airport. Once there, the aircraft had barely begun to taxi when he got on the secure satellite phone.
Mr. President?” Andrea said, coming up to Ryan just as the plenary session of the NATO chiefs was about to begin. She handed over the secure portable phone. ”It’s Secretary Adler.”
Ryan took the phone at once. “Scott? Jack here. What gives?”