War of Eagles o-12

by Tom Clancy

“ ‘We’ as in the president? Are you speaking for him?”

  “I know that is what he would want,” she replied.

  “I’ll think about it,” Hood replied with a smile only slightly less insincere than her own.

  What she had said to him was close to the truth. If he did not use a driver, someone in the press or the General Accounting Office might notice. They might wonder why anyone but the president and vice president needed a chauffeur. Perks might have to be sacrificed to keep the peace. Hood had always used that drive time to think. When he was mayor of L.A., he took public transportation to encourage its use. And Hood did not like the fact that Sanders was speaking for the president without even having discussed this with him.

  Sanders’s smile evaporated as she gave Hood a CD containing intelligence matters that concerned the president. Hood promised to review them.

  “I would also like to talk to him about a matter involving the PRC,” Hood told Sanders.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  “Prime Minister Le Kwan Po has requested information about an upcoming satellite launch at the Xichang space center. The satellite was built by Unexus, the firm run by my former deputy Mike Rodgers. He’s concerned that there may be an attempt to sabotage the booster.”

  “Unexus is a firm with a minor American component, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know the exact proportion—”

  “Why should this administration be concerned about what is basically foreign-built hardware for a potentially hostile government?”

  “The trajectory will carry the rocket over the Pacific,” Hood said. “If it blows up after launch, radiation from the plutonium power source is going to hit the atmosphere like Mardi Gras confetti. Some of that could come down in Hawaii or along the West Coast.”

  “I see,” Sanders said. “And do you really think the prime minister will tell us what he knows?”

  “The Chinese obviously have some kind of spitting contest going on,” Hood said. “He may be ready for a hand.”

  Sanders nodded and looked at her watch. “The president will be finishing his meeting with the Joint Chiefs in about five minutes. I’ll pass this along.”

  “Fine. But before you go, tell me why I had to stand here and justify my request,” Hood said. “It was my understanding that ‘I’d like a minute with the president’ was all I needed to tell you.”

  She smiled more sincerely now. “You think too much,” she said. “I’ll let you know what the president says.”

  The phone beeped as Sanders was leaving the office. The room was small enough so that Hood could grab the call and tap the door shut with his foot at the same time. He was aware of a sharpness in the little kick, a little Stuff it gesture to the retreating chief of staff.

  “Paul Hood,” he said. He began rolling up his shirtsleeves like he used to do when he got to work at Op-Center or on a construction site in Los Angeles. Only now there was nothing to do.

  “Paul, it’s Bob. The Taiwanese screwed up.”

  “How?”

  “The bombers got away,” Herbert said. “They killed two cops and blew up the cell phone when they did. We aren’t going to be hearing from them again.”

  “Aren’t the police still looking?”

  “No one saw them,” Herbert said. “No one who survived. And the descriptions from the hotel workers are not giving them enough to go on.”

  “What are the implications?” Hood asked, adding, “I don’t just mean for Mike’s launch.”

  “That’s tough to say, Chief,” Herbert said. Was the use of the title a lapse or a sign of respect? Hood did not know, but it was nice to hear. “It’s not likely that these were the same people working in Charleston or Durban. They’d be two very tired men, and you don’t want tired men handling explosives. If there’s a network of bombers, and they were already positioned only in soft targets — for whatever reason — I would say the rocket launch is safe. But these three blasts could be the warm-ups for one or more big attacks. Perhaps the prime minister has insight we lack. We need to find out.”

  “I agree,” Hood said.

  “Did you make progress on your end?”

  “I’m about to,” Hood replied. He was still standing beside his desk. He glanced at the closed door as if it were an enemy.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I’ll call you when I get back from Olympus,” Hood promised.

  The new special envoy to the president hung up the phone and left his office. He did not bother rolling his shirtsleeves back down. He had something to do, and it was in the Oval Office.

  The Joint Chiefs were making their way down the corridor like a green glacier. They were talking quietly among themselves, ignoring the nonmilitary staff that moved past them. If the president were Zeus, then these were the Titans, anchored by Army General Raleigh Carew. The Minnesotan stood six foot five and carried himself even taller. Hood sidled by. At the end of the hallway he entered the office of the president’s executive secretary, Julie Kubert. They had not been introduced earlier, but she knew who he was and greeted him by name. The door to the Oval Office was open to her left. Debenport was on the phone.

  “I’d like to see the president,” Hood said.

  The white-haired woman looked at her computer. “How is tomorrow morning at ten fifteen—”

  “Today,” Hood said. “Now would be good.”

  The former executive secretary to the publisher of the Chicago Tribune—which supported Debenport — looked over. “The president of Laos is waiting in the Red Room, Mr. Hood.”

  “Appropriate,” Hood remarked. He cocked his head toward the Oval Office. “Is he speaking with Ms. Sanders?”

  “Mr. Hood—”

  “Has she been to see him?”

  “Mr. Hood, they are scheduled to review the day at sixfifteen, as always. Now, do you want an appointment for tomorrow or not?”

  “Ms. Kubert, there’s something going on that I must discuss with the president, and soon.”

  “If it will shut you up, Paul, come in,” Debenport said.

  “Thank you,” Hood said to Kubert. Then he turned and entered the Oval Office. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but I need to speak with Prime Minister Le Kwan Po.”

  “The Chinese fence-sitter,” the president said. “Why?”

  “He may be sitting on intel we need,” Hood replied.

  Lorraine Sanders rushed in. She obviously had been alerted by Ms. Kubert. The chief of staff said nothing as she took up a position beside the president’s desk. Arms folded, she glared at Hood.

  Hood ignored her. When the president was still Senator Debenport, and head of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee, he would often pit factions one against the other, then step aside as they slugged it out. The survivor was someone he wanted on his side. Hood did not know if that was the case here. It would not be a bad tactic to put sinew into a new administration. If this were a gladiatorial showdown, Hood did not intend for it to end with Sanders’s foot on his neck. Either he would win or leave the arena.

  Hood told the president what he had already explained to Sanders, adding the new information from Bob Herbert. He made the presentation as concise as possible. The president listened, then rose and walked from behind the desk. He came around the side opposite from where Sanders was standing.

  “Ms. Sanders, have Ambassador Hasen look into a meeting,” the president said. “Paul, get yourself over to our embassy in Beijing.”

  “Sir?”

  The president stopped beside Hood. “If there’s infighting in Beijing, we need to know. It might help to have General Rodgers with you. He can go to observe the launch, I presume.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “As for Op-Center, I want you to talk to General Carrie before you leave. The Joint Chiefs were just in here. They mentioned something in passing that obviously dovetails with this.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Sanders asked. It was an obvious effort to become part of a
project she had not felt was terribly important. Until right now.

  “General Carrie has requested that a small group of marines be seconded to Op-Center for a possible security mission in Beijing,” the president told Hood. “One that will be defined as information becomes available.”

  “Did she say what kind of security mission it would be?” Hood asked.

  “The president said it would be defined later,” Sanders said.

  “What I mean, sir, would it be at the launch site, at the embassy, or a black ops action somewhere else?” Hood asked the president, ignoring Sanders.

  “The Joint Chiefs did not tell me, and I did not ask. There was no point. As I told you before, Paul, General Carrie was pushed on me as the head of Op-Center. If the military is planning some kind of new and covert direction for Op-Center, I want to know what it is — not what they tell me it is.”

  “Understood,” Hood said.

  “It’s good you have someone you trust on the inside,” the president told him. “Tell Herbert to keep one eye on the NCMC… and one on his ass.” He winked, then did not look back as he headed toward the door.

  Hood looked over at Lorraine Sanders. Her arms were still crossed, and her expression was still sour. Debenport’s inner circle had a reputation for resenting outsiders. If Hood let that bother him, he would never be able to do his job.

  “I’ll have the travel office arrange for a ticket to Beijing,” she said to him.

  “Thanks.”

  She walked toward the door, stopping beside Hood. “If you do that again, I’ll feed you to General Carew. I swear it.”

  “Are you working for him? Should the president be concerned?”

  “No,” she replied thickly. “I just happen to know the general likes chewing up starchy little bureaucrats.”

  She crossed the blue carpet with its gold symbol of the presidency, leaving Hood alone for a moment in the Oval Office. He had always understood why presidents became paranoid, why they installed recording devices in the West Wing. He just hated being a part of that intrigue. The people at Op-Center had always pulled together toward a single goal: protecting the United States and its interests from chaos. Here, they helped to create it.

  As he left the Oval Office and the pointedly averted eyes of Ms. Kubert, Hood was suddenly more afraid of his own team than he was of the Chinese.

  NINETEEN

  Beijing, China Tuesday, 4:40 A.M.

  Li-Li would be proud. The prime minister arrived at his office shortly after three A.M. His visitors were already there. Le Kwan Po had made them wait.

  Blinking hard to chase away the fog of exhaustion, he looked over data that had been sent from the Xichang space center, hand-carried by his aide and placed in a safe. Against opposition, Le Kwan Po had supported international involvement with the project. It was not just a matter of having a sophisticated communications satellite at their disposal. It was a question of being able to deconstruct the technology, study it, and build the next generation of homegrown Chinese satellites.

  A number of old-school members of the government did not like the idea of commissioning work from other nations. Stealing blueprints and technology was acceptable, a legitimate function of the state. Paying for it was to admit a need, to show weakness. A technologically advanced satellite could not compensate for a bowed head. Men like Chou Shin were unyielding in matters like that. What Le did not know was whether they were willing to promote internecine warfare.

  The security arrangements were no different than they were for other launches. Unless he could forge some kind of peace very soon, that would have to change. Chou and Tam Li both had access to the old codes. They knew the standard distribution of manpower throughout the site and what areas engineers would be watching as the countdown progressed.

  They knew that this was the centerpiece of the National Day celebration honoring the founding of the People’s Republic of China.

  Something would have to be done about this. Le would try reasoning with the men, though that had never worked in the past. Perhaps now, with their feud becoming public, their attitude would be different. A news report from Taiwan had just arrived. It underscored the need for someone to take control of this situation. Bulletins from the breakaway republic were automatically sent to all Chinese government officials. Le read about the attempted arrest at the Taipei hotel. The Cho-Chiun was a safe house for Chinese spies. There was no doubt in his mind who the police had been pursuing. He would be interested to find out how they tracked the men there. He called the vice chairman of the Standing Committee on Regional Security to see if he knew anything more. The vice chairman had been up since hearing of the nightclub bombing. He had confirmed through intercepted radio transmissions what Le had suspected, that the Taipei Municipal Police had been given assistance by Interpol. The SCRS did not know who had provided the international police with their information.

  To clear his mind, the prime minister also reviewed an updated guest list for the reception he would be hosting the following evening. A few ambassadors had been added, and several journalists had been removed. Leading academics in the sciences and arts would also be attending. Le’s daughter Anita was among them. The forty-year-old woman was a professor of literature and head of the doctoral arts program at Beijing University. Poised, articulate, and lovely, she was a favorite of the premier. Le often said, only partly in jest, that it was her status that had given him job security rather than vice versa. The cocktail party was in honor of the fifty-eighth National Day. The reception was an opportunity for people to mingle and exchange ideas.

  At least, on the surface.

  When he was ready, Le Kwan Po lit a cigarette and went to the sitting room adjoining his office. The foreign minister was pacing, Chou Shin was sitting in a red leather armchair with his chin on his chest and his eyes shut, and General Tam Li was tucked against one side of a white sofa, his right arm poised on the armrest as he stared straight ahead. He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette stuffed with strong Hongtashen tobacco. He was catching the ashes on a copy of the newspaper resting under his elbow. Only the foreign minister reacted to the prime minister’s arrival.

  “Is everything all right?” De Ming asked solicitously.

  “We would not be here if it were,” Le said as he shut the office door. He walked toward the men. The prime minister did not apologize for making them wait. General Tam Li continued to stare ahead. Chou woke and sat up straight. “Did any of you see the latest report from Taipei?” Le knew they had not, since the time stamp was 4:29 A.M. They all looked over.

  “What has happened now?” De Ming asked. The man’s hovering attentiveness was replaced by real concern. Not just about the event but for knowledge the prime minister possessed that he did not.

  Le sat in a rocking chair. He leaned forward and took an ashtray from the coffee table by the sofa. He told the three men about the explosion at the Taipei hotel and the subsequent escape of the bombers.

  The men seemed surprised by the news — for different reasons, the prime minister suspected.

  “Do the Taiwanese police know who the hotel guests were?” Chou asked.

  “Which information is the director of the Guoanbu concerned about?” General Tam Li asked as he blew smoke from the side of his mouth. “The names of the men or the fact that Taipei might have identified them?”

  Chou did not reply.

  The prime minister regarded the spy chief. “I would like to know the answer to that, Director Chou.”

  The seventy-one-year-old hard-liner snickered. “Is that why we were called from our beds? To be interrogated by an amateur?”

  “The technique is not important. The information is,” the prime minister replied. “It is no secret that the distinguished director of the Guoanbu and one of our most honored soldiers are not getting along. The foreign minister has kept me informed about attacks against Chinese interests abroad. These incidents do not seem to have been random. I hope both of you can tell me more about them.
”

  The foreign minister did not look happy. The prime minister did not care. Le wanted these men to know that De Ming Wang was a self-serving opportunist and not a potential ally.

  “My interest in Taipei is professional,” Chou replied. He regarded Tam Li for the first time. “As for this honored soldier, the general and I have a very different vision of China and its place in the world. My views are in accord with the values and policies of the Zhōngúo Gòngchandang. His are not.”

  Chou was near reverent when he mentioned the Communist Party of China. The spy master obviously did so to suggest that an attack on him was an attack against the nation itself.

  “General?” Le asked.

  “I do not intend to sit here as my devotion to our nation and its party are questioned,” Tam Li replied. His mild surprise at the news from Taipei had diminished. He continued to look ahead and not at anyone in the room. “Director Chou has failed to answer the prime minister’s question. I would like to know the answer as well. I would also like to know whether the resources of the Guoanbu are being used in ways other than their regulations permit.”

  “Is there evidence of this?” the prime minister asked. He looked from the general to the spy chief. Until Le had more information—any information — he did not wish to take sides. Ultimately, there might not be a need to. Not if he could get the men to do that work for him.

  Neither man spoke. Le did not bother asking the foreign minister. De Ming would not say anything, even if he knew.

  The prime minister drew on his cigarette. He exhaled slowly. He had the authority to empanel a Special Bureau of Investigation to examine these matters. The ten-member group would be hand-picked by the minister of justice from among the representatives of twenty-three administrative divisions of China. Because the members came from outside the executive branch, the legislative branch, and the military, an SBI was generally unbiased and untouchable. The representatives were prohibited, by law, from seeking higher office. They had nothing to gain by coloring their findings.

  But an SBI would not act quickly. And the prime minister needed immediate results, especially if the launch might be at risk. He also needed to keep the foreign minister from moving against him.