by Tom Clancy
The ardor was increased by the commentators CNN had hurriedly rushed into their studios in Atlanta and New York, many of whom opined that the only likely action for America was to reply in kind to the Chinese attack, and when the reporter acting as moderator asked what “in kind” meant, the reply was predictable.
For the students, the question now was not so much life and death as saving their nation—the thirteen hundred million citizens whose lives had been made forfeit by the mad-men of the Politburo. The Council of Ministers Building was not all that far away, and the crowd started heading that way.
By this time, there was a police presence in the Square of Heavenly Peace. The morning watch replaced the night team and saw the mass of young people—to their considerable surprise, since this had not been a part of their morning briefing. The men going off duty explained that nothing had happened at all that was contrary to the law, and for all they knew, it was a spontaneous demonstration of solidarity and support for the brave PLA soldiers in Siberia. So, there were few of them about, and fewer still of the People’s Armed Police. It would probably not have mattered in any case. The body of students coalesced, and marched with remarkable discipline to the seat of their country’s government. When they got close, there were armed men there. These police officers were not prepared to see so many people coming toward them. The senior of their number, a captain, walked out alone and demanded to know who was in charge of this group, only to be brushed aside by a twenty-two-year-old engineering student.
Again, it was a case of a police officer totally unaccustomed to having his words disregarded, and totally nonplussed when it took place. Suddenly, he was looking at the back of a young man who was supposed to have stopped dead in his tracks when he was challenged. The security policeman had actually expected the students to stop as a body at his command, for such was the power of law in the People’s Republic, but strong as the force of law was, it was also brittle, and when broken, there was nothing behind it. There were also only forty armed men in the building, and all of them were on the first floor in the rear, kept out of the way because the ministers wanted the armed peasants out of sight, except in ones and twos. The four officers on duty at the main entrance were just swept aside as the crowd thundered in through the double doors. All drew their pistols, but only one fired, wounding three students before being knocked down and kicked into senselessness. The other three just ran to the main post to find the reserve force. By the time they got there, the students were running up the wide, ceremonial stairs to the second floor.
The meeting room was well soundproofed, a security measure to prevent eavesdropping. But soundproofing worked in both directions, and so the men sitting around the table did not hear anything until the corridor was filled with students only fifty meters away, and even then the ministers just turned about in nothing more than annoyance—
—the armed guard force deployed in two groups, one running to the front of the building on the first floor, the other coming up the back on the second, led by a major who thought to evacuate the ministers. The entire thing had developed much too quickly, with virtually no warning, because the city police had dropped the ball rather badly, and there was no time to call in armed reinforcements. As it played out, the first-floor team ran into a wall of students, and while the captain in command had twenty men armed with automatic rifles, he hesitated to order opening fire because there were more students in view than he had cartridges in his rifles, and in hesitating, he lost the initiative. A number of students approached the armed men, their hands raised, and began to engage them in reasonable tones that belied the wild-eyed throng behind them.
It was different on the second floor. The major there didn’t hesitate at all. He had his men level their rifles and fire one volley high, just to scare them off. But these students didn’t scare. Many of them crashed through doors off the main corridor, and one of these was the room in which the Politburo was sitting.
The sudden entrance of fifteen young people got every minister’s attention.
“What is this!” Zhang Han Sen thundered. “Who are you?”
“And who are you?” the engineering student sneered back. “Are you the maniac who started a nuclear war?”
“There is no such war—who told you such nonsense?” Marshal Luo demanded. His uniform told them who he was.
“And you are the one who sent our soldiers to their death in Russia!”
“What is this?” the Minister Without Portfolio asked.
“I think these are the people, Zhang,” Qian Kun observed. “Our people, Comrade,” he added coldly.
Into the vacuum of power and direction, more of the students forced their way into the room, and now the guard force couldn’t risk shooting—too many of their country’s leadership was right there, right in the field of fire.
“Grab them, grab them! They will not shoot these men!” one student shouted. Pairs and trios of students raced around the table, each to a separate seat.
“Tell me, boy,” Fang said gently to the one closest to him, “how did you learn all this?”
“Over our computers, of course,” the youngster replied, a little impolitely, but not grossly so.
“Well, one finds truth where one can,” the grandfatherly minister observed.
“So, Grandfather, is it true?”
“Yes, I regret to say it is,” Fang told him, not quite knowing what he was agreeing to.
Just then, the troops appeared, their officer in the lead with a pistol in his hand, forging their way into the conference room, wide-eyed at what they saw. The students were not armed, but to start a gunfight in this room would kill the very people he was trying to safeguard, and now it was his turn to hesitate.
“Now, everyone be at ease,” Fang said, pushing his seat gently back from the table. “You, Comrade Major, do you know who I am?”
“Yes, Minister—but—”
“Good, Comrade Major. First, you will have your men stand down. We need no killing here. There has been enough of that.”
The officer looked around the room. No one else seemed to be speaking just yet, and into that vacuum had come words which, if not exactly what he wanted to hear, at least had some weight in them. He turned and without words—waving his hands—had his men relax a little.
“Very good. Now, comrades,” Fang said, turning back to his colleagues. “I propose that some changes are needed here. First of all, we need Foreign Minister Shen to contact America and tell them that a horrible accident has occurred, and that we rejoice that no lives were lost as a result, and that those responsible for that mistake will be handled by us. To that end, I demand the immediate arrest of Premier Xu, Defense Minister Luo, and Minister Zhang. It is they who caused us to embark on the foolish adventure in Russia that threatens to bring ruin to us all. You three have endangered our country, and for this crime against the people, you must pay.
“Comrades, what is your vote?” Fang demanded.
There were no dissents; even Tan and Interior Minister Tong nodded their assent.
“Next, Shen, you will immediately propose an end to hostilities with Russia and America, telling them also that those responsible for this ruinous adventure will be punished. Are we agreed on that, Comrades?”
They were.
“For myself, I think we ought all to give thanks to Heaven that we may be able to put an end to this madness. Let us make this happen quickly. For now, I will meet with these young people to see what other things are of interest to them. You, Comrade Major, will conduct the three prisoners to a place of confinement. Qian, will you remain with me and speak to the students as well?”
“Yes, Fang,” the Finance Minister said. “I will be pleased to.”
“So, young man,” Fang said to the one who’d seemed to act like a leader. “What is it you wish to discuss?”
The Blackhawks were long on their return flight. The refueling went off without a hitch, but it was soon apparent that almost thirty men, all Russians
, had been lost in the attack on Xuanhua. It wasn’t the first time Clark had seen good men lost, and as before, the determining factor was nothing more than luck, but that was a lousy explanation to have to give to a new widow. The other thing eating at him was the missile that had gotten away. He’d seen it lean to the east. It hadn’t gone to Moscow, and that was all he knew right now. The flight back was bleakly silent the whole way, and he couldn’t fix it by calling in on his satellite phone because he’d taken a fall at some point and broken the antenna off the top of the damned thing. He’d failed. That was all he knew, and the consequences of this kind of failure surpassed his imagination. The only good news he could come up with was that no one in his family lived close to any likely target, but lots of other people did. Finally the chopper touched down, and the doors were opened for the troopers to get out. Clark saw General Diggs there and went over to him.
“How bad?”
“The Navy shot it down over Washington.”
“What?”
“General Moore told me. Some cruiser—Gettysburg, I think he said—shot the bastard down right over the middle of D.C. We got lucky, Mr. Clark.”
John’s legs almost buckled at that news. For the past five hours, he’d been imagining a mushroom cloud with his name on it over some American city, but God, luck, or the Great Pumpkin had intervened, and he’d settle for that.
“What gives, Mr. C?” Chavez asked, with considerable worry in his voice. Diggs gave him the word, too.
“The Navy? The fuckin’ Navy? Well, I’ll be damned. They are good for something, eh?”
Jack Ryan was about half in the bag by this time, and if the media found out about it, the hell with them. The cabinet was back in town, but he’d put off the meeting until the following morning. It would take time to consider what had to be done. The most obvious response, the one talking heads were proclaiming on the various TV stations, was one he could not even contemplate, much less order. They’d have to find something better than wholesale slaughter. He wouldn’t order that, though some special operation to take out the Chinese Politburo certainly appealed to his current state of mind. A lot of blood had been spilled, and there would be some more, too. To think it had all begun with an Italian cardinal and a Baptist preacher, killed by some trigger-happy cop. Did the world really turn on so perverse an axis as that?
That, Ryan thought, calls for another drink.
But some good had to come from this. You had to learn lessons from this sort of thing. But what was there to learn? It was too confusing for the American President. Things had happened too fast. He’d gone to the brink of something so deep and so dreadful that the vast maw of it still filled his eyes, and it was just too much for one man to handle. He’d bounced back from facing imminent death himself, but not the deaths of millions, not as directly as this. The truth of the matter was that his mind was blanked out by it all, unable to analyze, unable to correlate the information in a way that would help him take a step forward, and all he really wanted and needed to do was to embrace his family, to be certain that the world still had the shape he wanted it to have.
People somehow expected him to be a superman, to be some godlike being who handled things that others could not handle—well, yeah, Jack admitted to himself. Maybe he had shown courage by remaining in Washington, but after courage came deflation, and he needed something outside himself to restore his manhood. The well he’d tapped wasn’t bottomless at all, and this time the bucket was clunking down on rocks...
The phone rang. Arnie got it. “Jack? It’s Scott Adler.”
Ryan reached for it. “Yeah, Scott, what is it?”
“Just got a call from Bill Kilmer, the DCM in Beijing. Seems that Foreign Minister Shen was just over to the embassy. They have apologized for launching the missile. They say it was a horrible accident and they’re glad the thing didn’t go off—”
“That’s fucking nice of them,” Ryan observed.
“Well, whoever gave the order to launch is under arrest. They request our assistance in bringing an end to hostilities. Shen said they’d take any reasonable action to bring that about. He said they’re willing to declare a unilateral cease-fire and withdraw all their forces back to their own borders, and to consider reparations to Russia. They’re surrendering, Jack.”
“Really? Why?”
“There appears to have been some sort of riot in Beijing. Reports are very sketchy, but it seems that their government has fallen. Minister Fang Gan seems to be the interim leader. That’s all I know, Jack, but it looks like a decent beginning. With your permission, and with the concurrence of the Russians, I think we ought to agree to this.”
“Approved,” the President said, without much in the way of consideration. Hell, he told himself, you don’t have to dwell too much on ending a war, do you? “Now what?”
“Well, I want to talk to the Russians to make sure they’ll go along. I think they will. Then we can negotiate the details. As a practical matter, we hold all the cards, Jack. The other side is folding.”
“Just like that? We end it all just like that?” Ryan asked.
“It doesn’t have to be Michelangelo and the Sistine Chapel, Jack. It just has to work.”
“Will it work?”
“Yes, Jack, it ought to.”
“Okay, get hold of the Russians,” Ryan said, setting his glass down.
Maybe this was the end of the last war, Jack thought. If so, no, it didn’t have to be pretty.
It was a good dawn for General Bondarenko, and was about to get better. Colonel Tolkunov came running into his command center holding a sheet of paper.
“We just copied this off the Chinese radio, military and civilian. They are ordering their forces to cease fire in place and to prepare to withdraw from our territory.”
“Oh? What makes them think we will let them go?” the Russian commander asked.
“It’s a beginning, Comrade General. If this is accompanied by a diplomatic approach to Moscow, then the war will soon be over. You have won,” the colonel added.
“Have I?” Gennady Iosifovich asked. He stretched. It felt good this morning, looking at his maps, seeing the deployments, and knowing that he held the upper hand. If this was the end of the war, and he was the winner, then that was sufficient to the moment, wasn’t it? “Very well. Confirm this with Moscow.”
It wasn’t that easy, of course. Units in contact continued to trade shots for some hours, until the orders reached them, but then the firing died down, and the invading troops withdrew away from their enemies, and the Russians, with orders of their own, didn’t follow. By sunset, the shooting and the killing had stopped, pending final disposition. Church bells rang all over Russia.
Golovko took note of the bells and the people in the streets, swigging their vodka and celebrating their country’s victory. Russia felt like a great power again, and that was good for the morale of the people. Better yet, in another few years they’d start reaping the harvest of their resources—and before that would come bridge loans of enormous size... and maybe, just maybe, Russia would turn the corner, finally, and begin a new century well, after wasting most of the previous one.
It was nightfall before the word got out from Beijing to the rest of China. The end of the war so recently started came as a shock to those who’d never really understood the reasons or the facts in the first place. Then came word that the government had changed, and that was also a puzzling development for which explanations would have to wait. The interim Premier was Fang Gan, a name known from pictures rather than words or deeds, but he looked old and wise, and China was a country of great momentum rather than great thoughts, and though the course of the country would change, it would change slowly so far as its people were concerned. People shrugged, and discussed the puzzling new developments in quiet and measured words.
For one particular person in Beijing, the changes meant that her job would change somewhat in importance if not in actual duties. Ming went out to dinner—the restaura
nts hadn’t closed—with her foreign lover, gushing over drinks and noodles with the extraordinary events of the day, then walked off to his apartment for a dessert of Japanese sausage.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1 - RUMBLINGS AND DREAMS
CHAPTER 2 - VISIONS AND HORIZONS
CHAPTER 3 - EXPLORATIONS
CHAPTER 4 - INTRODUCTIONS
CHAPTER 5 - GETTING CLOSE
CHAPTER 6 - BUT NOT TOO CLOSE
CHAPTER 7 - SIMMERING
CHAPTER 8 - THE DISH
CHAPTER 9 - SPIRITS
CHAPTER 10 - BOLT FROM THE BLUE
CHAPTER 11 - HAND JIVE
CHAPTER 12 - HANDOFF
CHAPTER 13 - COLLEGIALITY
CHAPTER 14 - DANGER SIGNAL
CHAPTER 15 - MEETING PLACE
CHAPTER 16 - A FUR HAT FOR THE WINTER
CHAPTER 17 - FLASH TRAFFIC
CHAPTER 18 - CLASSICAL MUSIC
CHAPTER 19 - CLEAR SIGNAL
CHAPTER 20 - STAGING
CHAPTER 21 - VACATION
CHAPTER 22 - PROCUREMENTS AND ARRANGEMENTS
CHAPTER 23 - ALL ABOARD
CHAPTER 24 - ROLLING HILLS
CHAPTER 25 - EXCHANGING THE BOGIES
CHAPTER 26 - TOURISTS
CHAPTER 27 - RABBIT RUN
CHAPTER 28 - BRITISH MIDLANDS
CHAPTER 29 - REVELATION
CHAPTER 30 - FLAVIAN AMPHITHEATER
CHAPTER 31 - BRIDGE BUILDER
CHAPTER 32 - MASQUED BALL
ALSO BY TOM CLANCY
FICTION