by Clancy, Tom
“We haven’t defined anyone as a bear yet,” McCaskey pointed out. “All I’m saying is, let’s see how it plays out over the next few days.”
“I agree,” Hood said. The men had reached the elevator. Hood swiped his temporary card to open the doors. He entered.
“Paul? You know I’ll do what I can to get those marines if you need them,” Herbert said.
“I know you will,” Hood replied. “That’s why I want you to watch your ass.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think the general knows it, too,” Hood said as the doors slid shut.
TWENTY-ONE
Beijing, China Tuesday, 8:11 A.M.
When he was a boy, Tam Li was self-conscious about the ruddy mole on his left temple. His mother told him it meant he was special, that he had been kissed by the sun. She said this little gift from the sky would watch over him, help him to find his way. She added that she was counting on her “little flame” to lead the way for all of them. His mother meant the family, of course. Tam Li took it to mean something bigger than that. After all, where the sun moved the earth followed.
General Tam Li was gratified when he left the prime minister’s office. Le Kwan Po was not a hard-liner. He was a pragmatist. He was effective at keeping a balance between the old guard and the new without disturbing or affecting either.
That was why the struggle between himself and Chou would continue a little longer. Just long enough to give the general what he really wanted. It had nothing to do with the small profit he made from the slave trade. That was a laboratory. That was how he learned who he could trust and who he could not. The real profit was in doing what men like Tam Li did best: fighting.
The general went from the prime minister’s office to his car, which was parked in the underground garage. He was on the topmost of three levels. During the day, Tam Li had an aide drive him to meetings or airfields. There had not been time to arrange for that now.
The garage was empty at this hour, and the general could see out into the street and watched as a farmer stopped his truck on a street corner and delivered produce to restaurants. His son, who could not have been more than seven or eight, was there to help him. When they were done, they would drive home, and the boy would go to school while the father went into the fields.
Tam Li came from a world like that. His family grew corn on a small farm thirty-five miles from Beijing. They made long drives every day during the seven-month growing season. Their clients were military installations, which was where the young Tam Li became fascinated by the crisp uniforms, the smart salutes, and the imposing weapons. He also learned how officers demanded kickback for allowing vendors onto government property. It was an accepted way of doing business.
Tam Li drove to the small apartment he kept in the city. The apartment was at the top of a four-story structure built in the early 1960s, part of the vast modernization program instituted by Mao. Former military personnel got first pick of the new apartments, an incentive for young men to join. It was a comfortable and spacious residence that he shared with his elderly mother. She had sold the farm three years ago when his father died, and she spent most of her day chatting with women in the courtyard or sitting on the rooftop embroidering. She was a very heavy sleeper, which made it easy for Tam Li to return at any hour.
Attached to the Beijing Military Base Joint Command, and serving a second four-year term as a vice chairman of the powerful Central Military Committee, the general spent half his time in the city and half his time in the field. He got back as the sun was coming up. Tam Li was more alert now than when he had been awakened by the prime minister’s call. He did not want to go back to sleep, even though he had to be well rested for what was to come.
He went into his small office and turned on the radio. He removed his army jacket and hung it carefully in a small freestanding bureau. The office was a windowless alcove off his bedroom. The walls were painted white, and there were no pictures. The desk was bare save for the radio, telephone, and the computer. Tam Li was not a hoarder. He was not sentimental. His vision was external, about the future. He lit a cigarette, sat back in the desk chair, and contemplated the future as he listened to Beijing People’s News, a round-the-clock station of international events. They were still talking about the attack on the police in Taiwan.
Tam Li could not prove that Chou Shin was behind the assaults. Not that proof was required. The men had been adversaries for over twenty years, ever since they met at the Tianjin military base. Over two hundred cadets had come down with a severe case of food poisoning. Tam Li was the officer in charge of the mess, and Chou Shin was an investigator with the PLA internal police detachment. Chou discovered that Tam Li had bought tainted pork in exchange for a sizable payoff from the farmer who had produced it. The inspector was never able to prove that Tam Li knew the meat was bad. In fact, he did not. But another kind of poison had been generated between the two men, a toxic suspicion that was fueled by their very different political beliefs. As the men rose through their respective services, their mistrust and finally hatred also grew. Chou watched Tam Li, and Tam Li did everything he could to put false leads under the intelligence officer’s nose.
This time, however, Chou Shin had tried a different approach. Instead of trying to attach evidence of wrongdoing on Tam Li, he destroyed the offending target altogether. He had struck back with his own reserve plan, the blast in Durban. Chou Shin had retaliated in Taipei. He was trying to show the general that he would not only match his actions but surpass them. Unfortunately, while the Guoanbu director had demonstrated determination, he had not shown sufficient insight.
What Tam Li had told the prime minister was true. Soldiers were not paid enough for the work they did. But for Tam Li, the transportation of indentured women was only a profitable hobby. The real work was being done in a way that Chou and the prime minister would not see.
Until it was too late. While Chou Shin chased prostitutes, slave traders, the general had the real prize tucked somewhere else. Somewhere Chou Shin and Le Kwan Po would never think to look.
The general listened to the weather. It was not true that he only looked ahead. Sometimes he experienced flashes from the past, like now. His father used to stop by the house of old Chan Juan on their way back to the farm. She had a tube filled with mercury, which told them whether the next day would be cloudy or clear. They paid her an ear of corn for her report. It was not just the primitive barometer she used to make her predictions. She also observed the birds and insects and kept careful records from year to year. She was rarely wrong.
Today meteorologists used computers and satellites to generate forecasts. Their predictions were no better than those of Chan Juan. New ways were not always superior; they were simply more complex. In the old days, the general would have challenged a rival like Chou Shin to combat with sword, spear, or staff. Their conflict would be resolved in just a few minutes.
He shook his head as he lit a new cigarette with the old.
Such a tiny red ember, the general thought as he passed the fire from one tip to the other. Yet unchecked, this spark had the power to level a city and, in so doing, bring down a nation. In effect, the only difference between a little flame and a big flame was the amount of time it had to do its work unchecked.
Finishing the cigarette, Tam Li shut the radio off, and then he shut his eyes. A drowsy sense of contentment had come over him, and sleep followed quickly. When he woke, he could hear his mother moving about in the kitchen. He looked at his watch. Two hours had passed.
His legs complained a little when he stood. He ignored them the way his father had ignored his daily aches and stiffness. The general put on his jacket and went to greet his mother. It was late, but not too late to have breakfast with her. After that, he would shower and drive to his office. He had work to do before he had his weekly meeting with the other members of the Central Military Committee.
So they could finalize their plans to do what had to be done while Ch
ou and his old-school dinosaurs prepared to become extinct.
TWENTY-TWO
Arlington, Virginia Tuesday, 8:12 A.M.
It was the first time in a long time that Bob Herbert had not felt like getting out of bed. That was odd, considering that he was going to see his longtime friend and coworker Mike Rodgers.
Herbert had always enjoyed the general’s company, whether it was at work or over a butcher-block tray covered in sushi. He had enjoyed it more than he enjoyed being with Hood or McCaskey or any of his other colleagues. The general was openly bitter about aspects of his life, and Herbert related to that.
Now, though, it was Herbert who felt unhappy and abused by life. That was why he had called Rodgers at home the night before and asked to meet. To talk, to see if Paul Hood was seriously off target about the military or if Herbert was being uncharacteristically naive.
The men were meeting for breakfast at a diner that used to be a Hot Shoppe forty-plus years ago. They had freshsqueezed grapefruit juice and ample handicapped parking for Herbert’s large, custom-built van. The intelligence chief required two spaces for the “pig,” as he called it. The vehicle was also large enough to let him pull off the road and take a nap. He often did that when he felt like scooting home to Mississippi and did not want to be bothered looking for a wheelchair-accessible motel on the way. The van also accommodated the computers and secure uplink equipment he required when he was out of the office.
Rodgers was already there, sitting in a corner booth and reading the newspaper. The former general was one of the few people he knew who not only read several dailies but read the print versions. A pot of coffee sat beside him. If Rodgers had been there more than five minutes, it was already empty.
Herbert wheeled himself along the sun-bleached linoleum toward the booth. It was odd seeing waitresses and truckers, interns and realtors going about their business. He himself felt as though he were in a science fiction movie, one of those films from the 1950s where just one man suspected that aliens might be plotting a takeover. Back then, the science fiction aliens were a metaphor for Communists. Now, the imaginary aliens were a metaphor for the U.S. military.
Rodgers folded away his Washington Post when Herbert arrived. The intelligence chief sat at the end of the table in the aisle. They had taken the back table so he would not be in anyone’s way.
“I appreciate this, Mike,” Herbert said.
“Sure.”
“Do I look as crappy as I feel?”
“Pretty much,” Rodgers replied. “What’s wrong? The new boss or the old one?”
“Both.” Herbert laughed.
“Crunched in the middle of a sudden transition?”
“That’s not it,” Herbert said. “The work is the work. I’m more concerned about what’s behind the transition.”
The waitress came, and the men ordered. Rodgers got a fruit plate and whole wheat toast, no butter. Herbert went for the pancakes deluxe with sausage and grapefruit juice. When the waitress left, the intelligence chief hunched forward. Even though the adjoining table was empty, secrecy was a habit many people formed in and around D.C. Everyone, even Herbert, had an ear out for what other people were saying. Not just spies and reporters but everyday people. There was always someone who knew someone who would want to know such-and-such.
“Paul thinks there may be a power shift taking place,” Herbert said. “He’s concerned that the sudden appointment of General Carrie to Op-Center may be a harbinger of a military takeover of national intelligence.”
“That’s a pretty big leap.”
“That’s what I thought,” Herbert said.
“Anyway, he’s the guy close to the president, and the president is the one who made the appointment.”
“Under pressure from the Joint Chiefs, apparently,” Herbert said.
Rodgers shrugged. “Compromises happen. That doesn’t necessarily mean a seismic shift.”
“No, but as I was thinking about it last night, there was one thing that bothered me.” Herbert leaned even closer. “Debenport was the head of the CIOC. He was getting ready to run for president at the time. If he thought this was something he wanted to do, why did he put your name on top of the downsize list?”
Rodgers frowned. It was obviously still a painful memory.
“Sorry,” Herbert said. “If you don’t want to talk about this—”
“I don’t, Bob. But let’s follow it through,” Rodgers said. “Maybe Senator Debenport wanted to clear the path for a woman. General Carrie may have been on his radar as the most qualified individual. If he had just kicked me out and put her in, that might have been perceived as reverse discrimination. A lot of members of Congress and the military would not have approved, and Carrie would not have enjoyed the legitimacy that position demands.”
“Possible, although you credit Debenport with more forethought than I do,” Herbert said. He glanced around casually, then spoke in a voice barely more than a whisper. “She’s also got Striker back.”
“What?” That surprised him.
“She’s sending four Asian-American marines to Beijing, undercover, through the embassy.”
“For covert or intel activity?” Rodgers asked, also whispering.
“The latter,” Herbert said.
“We had people who could have done that,” Rodgers said.
“Exactly. Two well-trained Asian-Americans from your field staff,” Herbert said. “They weren’t even contacted.”
“You offered their names?”
“As part of my initial sit-down with Carrie,” Herbert said. “It was a short meeting because we had the Chinese situation to check on. But I gave her all the names, from David Battat to Falah Shibli. Our South Korean and Taiwanese associates were in there as well.”
“Has Carrie worked with these marines before?”
“Until yesterday morning she was crunching data at G2,” Herbert said.
“I see.”
Their food arrived. Herbert was silent until the waitress was through. When she left, the intelligence chief took a swallow of juice. The wonderful tartness made him wince. He took a second slug. It was odd that he craved in food what he had no patience for in people.
“Maybe this is just a realignment,” Herbert went on. “Maybe there are too many civilians in the intel business. The Joint Chiefs complain, the president capitulates. But if it was just about equilibrium, why would he create a new post for Paul, one that keeps him very close, unless it was to keep an eye on the brass intel expansion?”
“You mean the president would have just put him out to graze, as he did with me,” Rodgers said.
“Or to stud, depending on how you want to use your time,” Herbert said.
Rodgers held up his wheat toast in answer. “At my age, the penne is mightier than the sword.”
“That’s all in your head.” Herbert grinned. The smile faded quickly. “What about this stuff? Is it all in my head?”
“I don’t know,” Rodgers said as he chewed his dry toast.
“What does your gut tell you?” Herbert pressed. He could tell Rodgers was thinking about it. Thinking hard. He recognized that familiar, unfocused look in the man’s steel gray eyes. It was as though Rodgers were gazing through you, past you, at a hill his unit had to take or a town they had to infiltrate.
“My instincts say there’s something to Paul’s concerns,” Rodgers said. “It’s like Patton after the war in Europe was over. He wanted to start a new conflict with the Soviet Union because the troops were already there, and he reasoned we would be facing them eventually. Most of all, though, he wanted the war because conquering territory is what generals do.”
“So what do we do?” Herbert asked. “Paul and me,” he added. This was not Mike Rodgers’s problem, and he recognized that.
“There is one way we might find out more,” Rodgers said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s been suggested that I go over for the launch,” Rodgers said. “I think I will.”
>
“Why were you undecided?” Herbert asked. “It’s your satellite.”
“That’s why,” Rodgers said. “As you know, there are elements of the Chinese government who do not want to be reminded of that.”
“Paul’s going over. He’s probably already en route.”
“Right. If I go, I might be able to help keep an eye on the marines. Especially if they go to the Xichang space center.”
“Apart from ticking off some of the Chinese, is there a downside for you?” Herbert asked.
“Only if the rocket blows up,” he said as he took a bite of melon.
Rodgers called his office and asked his secretary to get him on any flight bound for Beijing that afternoon. Then the men sat and talked about Unexus and its plans for the future, which included a satellite that would image the earth in three-dimensional pictures, allowing for unprecedented recon. Herbert promised to keep that one a secret.
What was no secret was how much happier Rodgers was now than even a month ago. Joy would never be a chronic condition for either man, but Rodgers seemed more alive and content than ever. Perhaps he had been steeped too long in the underground world of Op-Center, both physically and emotionally.
As they finished and the men headed back to their cars, Herbert knew one thing for certain. Despite his own great loss a quarter century before, his own journey into that heart of darkness was not nearly as close to a resolution.
If anything, it was just getting under way.
TWENTY-THREE
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:48 A.M.
Before today, Morgan Carrie had only been to Andrews Air Force Base once. That was two years ago, when she was part of a receiving line for a foreign ruler who was making her first trip to the White House. Carrie had been the token two-star at the time. It was not the kind of invitation an officer turned down; it was an order. But it felt dirty to be on display.
Things had changed since then. Carrie was in charge, and others were coming to see her.