War of Eagles o-12

by Tom Clancy

  “Does the foreign minister have any comments?” Le asked.

  “Chinese citizens were killed in the United States and Taipei,” De Ming said. “I would suggest at the very least an oversight committee be formed to collect information from foreign sources.”

  “To place blame or redirect it?” General Tam Li asked.

  Le regarded the officer. “I ask again, General. Do you have information you wish to share?”

  “None,” Tam Li told him. “Only an observation. Absent détente, this situation will escalate.”

  The prime minister did not bother to ask him how or when. No one seemed to want to say anything incriminating, something that might help an opponent. “What would it take to establish peace?” Le asked.

  “There can be no peace without a singular vision,” Chou said. “We have a system of beliefs in China, one established by great men. One put in place through the sacrifice of millions of lives. There can be no deviation from that.”

  Tam Li rolled what was left of his cigarette between his fingers. His pale eyes were fixed on the glowing tip. “The number of smokers in China surpasses the population of the United States. Should all of us smoke the same brand? Should those who do not smoke be forced to do so? I am told by my physician that millions of souls have died for that right as well.”

  “Your comments are sickening,” Chou snapped. “They diminish the sacrifice others have made.”

  “I had hoped to provide perspective,” Tam Li replied quietly.

  “You failed,” Chou said. “Mr. Prime Minister, this meeting is pointless, and I am tired.”

  “You should consider retiring,” the general said and then looked at the spy chief. “To bed, I mean.”

  Chou Shin regarded the prime minister. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  “Not at the moment, thank you,” Le replied. The spy chief had just given him what he needed.

  The head of the Guoanbu bowed slightly toward the foreign minister, then to the prime minister, then left.

  “Ideologues are easy to bait,” the general said.

  “Why did you want to?” Le asked. “You do not advocate our political philosophy?”

  “I support the land,” Tam Li replied. “I support China, whatever form that takes. One day it is a dynasty, an empress, one day it is a party called Communism. The next day we are all looking the other way as Hong Kong and Taiwan force us to tolerate new ideas.”

  “Not everyone tolerates them,” the foreign minister pointed out.

  “No. Director Chou does not. Others do not. As a general, I have been trained to watch and evaluate the currents of battle. This one, the one Director Chou is fighting, is a losing one.”

  “Do you think the director loves China any less than you, less than any of us?” Le asked.

  “No. But he is a jealous lover.”

  “A violent one?”

  General Tam Li smiled self-consciously. He put the stub of the cigarette between his lips, then carefully folded the paper full of ashes. He stood and dropped the paper in a wastebasket. Then he walked over to the prime minister and put his cigarette in the ashtray.

  “No, Mr. Prime Minister,” the general said.

  “He is not a violent man?” Le asked.

  “No — I will say nothing more,” Tam Li continued. “Director Chou and I share this much: the belief that a man fights his own battles.”

  “Such battles could hurt China,” the prime minister pointed out.

  “Internal struggle, however painful at the time, invariably strengthens the host. It builds new defenses, discards aspects of a system that do not work. If the system fails, it was not healthy to begin with.”

  “We are talking about escalating attacks on Chinese holdings, not debates in the People’s Congress,” the prime minister complained.

  “You are just giving us idealistic words and sweeping ideas,” the foreign minister added impatiently.

  “What is Communism if not that?” Tam Li asked.

  The foreign minister threw up his hand in disgust. Then he excused himself and left the room. The prime minister set the ashtray aside and rose. “General, I don’t care whether you and Director Chou claw each other to pieces,” he said. “I am not worried about the survival of China. I am, however, very concerned about the launch of the Red Eagle on Thursday. Your command will use it to link communications that are currently using landlines.”

  “That is a piggyback function,” Tam Li replied.

  “One of many, yes,” Le said. “That is why the Ministry of Science turned to a foreign firm to build the mainframe. Their design allowed us to plug in multiple utilities, to consolidate what would have been several launches into one. I am concerned that your conflict with Director Chou may affect that launch.”

  “I don’t see how I can help you,” Tam Li said. “We have a strong philosophical difference.”

  “Yes, and it has taken physical form, like the spirit in the old story of Zong Dingbo and the Ghost,” the prime minister said. “In that form the ghost was able to destroy and to be destroyed.”

  “As I recall from my childhood, it was a careless ghost,” the general said. “But a ghost must be a ghost, whatever the consequences.”

  “The satellite is bigger than your dispute,” Le said angrily. The prime minister was too practical for this. Like Director Chou, Tam Li was a man who would follow principle through the gateway to hell.

  “Do you know what our argument is about?”

  “You sell people,” Le said. “At least, that is what I am told.”

  “It is not true, Mr. Prime Minister. I collect an honorarium for advice, for helping other men conduct trade.”

  “Slave trade—”

  “Not to me and not to them,” Tam Li said. “These are people who want to leave China, people who do not want to be a part of Director Chou’s world. Like me, they want to make more money. Unlike me, they leave. I collect my legal fee for the same reason that my soldiers gamble or occasionally traffic black market goods. Because we do not make enough money to raise and educate our families. In Russia, men in my position are selling outdated weapons. In the United States, some men sell military secrets. China benefits from both because our government is willing to pay them. We, who offer our lives in the defense of our nation, must make do with what the government has left. Which is not very much.”

  “Soldiers are always underpaid,” Le said. “But they do not have to depend on crops or tourists or the whims of commerce to earn a living. Their salary may not be substantial, but it is regular. They are never hungry, and they always receive medical attention.”

  “Until new technologies reduce our numbers,” the general said. “You know as well as I that even exotic hardware like the Red Eagle is going to reduce the need for communications units. The new Song-class submarines require half the crew of the older models. In my lifetime I may become redundant. I do not farm. I do not weave. I will not beg to give Japanese and American visitors a tour of the Great Wall. You may not like it, and Director Chou absolutely does not like it, but I stand for many, and I will not back down. Tell me, Mr. Prime Minister. Are you asking me to do so because I happen to be the last one here, or do you agree with Director Chou?”

  “I cannot sanction what you do, but I do not support Chou’s actions.”

  “You won’t tell him that, though, because he represents the party, and the party is the embodiment of Mao,” the general said. “To challenge him is to challenge the great revolutionary.”

  Le said nothing.

  “Then I suppose I stand for you as well,” Tam Li said. “I will resist the assault of Director Chou Shin because his China belongs to another century. We evolve, Mr. Prime Minister. We always have. With our diversity of people and cultures and even climates, we have no choice. If we don’t, we will fracture.” He smiled. “What kind of love can exist without a big and enlightened embrace?”

  Tam Li left, his shoes squeaking as he crossed the blue carpe
t. New shoes. The prime minister looked down. His own shoes were not new.

  And his ideas? the prime minister wondered.

  Le went back to his office. He looked out the window at the soft arrival of dawn. He did not know what he had accomplished by bringing everyone together, other than to confirm what the two men were thinking, feeling, and in some cases doing. His desire to separate them and then reason with the one he hoped was the more tractable had not worked. He had not even neutralized a potential threat from the foreign minister. De Ming had been driven, slightly, toward the side of Director Chou. The general was a closet capitalist, someone who still performed his job and was a danger to no one who did not get in his way. Chou was an idealist, someone with the means and allies to attack anyone who did not share his vision.

  That could include the prime minister. It could include a scientific project that enriched foreign corporations.

  But the night was not a complete loss. Le had realized something. His problem might be bigger than he imagined. General Tam Li stood to lose something, too, with the successful launch of the Red Eagle. What the PLA gained in efficiency it surrendered in manpower. And as Tam Li had suggested, a general without troops is not a general. He is a retiree.

  Tam Li and Chou Shin both had something to gain by the destruction of the satellite. Unfortunately, this was also true:

  If either of them won, Le Kwan Po lost.

  TWENTY

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:00 P.M.

  Paul Hood was baffled by the president’s comments about marines being seconded to Op-Center. For one thing, the ambassador would have told the president if he had requested additional security for the embassy. For another, that was an expansion of the NCMC, not a scaling down. Perhaps it represented a honeymoon period for General Carrie, a chance to let her reorganize according to her own vision. But Maryland Senator Luke Murray, the new head of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee, was even more frugal than his predecessor Debenport. Hood did not see anyone convincing the senator to spend money, let alone to revive a military contingent that had recently been abandoned.

  Unless there was something going on that Hood knew nothing about. That was certainly a possibility. It was also possible that the president had not been informed. Not every intelligence operation was written up and placed on his desk. Hood hoped to find out more by seeing General Carrie. He called before leaving the White House. Bugs Benet had been happy to schedule the appointment, but there was a new formality in his voice. That was understandable. Bugs had a different boss now. Each man asked how the other was doing. There was something guarded and unnatural about their responses. Perhaps Carrie discouraged familiarity in her team.

  The drive to Op-Center was also both familiar and strange. Hood knew the roads, the nuances of the traffic, the colors of the trees under the streetlamps, and the moods of the early evening sky. He recognized the homeless man who stood by the highway and peddled coffee-cup sculptures from a makeshift stand. Hood had once stopped and bought one because he felt bad for the guy. The man, Joe, had used three cups to make a replica of the Capitol. It was not bad. The problems Hood pondered while driving were the same he always contemplated: what to do about an evolving situation overseas that impacted the homeland.

  But the drive was not the same. Going to Op-Center was like visiting Harleigh and Alexander. He was going to a house that used to be home. Rules were not made, they were followed.

  Upon reaching Andrews AFB, Hood had to stop at the gate. He knew the sergeant who talked to him from the bulletproof guard booth. They had just seen each other that morning. Hood still had to wait while a digital picture was taken by a driver’s-side camera. He had to wait for the guard to check his name on the computer list. He had to wait while the security gate was rolled open. The identity card that was still in his wallet would not have worked in the slot.

  Hood parked and entered the upper lobby. The guard knew him, too, but still had to call ahead to let Bugs know that Hood was there. Hood was handed a pass that would work the elevator for just one day. Bugs met him downstairs. The men shook hands. It was no longer just formal. It was damned awkward.

  “It’s good to see you,” Hood said.

  “Same. The general is waiting.”

  Bugs was wearing a smile, but there was no joy in it. There was something else. He looked different. Hood noticed then that his long sleeves were rolled down, and his tie was tightly knotted. Hood had always allowed him to wear it loose with the top button opened. Perhaps Bugs was waiting to be told that was okay. Perhaps he had already been told it was not. It was not a big thing, but a mosaic like Op-Center was built on details like that. One tessera did not change without affecting all the others. A knotted tie might induce formality in Bugs that was passed to others, from their appearance to their work. It had always been Hood’s contention that someone who was bundled too tight would be less inclined to look for — and deliver — fresh insights.

  Employees were surprised to see their former boss. There were Bugs-like smiles and a few big hellos, but no one stopped to talk. No one had information for him or a question. Some people might find that liberating. Hood found it disturbing. More and more he felt as he did when he left Sharon and the kids. As though he had not just relocated, he had been dislocated. He needed someone to pop him back in his socket, and it was not happening.

  Hood was shown to his office. Or rather, what used to be his office. It looked different. It smelled different. Carrie was a tea drinker. It sounded different. Carrie kept the door closed. Hood did not even have time to thank Bugs before he was shut inside with the general. She stood and shook his hand across the desk. General Carrie did not look like Hood had imagined. She had sharply defined features and a disarming smile that pulled up slightly to the right. Her eyes were soft. So was her voice, though it was not weak.

  Nor was her handshake.

  The general gestured to one of the armchairs that Hood himself had picked out. She offered him a beverage, which he declined. He sat after she did. That might be politically incorrect, but Hood did not care. Morgan Carrie was still a woman, and women sat first. That was how it went.

  “I imagine this is a little strange for you,” the general said.

  “Somewhat.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

  “Just treat my people well,” Hood replied earnestly.

  “I meant, for you,” she said.

  “That would help me,” Hood assured her. “Since we never got to do a proper transition, my people—these people — work best in a relaxed atmosphere. When the world is falling down, the NCMC can be a haven. For example, Bugs is a great aide. He doesn’t miss a thing.”

  “Mr. Benet seems to be a very effective and knowledgeable man,” the general concurred. “He has helped a great deal today. Of course, there is going to be an evaluation process. I may bring in some people from G2. But I would like to keep as many of the current staff as possible. In any case, Paul, I won’t be making any immediate changes.”

  “I understand that,” Hood told her. He felt uncomfortable. He had not intended to get into any of this, but here he was. “It’s more a matter of day-to-day efficiency. Take Bugs again. It’s a small thing, but he works best with his sleeves rolled up and his tie open.”

  “He’s free to do so,” Carrie replied. “This is not the army. I stand by the civilian dress code.”

  Hood looked at her. “Oh. Okay,” he said. He felt stupid. Obviously, Bugs had tied his tie and buttoned his cuffs to try to please her.

  The general leaned forward and folded her hands. “Believe me, Paul. I’m aware of my situation here. I’m in a trial period as well. The man who sat in this chair before me did the brutally difficult job of pleasing a president and his own staff for years. That’s a hell of an accomplishment. My team at G2 was assigned to me. Like it or not, that was their command. Your people were mostly civilians. They stayed because they wanted to. Op-Center did not always run smo
othly, I know. Nothing does. But it ran well and effectively. I would be happy to have that on my résumé.”

  Now Hood really felt stupid. And also flattered and proud. He had been expecting Mike Rodgers, someone for whom every meeting, every conversation was a form of combat. That was not General Carrie.

  The officer sat back again. “Bugs said that the president asked you to come in and talk with me,” she said with her little half smile. “I do not imagine the subject was shirtsleeves.”

  “No,” Hood told her. “I am here because I am about to leave for Beijing. Both Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers are concerned about the launch of the Unexus satellite. The president is more concerned about the stability of the government. He wants me to assess the situation.”

  “It is a dangerous one,” Carrie said.

  “Was G2 watching any of the players?” Already, Hood felt himself acting like an outside intelligence operative. He did not say, “Were you watching General Tam Li?” He was guarding his information.

  “We collected whatever we could on all the major military and intelligence figures,” she replied, equally vague.

  “Does anyone stand out?” Hood asked.

  “Several,” she replied.

  Except for Hood asking, “Who?” they had reached the irreducible and in some ways the most absurd level of intelligence conversation. The you-show-me-yours point. It seemed to be a silly game for adults to be playing. Unfortunately, silly as it might be, it was not a game. In a world where knowledge was power, everyone did it. Even when they were supposed to be on the same team.

  Carrie picked up the phone. She tapped the intercom button. Hood had always put it on speaker.

  “Send them in,” the general said.

  The door opened behind Hood, and Bob Herbert wheeled in. He was followed by Darrell McCaskey. Herbert stopped to the right of Hood’s armchair. The men shook hands. Herbert’s smile was tight, his eyes bloodshot. The man was totally shot. McCaskey also looked a little drawn as he shook Hood’s hand and dropped into the other armchair. Herbert’s tie was open at the top. Darrell’s was not.