by Tom Clancy
Heads nodded around the table. It was indeed the most likely explanation for the American lack of action, and all of these men understood political considerations.
“Does this mean that they are measuring their action against us in such a way as to cause us minimal injury?” Tong Jie asked. It was so much the better for him, of course, since the Interior Ministry would have to deal with the internal dislocations that systematic attacks might cause.
“Remember what I said before,” Zhang pointed out. “They will do business with us once we’ve secured our new territory. So, they already anticipate this. It seems plain that they will support their Russian friends, but only so much. What else are the Americans but mercenaries? This President Ryan, what was he?”
“He was a CIA spy, and by all accounts an effective one,” Tan Deshi reminded them.
“No,” Zhang disagreed. “He was a trader in stocks before he joined CIA, and then he was a stock trader again after he left—and whom does he bring into his cabinet? Winston, another hugely rich capitalist, a trader in stocks and securities, a typical American rich man. I tell you, money is the key to understanding these people. They do business. They have no political ideology, except to fatten their purses. To do that, you try not to make blood enemies, and now, here, with us, they do not try to anger us too greatly. I tell you, I understand these people.”
“Perhaps,” Qian said. “But what if there are objective circumstances which prevent more aggressive action?”
“Then why is their navy not taking action? Their navy is most formidable, but it does nothing, correct, Luo?”
“Not to this point, but we are wary of them,” the marshal warned. He was a soldier, not a sailor, even though the PLAN did come under his command. “We have patrol aircraft looking for them, but so far we have not spotted anything. We know they are not in harbor, but that is all.”
“They do nothing with their navy. They do nothing with their land forces. They sting us slightly with their air forces, but what is that? The buzzing of insects.” Zhang dismissed the issue.
“How many have underestimated America, and this Ryan fellow, and done so to their misfortune?” Qian demanded. “Comrades, I tell you, this is a dangerous situation we are in. Perhaps we can succeed, all well and good if that comes to pass, but overconfidence can be any man’s undoing.”
“And overestimating one’s enemy ensures that you will never do anything,” Zhang Han San countered. “Did we get to where we are, did our country get to where we are, by timidity? The Long March was not made by cowards.” He looked around the table, and no one summoned the character to argue with him.
“So, things go well in Russia?” Xu asked the Defense Minister.
“Better than the plan,” Luo assured them all.
“Then we proceed,” the Premier decided for them all, once others had made the real decisions. The meeting soon adjourned, and the ministers went their separate ways.
“Fang?”
The junior Minister-Without-Portfolio turned to see Qian Kun coming after him in the corridor. “Yes, my friend?”
“The reason the Americans have not taken firmer action is that they act at the end of a single railroad to move them and their supplies. This takes time. They have not dropped bombs on us, probably, because they don’t have any. And where does Zhang get this rubbish about American ideology?”
“He is wise in the ways of international affairs,” Fang replied.
“Is he? Is he really? Is he not the one who tricked the Japanese into commencing a war with America? And why—so that we and they could seize Siberia. And then did he not quietly support Iran and their attempt to seize the Saudi kingdom? And why? So that we could then use the Muslims as a hammer to beat Russia into submission—so that we could seize Siberia. Fang, all he thinks about is Siberia. He wishes to see it under our flag before he dies. Perhaps he wishes to have his ashes buried in a golden urn, like the emperors,” Qian hissed. “He’s an adventurer, and those men come to bad ends.”
“Except those who succeed,” Fang suggested.
“How many of them succeed, and how many die before a stone wall?” Qian shot back. “I say the Americans will strike us, and strike us hard once their forces are assembled. Zhang follows his own political vision, not facts, not reality. He may lead our country to its doom.”
“Are the Americans so formidable as that?”
“If they are not, Fang, why does Tan spend so much of his time trying to steal their inventions? Don’t you remember what America did to Japan and Iran? They are like the wizards of legend. Luo tells us that they’ve savaged our air force. How often has he told us how formidable our fighters are? All the money we spent on those wonderful aircraft, and the Americans slaughter them like hogs fattened for market! Luo claims we’ve gotten twenty-five of theirs. He claims only twenty-five. More likely we’ve gotten one or two! Against over a hundred losses, but Zhang tells us the Americans don’t want to challenge us. Oh, really? What held them back from smashing Japan’s military, and then annihilating Iran’s?” Qian paused for breath. “I fear this, Fang. I fear what Zhang and Luo have gotten us into.”
“Even if you are right, what can we do to stop it?” the minister asked.
“Nothing,” Qian admitted. “But someone must speak the truth. Someone must warn of the danger that lies before us, if we are to have a country left at the end of this misbegotten adventurism.”
“Perhaps so. Qian, you are as ever a voice of reason and prudence. We will speak more,” Fang promised, wondering how much of the man’s words was alarmism, and how much was good sense. He’d been a brilliant administrator of the state railroads, and therefore was a man with a firm grasp on reality.
Fang had known Zhang for most of his adult life. He was a highly skilled player on the political stage, and a brilliantly gifted manipulator of people. But Qian was asking if those talents translated into a correct perception of reality, and did he really understand America and Americans—and most of all, this Ryan fellow? Or was he just forcing oddly shaped pegs into the slots he’d engraved in his own mind? Fang admitted that he didn’t know, and more to the point, didn’t know the answers to the implicit questions. He did not know himself whether Zhang was right or not. And he really should. But who might? Tan of the Ministry of State Security? Shen of the Foreign Ministry? Who else? Certainly not Premier Xu. All he did was to confirm the consensus achieved by others, or to repeat the words spoken into his ear by Zhang.
Fang walked to his office thinking about all these things, trying to organize his thoughts. Fortunately, he had a system for achieving that.
It started in Memphis, the headquarters of Federal Express. Faxes and telexes arrived simultaneously, telling the company that its wide-body cargo jets were being taken into federal service under the terms of a Phase I call-up of the Civilian Reserve Air Fleet. That meant that all freight-capable aircraft that the federal government had helped to finance (that was nearly all of them, because no commercial bank could compete with Washington when it came to financing things) were now being taken, along with their crews, under the control of the Air Mobility Command. The notice wasn’t welcome, but neither was it much of a surprise. Ten minutes later came follow-up messages telling the aircraft where to go, and soon thereafter they started rolling. The flight crews, the majority of them military-trained, wondered where their ultimate destinations were, sure that they’d be surprising ones. The pilots would not be disappointed in this.
FedEx would have to make do with its older narrow-body aircraft, like the venerable Boeing 727s with which the company had gotten started two decades earlier. That, the dispatchers knew, would be a stretch, but they had assistance agreements with the airlines, which they would now activate in order to try to keep up with the continuing shipment of legal documents and live lobsters all over America.
Just how inefficient is it?” Ryan asked.
“Well, we can deliver one day’s worth of bombs in three days’ worth of flying—ma
ybe two if we stretch things a little, but that’s as good as it’s going to get,” Moore told him. “Bombs are heavy things, and getting them around uses up a lot of jet fuel. General Wallace has a nice list of targets to service, but to do that he needs bombs.”
“Where are the bombs going to come from?”
“Andersen Air Force Base on Guam has a nice pile,” Moore said. “Ditto Elmendorf in Alaska, and Mountain Home in Idaho. Various other places. It’s not so much a question of time and distance as of weight. Hell, the Russian base he’s using at Suntar is plenty big for his purposes. We just have to get the bombs to him, and I’ve just shunted a lot of Air Force lifters to Germany to start loading First Armored’s aviation assets to where Diggs is. That’s going to take four days of nonstop flying.”
“What about crew rest?” Jackson asked.
“What?” Ryan looked up.
“It’s a Navy thing, Jack. The Air Force has union rules on how much they can fly. Never had those rules out on the boats,” Robby explained. “The C-5 has a bunk area for people to sleep. I was just being facetious.” He didn’t apologize. It was late—actually “early” was the correct adjective—and nobody in the White House was getting much sleep.
For his part, Ryan wanted a cigarette to help him deal with the stress, but Ellen Sumter was home and in bed, and no one on night duty in the White House smoked, to the best of his knowledge. But that was the wimp part of his character speaking, and he knew it. The President rubbed his face with his hands and looked over at the clock. He had to get some sleep.
It’s late, honey-bunny,” Mary Pat said to her husband.
“I never would have guessed. Is that why my eyes keep wanting to close?”
There was, really, no reason for them to be here. CIA had little in the way of assets in the PRC. SORGE was the only one of value. The rest of the intelligence community, DIA and NSA, each of them larger than the Central Intelligence Agency in terms of manpower, didn’t have any directly valuable human sources either, though NSA was doing its utmost to tap in on Chinese communications. They were even listening in on cell phones through their constellation of geosynchronous ferret satellites, downloading all of the “take” through the Echelon system and then forwarding the “hits” to human linguists for full translation and evaluation. They were getting some material, but not all that much. SORGE was the gemstone of the collection, and both Edward and Mary Patricia Foley were really staying up late to await the newest installment in Minister Fang’s personal diary. The Chinese Politburo was meeting every day, and Fang was a dedicated diarist, not to mention a man who enjoyed the physical attractions of his female staff. They were even reading significance into the less regular writings of WARBLER, who mainly committed to her computer his sexual skills, occasionally enough to make Mary Pat blush. Being an intelligence officer was often little different from being a paid voyeur, and the staff psychiatrist translated all of the prurient stuff into what was probably a very accurate personality profile, but to them it just meant that Fang was a dirty old man who happened to exercise a lot of political power.
“It’s going to be another three hours at best,” the DCI said.
“Yeah,” his wife agreed.
“Tell you what ...” Ed Foley rose off the couch, tossed away the cushions, and reached in to pull out the foldaway bed. It was marginally big enough for two.
“When the staff sees this, they’ll wonder if we got laid tonight.”
“Baby, I have a headache,” the DCI reported.
CHAPTER 54
Probes and Pushes
Much of life in the military is mere adherence to Parkinson’s Law, the supposition that work invariably expands to fill the time allocated for it. In this case, Colonel Dick Boyle arrived on the very first C-5B Galaxy, which, immediately upon rolling to a stop, lifted its nose “visor” door to disgorge the first of three UH-60A Blackhawk helicopters, whose crewmen just as immediately rolled it to a vacant piece of ramp to unfold the rotor blades, assure they were locked in place, and ready the aircraft for flight after the usual safety checks. By that time, the C-5B had refueled and rolled off into the sky to make room for the next Galaxy, this one delivering AH-64 Apache attack helicopters—in this case complete with weapons and other accoutrements for flying real missions against a real armed enemy.
Colonel Boyle busied himself with watching everything, even though he knew that his troops were doing their jobs as well as they could be done, and would do those jobs whether he watched and fussed over them or not. Perversely, what Boyle wanted to do was to fly to where Diggs and his staff were located, but he resisted the temptation because he felt he should be supervising people whom he’d trained to do their jobs entirely without supervision. That lasted three hours until he finally saw the logic of the situation and decided to be a commander rather than a shop supervisor, and lifted off for Chabarsovil. The flying was easy enough, and he preferred the medium-low clouds, because there had to be fighters about, and not all of them would be friendly. The GPS navigation system guided him to the right location, and the right location, it turned out, was a concrete helipad with soldiers standing around it. They were wearing the “wrong” uniform, a state of mind that Boyle knew he’d have to work on. One of them escorted Boyle into a building that looked like the Russian idea of a headquarters, and sure enough, it was.
“Dick, come on over,” General Diggs called. The helicopter commander saluted as he approached.
“Welcome to Siberia, Dick,” Marion Diggs said in greeting.
“Thank you, sir. What’s the situation?”
“Interesting,” the general replied. “This is General Bondarenko. He’s the theater commander.” Boyle saluted again. “Gennady, this is Colonel Boyle, who commands my aviation brigade. He’s pretty good.”
“What’s the air situation, sir?” Boyle asked Diggs.
“The Air Force is doing a good job on their fighters so far.”
“What about Chinese helicopters?”
“They do not have many,” another Russian officer said. “I am Colonel Aliyev, Andrey Petrovich, theater operations. The Chinese do not have many helicopters. We’ve only seen a few, mainly scouts.”
“No troop carriers? No staff transport?”
“No,” Aliyev answered. “Their senior officers prefer to move around in tracked vehicles. They are not married to helicopters as you Americans are.”
“What do you want me to do, sir?” Boyle asked Diggs.
“Take Tony Turner to Chita. That’s the railhead we’re going to be using. We need to get set up there.”
“Drive the tracks in from there, eh?” Boyle looked at the map.
“That’s the plan. There are closer points, but Chita has the best facilities to off-load our vehicles, so our friends tell us.”
“What about gas?”
“The place you landed is supposed to have sizable underground fuel tanks.”
“More than you will need,” Aliyev confirmed. Boyle thought that was quite a promise.
“And ordnance?” Boyle asked. “We’ve got maybe two days’ worth on the C-5s so far. Six complete loads for my Apaches, figuring three missions per day.”
“Which version of the Apache?” Aliyev asked.
“Delta, Colonel. We’ve got the Longbow radar.”
“Everything works?” the Russian asked.
“Colonel, not much sense bringing them if they don’t,” Boyle replied, with a raised eyebrow. “What about secure quarters for my people?”
“At the base where you landed, there will be secure sleeping quarters for your aviators—bombproof shelters. Your maintenance people will be housed in barracks.”
Boyle nodded. It was the same everywhere. The weenies who built things acted as if pilots were more valuable than the people who maintained the aircraft. And so they were, until the aircraft needed repairs, at which point the pilot was as useful as a cavalryman without a horse.
“Okay, General. I’ll take Tony to this Chita place and
then I’m going back to see to my people’s needs. I could sure use one of Chuck Garvey’s radios.”
“He’s outside. Grab one on your way.”
“Okay, sir. Tony, let’s get moving,” he said to the chief of staff.
“Sir, as soon as we get some infantry in, I want to put security on those fueling points,” Masterman said. “Those places need protecting.”
“I can give you what you need,” Aliyev offered.
“Fine by me,” Masterman responded. “How many of those secure radios did Garvey bring?”
“Eight, I think. Two are gone already,” General Diggs warned. “Well, there’ll be more on the train. Go tell Boyle to send two choppers here for our needs.”
“Right.” Masterman ran for the door.
The ministers all had offices and, as in every other such office in the world, the cleanup crews came in, in this case about ten every night. They picked up all sorts of trash, from candy wrappers to empty cigarette packs to papers, and the latter went into special burn-bags. The janitorial staff was not particularly smart, but they had had to pass background checks and go through security briefings that were heavy on intimidation. They were not allowed to discuss their jobs with anyone, not even a spouse, and not ever to reveal what they saw in the wastebaskets. In fact, they never thought much about it—they were less interested in the thoughts or ideas of the Politburo members than they were in the weather forecasts. They’d rarely even seen the ministers whose offices they cleaned, and none of the crew had ever so much as spoken a single word to any of them; they just tried to be invisible on those rare occasions when they saw one of the godlike men who ruled their nation. Maybe a submissive bow, which was not even acknowledged by so much as a look, because they were mere furniture, menials who did peasants’ work because, as peasants, that was all they were suited for. The peasants knew what computers were, but such machines were not for the use of such men as they were, and the janitorial staff knew it.