by Tom Clancy
The Republic of China’s government issued a blistering statement about air piracy, then requested an emergency meeting of the U.N. Security Council. Beijing issued its own statement minutes later, stating that its aircraft, on a peaceful training exercise, had been attacked entirely without provocation, then returned fire in self-defense. Beijing totally disavowed any involvement in the damage to the airliner, and blamed the entire episode on their rebellious province.
“So, what else have we turned up?” Ryan asked Admiral Jackson at seven-thirty.
“We went over both tapes for about two hours. I brought in a few fighter pilots I’ve worked with, and a pair of Air Force guys, and we kicked it around some. Number one, the ChiComs—”
“Not supposed to call them that, Robby,” the President observed.
“Old habit, sorry. The gentlemen of the PRC—hey, they knew we had ships there. The electronic signature of an Aegis ship is like Mount St. Helens with an attitude, okay? And the capabilities of the ships ain’t exactly a secret. They’ve been in service for almost twenty years. So they knew we were watching, and they knew we’d see everything. Let’s keep that one in mind.”
“Keep going,” Jack told his friend.
“Number two, we have a spook team on the Chandler, listening in on radio chatter. We have translated the voice transmissions of the Chinese fighter pilots. Quoting now—this is thirty seconds into the engagement—‘I have him, I have him, taking the shot.’ Okay, the time stamp on that is exactly the same as the heat-seeker launch on the airliner.
“Number three, every driver I talked to said the same as I did—why shoot at an airliner on the edge of your missile range when you have fighters in your face? Jack, this one smells—real bad, man.
“Unfortunately, we can’t prove the voice transmission came from the fighter that launched on the Airbus, but it is my opinion, and that of my pals across the river, that this was a deliberate act. They tried to splash that airliner on purpose,” the Pentagon’s director of operations concluded. “We’re lucky anybody got off at all.”
“Admiral,” Arnie van Damm asked, “could you take that into a court of law?”
“Sir, I’m not a lawyer. I’m an airplane driver. I don’t have to prove things for a living, but I’m telling you, it’s a hundred-to-one against that we’re wrong on this.”
“I can’t say this in front of the cameras, though,” Ryan said, checking his watch. He’d have to do makeup in a few minutes. “If they did it on purpose—”
“No ‘if,’ Jack, okay?”
“Damn it, Robby, I heard you the first time!” Ryan snapped. He paused and took a breath. “I can’t accuse a sovereign country of an act of war without absolute proof. Next, okay, fine, they did do it on purpose, and they did it with the knowledge that we’d know they did. What’s that mean?”
Jack’s national security team had had a long night. Goodley took the lead. “Hard to say, Mr. President.”
“Are they making a move on Taiwan?” the President asked.
“They can’t,” Jackson said, shaking off his Commander-in-Chief’s tantrum. “They do not have the physical ability to invade. There is no sign of unusual activity in their ground forces in this area, just the stuff they’ve been doing in the northwest that has the Russians so annoyed. So from a military point of view the answer is no.
“Airborne invasion?” Ed Foley asked. Robby shook his head.
“They don’t have the airlift capacity, and even if they tried, the ROC has enough air-defense assets to turn it into early duck season. They could stage an air-sea battle like I told you last night, but it’ll cost them ships and planes—for what purpose?” the J-3 asked.
“So did they splash an airliner to test us?” POTUS wondered. “That doesn’t make sense, either.”
“If you say ‘me’ instead of ‘us,’ that’s a possibility,” the DCI said quietly.
“Come on, Director,” Goodley objected. “There were two hundred people on that plane, and they must have thought they’d kill them all.”
“Let’s not be too naive, Ben,” Foley observed tolerantly. “They don’t share our sentimentality for human life over there, do they?”
“No, but—”
Ryan interrupted: “Okay, hold it. We think this was a deliberate act, but we don’t have positive proof, and we have no idea what its purpose might have been—and if we don’t, I can’t call it a deliberate act, right?” There were nods. “Fine, now in fifteen minutes I have to go down to the Press Room and deliver this statement and then the reporters will ask me questions, and the only answers I can give them will be lies.”
“That about sums it up, Mr. President,” van Damm confirmed.
“Well, isn’t that just great, ” Jack snarled. “And Beijing will know, or at least suspect, that I’m lying.”
“Possible, but not certain on that,” Ed Foley observed.
“I’m not good at lying,” Ryan told them.
“Learn how,” the chief of staff advised. “Quickly.”
THERE WAS NO talking on the flight from Tehran to Paris. Adler took a comfortable seat in the back, got out a legal pad, and wrote the whole way, using his trained memory to reconstruct the conversation, then added a series of personal observations on everything from Daryaei’s physical appearance to the clutter on his desk. After that, he examined the notes for an hour, and started making analytical comments. In the process, he wore down half a dozen pencils. The layover in Paris lasted less than an hour, enough for Adler to spend a little time with Claude again and for his escorts to have a quick drink. Then it was off again in their Air Force VC-20B.
“How’d it go?” John asked.
Adler had to remind himself that Clark was on the SNIE team, and not just a gun-toting SPO.
“First, what did you find out on your walk?”
The senior CIA officer reached in his pocket and handed the Secretary of State a gold necklace.
“Does this mean we’re engaged?” Adler asked, with a surprised chuckle.
Clark gestured to his partner. “No, sir. He’s engaged.”
Now that they were aloft, the cabin crewman who ran the communications panel turned on his equipment. The fax machine started chirping at once.
“... WE HAVE CONFIRMED eleven American deaths, with three more U.S. citizens missing. Four of the American survivors are injured and are being treated in local hospitals. That concludes my opening statement,” the President told them.
“Mister President!” thirty voices called at once.
“One at a time, please.” Jack pointed to a woman in the front row.
“Beijing claims that Taiwan shot first. Can we confirm that?”
“We are examining some information, but it takes a while to figure these things out, and until such time as we have definitive information, I do not think it proper to draw any conclusions at this time.”
“But both sides traded shots, didn’t they?” she asked as a follow-up.
“That would seem to be the case, yes.”
“So then do we know whose missile hit the Airbus?”
“As I said, we are still examining the data.” Keep it short, Jack, he told himself. And that wasn’t quite a lie, was it? “Yes?” He pointed to another reporter.
“Mr. President, with so many American citizens lost, what action will you be taking to ensure this does not happen again?” At least this one he could answer truthfully.
“We are examining options right now. Beyond that, I have nothing to say, except that we call on both Chinas to step back and think about their actions. The loss of innocent life is in the interest of no country. Military exercises there have been ongoing for some time now, and the resulting tension is not helpful to regional stability.”
“So you’re asking both countries to suspend their exercises?”
“We’re going to ask them to consider that, yes.”
“Mr. President,” said John Plumber, “this is your first foreign policy crisis and ...”
Ryan looked down at the elderly reporter and wanted to observe that his first domestic crisis had been of his making, but you couldn’t afford to make enemies of the press, and you could only make friends with them if they liked you—an altogether unlikely possibility, he’d come to understand.
“Mr. Plumber, before you do anything, you have to find out the facts. We’re working on that just as hard as we can. I had my national security team in this morning ”
“But not Secretary Adler,” Plumber pointed out. Good reporter that he was, he’d checked the official cars on West Executive Drive. “Why wasn’t he here?”
“He’ll be in later today,” Ryan dodged.
“Where is he now?” Plumber persisted.
Ryan just shook his head. “Can we limit this to just one topic? It’s a little early in the morning for so many questions, and as you pointed out, I do have a situation to deal with, Mr. Plumber.”
“And he is your principal foreign policy adviser, sir. Where is he now?”
“Next question,” the President said tersely. He got about what he deserved from Barry of CNN:
“Mr. President, a moment ago you said both Chinas. Sir, does this signal a change in our China policy, and if so—”
IT WAS JUST after eight in the evening in Beijing, and things were good. He could see it on TV. How strange to watch a political figure so singularly lacking in charm and adroitness, especially an American. Zhang Han San lit a cigarette and congratulated himself. He’d done it again. There had been a danger in staging the “exercise,” most particularly the recent air sorties—but then the Republic’s aviators had so kindly obliged by shooting first, just as he’d hoped they would, and now there was a crisis which he could control precisely, and end it at any time, merely by recalling his own forces to their bases. He’d force America to react not so much by action as by inaction—and then someone else would take the lead in provoking its new President. He had no idea what Daryaei had in mind. An assassination attempt, perhaps? Something else? All he had to do was watch, as he was doing now, and reap the harvest when the opportunity arose, which it surely would. America couldn’t stay lucky forever. Not with this young fool in the White House.
“BARRY, ONE COUNTRY calls itself the People’s Republic of China, and the other calls itself the Republic of China. I have to call them something, don’t I?” Ryan asked testily. Oh, shit, have I done it again?
“Yes, Mr. President, but—”
“But we probably have fourteen American citizens dead, and this is not a time to worry about semantics.” There, take that.
“What are we going to do?” a female voice demanded.
“First, we’re going to try to find out what took place. Then we can start thinking about reactions.”
“But why don’t we know yet?”
“Because as much as we would like to know everything that takes place in the world every minute, it’s simply impossible.”
“Is that why your administration is radically increasing the size of the CIA?”
“As I have said before, we do not discuss intelligence matters, ever.”
“Mr. President, there are published reports that—”
“There are published reports that UFOs land here on a regular basis,” Ryan shot back. “Do you believe that, too?”
The room actually went quiet for a moment. It wasn’t every day that you saw a President lose his temper. They loved it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret the fact that I cannot answer all your questions to your satisfaction. In fact, I am asking some of the same questions myself, but correct answers take time. If I have to wait for the information, so do you,” he said, trying to get the news conference back on track.
“Mr. President, a man who looks very much like the former Chairman of the Soviet KGB has appeared on live television and—” The reporter stopped, as he saw Ryan’s face glow red under the makeup. He expected another blowup, but it didn’t happen. The President’s knuckles went ivory-white on the lectern, and he took a breath.
“Please go on with your question, Sam.”
“And that gentleman said that he is who he is. Now, sir, the cat is well out of the bag, and I think my question is a legitimate one.”
“I haven’t heard a question yet, Sam.”
“Is he who he says he is?”
“You don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Mr. President, this event, this... operation has great international significance. At some point, intelligence operations, sensitive though they may well be, have a serious effect on our foreign relations. At that point, the American people want to know what such things are all about.”
“Sam, I will say this one last time: I will never, not ever, discuss intelligence matters. I am here this morning to inform our citizens of a tragic and so far unexplained incident in which over a hundred people, including fourteen American citizens, have lost their lives. This government will do its utmost to determine what took place, and then to decide upon a proper course of action.”
“Very well, Mr. President. Do we have a one-China policy, or a two-China policy?”
“We have made no changes.”
“Might a change result from this incident?”
“I will not speculate on something so important as that. And now, with your permission, I have to get back to work.”
“Thank you, Mr. President!” Jack heard on his way out the door. Just around the corner was a well-hidden gun cabinet. POTUS slammed it with his hand hard enough to rattle a few of the Uzis inside.
“God damn it!” he swore on the fifty-yard walk back to his office.
“Mr. President?” Ryan spun around. It was Robby, holding his briefcase. It seemed so out of place for an aviator to be toting one of those.
“I owe you an apology,” Jack said, before Robby could get another word out. “Sorry I blew up.”
Admiral Jackson popped his friend on the arm. “Next time we play golf, it’s a buck a hole, and if you’re going to get mad, do it at me, not them, okay? I’ve seen your temper before, man. Dial it back. A commander can only get pissed in front of the troops for show—leadership technique, we call it—not for real. Yelling at staff is something else. I’m staff,” Robby said. “Yell at me.”
“Yeah, I know. Keep me posted and—”
“Jack?”
“Yeah, Rob?”
“You’re doing fine, just keep it cool.”
“I’m not supposed to let people kill Americans, Robby. That’s not what I’m here for.” His hands balled into fists again.
“Shit happens, Mr. President. If you think you can stop it all, you’re just kidding yourself. And I don’t have to tell you that. You’re not God, Jack, but you are a pretty good guy doing a pretty good job. We’ll have more information for you as soon as we can put it together.”
“When things settle down, how about another golf lesson?”
“I am yours to command.” The two friends shook hands. It wasn’t enough for either of them at this moment, but it had to do. Jackson headed for the door, and Ryan turned back toward his office. “Mrs. Sumter!” he called on the way in. Maybe a smoke would help.
“SO WHAT GIVES, Mr. Secretary?” Chavez asked. The three-page fax off the secure satellite link told them everything the President had. He’d let them read it, too.
“I don’t know,” Adler admitted. “Chavez, that thesis paper you told me about?”
“What about it, sir?”
“You should have waited to write it. Now you know what it’s like up here. Like playing dodge ball as a kid, except it ain’t a rubber ball we’re trying to dodge, is it?” The Secretary of State tucked his notes into his briefcase and waved to the Air Force sergeant who was supposed to look after them. He wasn’t as cute as the French attendant had been.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did Claude leave us anything?”
“A couple of bottles from the Loire Valley,” the NCO replied, with a smile.
&n
bsp; “You want to uncork one and get some glasses out?”
“Cards?” John Clark asked.
“No, I think I’m going to have a glass or two, and then I’m going to get a little sleep. Looks like I have another trip laid on,” SecState told them.
“Beijing.” No surprise, John thought.
“It won’t be Philadelphia,” Scott said, as the bottle and glasses arrived. Thirty minutes later, all three men pushed their seat backs down all the way. The sergeant closed the window shades for them.
This time Clark got some sleep, but Chavez did not. There was truth in what Adler had remarked to him. His thesis had savagely attacked turn-of-the-century statesmen for their inability to see beyond immediate problems. Now Ding did know a little better. It was hard to tell the difference between an immediate tactical problem and a truly strategic one when you were dodging the bullets on a minute-to-minute basis, and history books couldn’t fully convey the temper, the feel of the times on which they supposedly reported. Not all of it. They also gave the wrong impression of people. Secretary Adler, now snoring in his leather reclining seat, was a career diplomat, Chavez reminded himself, and he’d earned the trust and respect of the President—a man he himself deeply respected. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t venal. But he was merely a man, and men made mistakes... and great men made big ones. Someday some historian would write about this trip they’d just taken, but would that historian really know what it had been like and, not knowing, how could he really comment on what had taken place?