“Yes, sir.”
“Put through a call to the secretary general.”
A moment's silence. “Yes, sir.” Then, in little more than a whisper: “Thank you, sir.”
PART FOUR
CROSSING THE LINE
NINETEEN
19 September 2029: Chambersburg, Pennsylvania
The first church bell rang at twenty minutes to seven. Pete Bridgeport, who was closing the door of his motel room, gave the air a quizzical look. Another joined it, and another; within moments, every bell in town was ringing.
He grabbed the railing of the motel balcony to steady himself. That could mean one of two things…
A car came down the street, horn blaring. The driver was shouting something out the window, and though Bridgeport couldn't make out the words he didn't think it involved Chinese and Russian missiles on the way. He made himself go to the stairs and went down.
There was a crowd gathered around the front desk, staring at a television news program. “…been confirmed by the White House,” the anchorman was saying. “We're still waiting to hear from our news staff overseas, but certainly this is the most promising thing we've heard since the beginning of this crisis. Once again, the United Nations has announced and the White House confirms that a ceasefire has been declared. The US, Russian and Chinese nuclear forces are standing down, and all sides have agreed to negotiate a peace treaty. That's what we know so far. Sandy, anything yet from Beijing or Moscow?”
The sense of relief hit Bridgeport like a body blow. He managed to stay upright, though it wasn't easy. After a moment he turned, headed for the stairs down to street level.
People were spilling onto the streets, whooping and laughing and crying. The church bells were still ringing over the blare of sirens and horns; the sounds broke over Bridgeport like waves. The glow of sunset, splashed carelessly across the upper stories of the old brick buildings, seemed to shine with supernatural brilliance.
We're going to live, he thought. My God, we're going to live.
It wasn't until that moment that he realized how certain he'd been that he and everyone else in the world was about to die.
20 September 2029: Shinyanga District, Tanzania
The sound of gunshots jolted Melanie Bridgeport awake. She blinked and sat up, felt rather than saw the other women in the tent stirring. Another burst of gunfire followed, and voices shouting something she couldn't make out.
This was it, she knew.
Panic surged, and she fought it down. There was nowhere to run, and no point in trying. If the bombs were already falling, a bullet would at least be quick. She drew in a deep breath, forced herself to sit there, waiting.
More voices shouted something, further off. After that came silence, deep enough that she could hear one of her tentmates whisper, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”
The shouting erupted again, closer, and Bridgeport could hear the pounding of running feet. Then, all at once, the flap of the tent jerked open.
“Ceasefire!” One of the camp guards shouted the words into the tent. Even in the near-darkness, she could see the delighted look on the man's face. He went to the next tent, and the next, shouting the same message into each one.
Bridgeport sagged as the tension went out of her. If it's true, she reminded herself. Dear God, let it be true.
A few minutes later another guard came by to announce that a radio was being hooked up to the loudspeakers in the parade ground and anyone who wanted could come listen to the news. Bridgeport, still dazed, finished lacing her boots and left her tent along with the others, let the crowd pull her all the way to the center of camp, where lights blazed down from poles onto a dusty square crowded with guards and POWs.
“…Secretary General of the United Nations,” the loudspeakers were saying in a clipped Oxford accent as she got there. “For those of you who are just joining us, the United States has agreed to a ceasefire. Nuclear forces around the world are standing down, and it looks like the crisis of the last few days may be over. We've just heard UN Secretary General Vo Nguyen Tranh announce the terms of the agreement. Here's Ellen Keyes in Beijing with the latest from the Chinese capital.”
So it was true. One of Bridgeport's tentmates, the one she'd heard saying the Hail Mary a few minutes earlier, dropped to her knees right there in the dirt and began to murmur a prayer. For a moment, Bridgeport considered joining her there.
As the reporter in Beijing started in on the news, the first rush of shock and relief ebbed away and a cold awareness took shape in her. We lost, she realized. The war's over, and we lost. She glanced around at the other POWs, and wondered how many of them were thinking the same thing she was.
20 September 2029: The August First Building, Beijing
There must be millions of them, Liu thought. From the window of his office high above downtown Beijing, he could see the people in the streets: more of them, even, than there had been when word came from mission control that Tianlung 3 had landed safely on the Moon. He'd spoken with Meiyin on a secure line from the shelter in Inner Mongolia, checked the latest news bulletins, heard beaming reporters try to make themselves heard over the cheering and the patriotic songs, watched trains full of excited children rolling back into Beijing and the other cities to rejoin their parents, taken in the footage from foreign capitals, and thought about how easily he might have blundered and killed them all.
“Sir.” His secretary's voice, out of the speakers on his computer. “He's here.”
“Of course,” Liu said, and turned as the door opened.
Chen Weiming, President of the People's Republic of China, crossed the room to greet him. “Well,” he said. “You have made quite a name for yourself, Liu.”
“Thank you. I trust your flight back from Hubei was comfortable?”
“Entirely so.” After a moment: “I am very glad you were correct.”
“As am I,” Liu admitted.
The older man chuckled. “You certainly made an impressive show of confidence these last few days. It was much discussed. And now—” A more serious look. “You are the man of the hour. As I'm sure you realize, this will require certain changes in the arrangements for the next Party Congress.”
Taken by surprise, Liu managed not to show it. “I assure you that was really the last thing on my mind.”
“Of course. But when the time comes—”
“I will be happy to serve the Motherland in whatever position the Party chooses for me.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Chen.
The president walked to the window, considered the crowds below. “They are drunk with triumph,” he said finally, “proud of their nation, their Army—proud of us. If you ordered them to march to the Moon, they would try.” He turned around. “That makes it all the more important for us to step carefully to grasp our power in the world with a very light touch. The Americans never learned that, and you see what it's cost them. We must avoid copying their mistakes.”
He shook his head, then: “But we can discuss such things later. The other members of the Commission will be here shortly. Shall we go meet them?”
20 September 2029: The Kremlin, Moscow
“A most pleasant conversation.” Gennady Kuznetsov was in fine spirits as he and General Bunin walked down the hallway. “Chen was as gracious as anyone could wish, and mentioned—just in passing, of course—that China will be happy to adjust the price they pay us for our natural gas and oil to correspond to market conditions.”
That was enough to make even Bunin blink. “That will cost them a great deal,” he said.
“They can afford it. It's not just that they own Africa now. No, Misha, they own the world. They are the superpower now—America has lost that status, and everyone knows it. And for now, at least, the Chinese have good reason to think kindly of their neighbor to the north. Those kind thoughts could be of great advantage to Russia.”
“No doubt,” Bunin said, “you have some use for those kind
thoughts.”
Kuznetsov glanced at the general, allowed a smile. “That,” he said, “we will talk about another time.”
They reached the end of the corridor, passed through the double doors into the press room. Hundreds of faces turned toward Kuznetsov as he and the general mounted the platform and approached the podium.
20 September 2029: Tabuk, Saudi Arabia
The planes had been coming in for most of an hour before the Saudi general got to the air base outside of Tabuk: big military transports, more than two dozen of them so far, spilling out their cargoes of soldiers, trucks and tanks and then heading back out over the Red Sea toward Egyptian airspace. The planes had their markings blotted out with paint, but now that the Americans were out of the picture, there was only one power in the Middle East with the capacity to carry out a military airlift on that scale, and it was also the only power prepared to face off against the Iranian forces driving west from the Persian Gulf toward Riyadh.
The gate to the air base was still guarded by Saudi military police, but there were other soldiers with them, wearing unfamiliar uniforms, who eyed the general's car suspiciously before waving him through. All along the route from the gate to the headquarters building, the general could see the newcomers hard at work, transforming a sleepy second-rate airfield into a major military base.
The general frowned. It was a devil's bargain, no question of that, but what other choice did the kingdom have left?
The headquarters building was aswarm with soldiers when the general got there. As he left his car, an officer with colonel's insignia on his shoulders came out from the main doors to greet him effusively in tolerable Arabic. A few minutes later he was brought into the command center in the heart of the building, and introduced to General Mehmet Burzagli, commander of the Turkish expeditionary force.
“General al-Sharif.” Burzagli crossed the room to meet him. “I'm glad you're here. I trust His Majesty is safe? Excellent. We are preparing to send our first units to the defense of Riyadh; perhaps you can advise us.”
The Saudi general smiled and nodded, let himself be drawn over to the computer screens where maps and satellite images showed the rugged desert terrain between Tabuk and the front lines. It would have been the height of discourtesy to show any discomfort with the situation, or to make the least reference to the unquestioned fact that Turkey would expect to gain certain benefits and privileges for coming to the kingdom's rescue, possibly on the scale of those it had enjoyed in Ottoman times. He stifled a sigh, turned his attention to the nearest map.
20 September 2029: The White House, Washington DC
The White House was uncharacteristically silent as Jameson Weed settled into his chair in the Oval Office. Though the announcement had gone out to everyone as soon as the ceasefire was confirmed, and the last barricades on the nation's highways had gone down within an hour of that time, most of the nonessential staff hadn't returned to work yet. The stillness grated on Weed's nerves; it reminded him of the hush in the Mount Weather shelter in the last hours before the ultimatum expired.
He jabbed irritably at the computer trackball, and the screen brightened. A few clicks brought up the essentials from the National Security Council staff: reports from all the strategic services, assuring him that the nation's nuclear arsenal was secure; the latest briefing from NSA, confirming that the Chinese and Russian arsenals had finished standing down; and the latest news from the war in the Persian Gulf, none of it good.
Next was a preliminary report from Homeland Security on what happened in Trenton and elsewhere, along with a quick personal note from Homeland Security Secretary Mike Weissman, letting him know that his formal resignation would be on its way later that day. Weed frowned but nodded. He liked Mike, but somebody was going to have to take the heat for Trenton, and it damn well wasn't going to be Jameson Weed.
Below that, though, was a heads up from the State Department: Claire and her team were on their way to Geneva for the peace negotiations. He read the note, closed it, and tried to find something else to think about. No matter how his administration's spin doctors worked it, Weed knew, that treaty was going to mark a bitter turning point. America had finally lost a war, and there was no question at all who was going to take the heat for that.
He opened a new window on the computer screen, clicked through to one of the national news services. The headlines were full of news about the aftermath of the crisis and the war in the Gulf. Over to one side, though, a video feature was playing; some reporter was doing a people-on-the-street interview in Cleveland. The sound was off, but he could see everything he needed to know in their faces: some looked angry, some looked relieved, but all of them looked at least a little confused and lost.
What are they going to do, Weed wondered, when they realize that the war isn't the only thing we just lost?
He considered the faces for a moment longer, then dropped his head into his hands.
TWENTY
22 September 2029: Geneva, Switzerland
The room glittered with the elegance of a bygone era: lush curtains, gold trim, Art Nouveau accents. Glancing around, Claire Hayes Hutchison thought about the other peace treaties the United States had negotiated there over the years. It was a bitter thought; despite all evasions, the reality this time was that the United States had had to sue for peace.
Formalities came first, as though all the details hadn't already been hashed out over three long days by lower-level staff. Hutchison considered her opposite numbers, the bland-faced foreign minister from China, the stocky Tanzanian minister who represented the Coalition. What their demands would be was the most important question, and the one about which she had the least knowledge. If they demanded more than the United States could afford to give…
Finally, the formal introductions were over, and each side was seated around the table. “Madam Secretary,” the Chinese minister said, “may I speak frankly? When all is said and done, your nation pursued its national interests in East Africa, and so did mine. The interests of the Coalition nations were somewhat more directly affected…”
The Tanzanian minister snorted, but said nothing.
“…but the principle remains the same. It is now, I think, in the national interests of all parties concerned to—how do you Americans say it? Draw a line under the unfortunate events of the recent past, and go on.”
“A great deal depends on what you mean by that,” said Hutchison.
“Under other circumstances,” said the Tanzanian minister, “as a victim of aggression, my nation at least might reasonably be entitled to receive reparations. We have considered the matter, however, and decided to forego that.” With a wry smile: “The recent changes in the price of our crude oil will more than make up the difference, as you doubtless know.”
“Similarly,” said the Chinese minister, “it strikes us as a waste of time to bicker over whose nation must accept the blame for the events of the last few months.”
That took care of two of the crucial items on Hutchison's list; if the United States could emerge from this with its pride intact and its battered economy free of added burdens, there was still a good chance that something could be salvaged. “Fair enough,” she said. “What I want to know, if I may be equally frank, is where's the catch.”
The Chinese and Tanzanian ministers glanced at each other. “The catch,” said the Chinese envoy, “if you wish to put it that way, is simply that the United States will agree to accept the status quo at present in East Africa and the Indian Ocean.”
That was no surprise, though the latter half of the demand stung. Without Diego Garcia, and with the Gulf war about to make the American presence there untenable, the possibility that the United States might be shut out of the Indian Ocean could not be ignored. “Diego Garcia is the property of Great Britain,” she pointed out, “and we have no right to change that status.”
“Understood. Your country can, however, relinquish its treaty rights there in favor of the People's Republic of
China, and we will come to our own accommodation with the British.”
The negotiations would already have begun, Hutchison guessed. “I will of course have to consult with my government on that issue.”
“Of course,” said the Chinese minister, with a whisper of a smile, just enough to make it clear that he knew how pointless the consultation would be. The United States had no effective means to contest the demand, and everyone there at the peace conference knew it.
24 September 2029: Russell Senate Office Building, Washington DC
“I'm not going to speculate about what the hearings will or won't discover,” said Senator Bridgeport. “The American people deserve to know what happened in East Africa, and the Armed Services Committee's going to do its level best to get that information for them.” He raised his hand as a dozen reporters jumped to their feet. “No questions, please. My office will keep you informed about all the details as we get things set up. Thank you.”
He left the podium, ducked through the door before anyone could try to collar him for an off-the-record quote. He could hear voices from the press room as he hurried down the corridor, and then the door clicked shut, plunging him into the near-silence of the old building. The hush was a comfort to frayed nerves, and he had too many of those just then.
Still, the crucial step was taken. There would be Senate hearings on the East African War, with every bit of publicity he could get for it, and a barrage of subpoenas to extract the truth no matter how many obstacles Weed tried to throw in the way. No doubt somebody from the White House or the Pentagon would be calling him within minutes, trying to talk him into soft-pedaling the hearings, making threats or promises: business as usual in DC.
Bridgeport's face tightened. This wasn't business as usual any more. And if Mel—
He forced the thought away as he got to the door of his office.
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