Tom Clancy - Op Center 12

by War of Eagles

  Not that the Taiwanese high command expected an attack. Rocket and missile tests by the People’s Republic of China were more an opportunity for a drill than an anticipation of hostilities. It was a chance for the Taiwanese Armed Forces to show their across-the-strait military adversaries that they were watching.

  And ready. Twelve hours after the radar scan had begun, Taiwanese Fleet Command would dispatch one cruiser each from the four major naval facilities at Kenting, Suao, Makung, and Keelung. Two recently commissioned dieselpowered submarines would be launched from the new mountain stronghold in Hengchung on the southern coast. Six hours after that, in Tsoying, the Taiwanese Marine Corps would prepare for deployment by sea and air. On the books, their mission would be to recover anything that might land in Taiwan’s territorial waters. But each man knew that in the event of a real crisis, their target could be anything from the vanguard of the PRC fleet to a coastal base or industrial complex.

  In all, just six vessels and under three thousand men would be activated in this initial phase of national defense. If the TAF subsequently identified an actual threat from the PRC, the military would move from EWI—the early warning and information phase—to an aggressive electronic warfare phase. This would constitute a massive blocking of mainland communications and reconnaissance systems. Concurrently, Taiwan would launch its forces in a strategic counterblockade capacity to ensure that the waterways and air lanes would be kept free for the TAF and its allies. Antiballistic armament would be launched to intercept any missiles fired from the mainland coast. One hundred fifty F-16 fighters were the cornerstone to this capability. The American-made jets were faster and more powerful than the sixty French Mirage 2000-5 jets that formed the backbone of the PLAAF.

  This information and counterattack superiority would form the basis of the initial Taiwanese thrust. It would be followed by a fully synchronized, multiservice and extremely quick response to any sea or land assault, or even the hint of one. There was no doubt in Taiwan that an initial thrust from the PRC could be met and stopped. Their entire strategy depended upon decisively repelling a first strike and holding a second wave. If a struggle went beyond that, and the United States did not intervene, the PRC would simply overwhelm them.

  No one expected it to come to that. War benefited neither nation. Taiwan and the PRC did a great deal of business with one another. Not just black market activities but legitimate investments and industrial development. And those numbers were increasing exponentially. The only ones who objected to that were the vintage Communists and the military hard-liners. Both groups were losing ground to the young entrepreneurs. Ironically, these young men and women were a product of a successful Communist policy: the decades-old one-child-per-family rule. Family planning prevented an estimated three hundred million births, which would have taxed the infrastructure and kept Chinese mothers out of the workforce. But it also created a generation of pampered, entitled Chinese. These young adults wanted what their Taiwanese counterparts had: brand-name clothes, electronic toys, and high-end automobiles. Neither Communism nor militarism was going to give them that.

  Nonetheless, the commander in chief and his staff still put the Taiwanese military through its carefully planned defensive motions. There was always the chance that someone in Beijing would think the future looked better draped in red instead of silver and gold. Reason and greed were powerful motivators. Unfortunately, so were habit and vanity. That combination could be catastrophic, especially if a political or martial cause to which someone had dedicated their life was in danger of being extinguished.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:00 P.M.

  Being a guest in China was a little like making a soufflé. If you opened the door at the wrong time, the result wouldn’t be a happy one.

  Unlike their counterparts in Washington, dignitaries in China did not arrive fashionably late for a party. Not only was it considered extremely bad manners, it assured the latecomer that he or she would be ignored. The Chinese were very good at turning away from or looking through someone who was ungracious.

  Arriving early was also considered discourteous, an imposition on the host’s charity. The result, of course, was an inevitable bottleneck at the door. But there was a benefit to that as well. People were obliged to meet and chat with whomever was standing around them under the long, long canopy that led to the street. The canopy was only erected for receptions. It was a gesture so guests would not feel as though they were waiting outside, exposed to elements and passersby. That would have been considered bad manners.

  In Hood’s case, he ended up chatting with two people he did not know. A third individual was one he did recognize, a Chinese national who worked for the Beijing bureau of the Washington Post. Hood did not want to talk to him. The man did not recognize Hood, and he wanted to keep it that way. A good reporter would not simply accept, “I happened to be in Beijing, and the ambassador invited me,” as a reason for being here.

  Presenting his back to the reporter left Hood facing the Brazilian ambassador and his wife. They looked to be in their sixties. The woman was wearing a small diamond engagement ring, which suggested that she was the original Mrs. Ambassador. The man was a former architect who was admiring the Huabiao, an ornamental marble pillar engraved with twining dragons and ominous clouds. He said that the origin of the Huabiao dated to the legendary kings Yao and Shun, who ruled some 4,000 years ago. He said that they were originally wooden columns used as landmarks for travelers.

  His wife smiled benignly. She was a historian, a professor at Pontifícia Universidade Católica do Rio de Janeiro. The handsome, gray-haired woman was on sabbatical to be with her husband during his tenure.

  “The Biaos were not that,” she said, addressing Hood. “They evolved from a pole called a Biao, which was used in building much more recently, around 700 B.C. The Biao was placed in the ground to determine plumb and to mark the boundaries of construction. As larger structures came to be built, stone Biaos were used. By 400 B.C., they had become part of the structure.”

  “While we are here, we are collecting data to ascertain which of us is right,” the ambassador said with a smile for his wife. He added pragmatically, “Whichever of us wins or loses, scholarship benefits.”

  Hood smiled. There was something sweet about their rivalry. The couple had found an activity that allowed them to be together yet still individual. He envied them that.

  They made it through the door and into the ballroom after nearly ten minutes. Their names were checked against a master list by men wearing formal black Chinese military uniforms. Though Hood and most of the guests were dressed formally, the Chinese made no attempt to evoke the dynasties or Western styles. This was a show of traditional Red Chinese influence and authority. Inside, the Chinese leaders were dressed in tuxedos with necks reminiscent of the high-collared Mao jacket.

  The American ambassador was already working on a martini as he chatted with the prime minister through a young female interpreter. Hood felt a flash of anger, not because the man had Le Kwan Po’s ear but because Hasen did not have to wait in line. The feeling passed when the ambassador saw Hood and waved him over. Simultaneously, Hasen excused himself and walked toward Hood. He was glad to see that. Hood did not know who he was supposed to be or why he was here. That was something he was to have discussed with the ambassador before coming. He knew only that he was posing as an observer attached to the embassy.

  The room was already loud with chatter, the voices a combination of English and everything else, most notably the clucking sounds of the Chinese tongue. The ambassador put a hand on Hood’s shoulder as he brought him forward.

  “Sorry I couldn’t meet you earlier,” Hasen said. The very tall, round ambassador spoke softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the din. “The prime minister wanted to meet with someone, and I had to arrange it quickly.”

  “Someone obviously more important than a special envoy to the president,” Hood said with a trace of sarcasm.
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br />   “In this instance, yes,” Hasen said. “It was a friend of yours, actually. General Mike Rodgers.”

  Hood frowned. He had not yet conferred with Rodgers about coordinating their work here, because he was not yet sure what needed to be done. Obviously, that had not stopped Mike.

  Hood did not get to follow up because they reached the prime minister’s side. Le Kwan Po had been distracted by someone who was speaking through his own translator. The Russian ambassador, from the sound of it. The man looked vaguely familiar, and Hood wondered if they had met before. It was possible. He had been to Russia and had worked closely with Sergei Orlov, his counterpart at the Russian Op-Center in Saint Petersburg.

  My former counterpart, Hood reminded himself. Orlov was still running that facility.

  Hasen took that moment to present Hood to the young woman who had been translating for them.

  “Paul, allow me to introduce Ms. Anita Le, daughter of the prime minister,” Hasen said. “Ms. Le, this is Mr. Hood. Paul Hood. He is a presidential aide sent here and there to make sure administration policy is being upheld.”

  “The president should have more faith in his ambassadors,” Anita said to both men.

  “Some of us fall victim to a variation of the Stockholm syndrome,” the ambassador remarked.

  “You start to empathize with your hosts,” Anita said.

  “Speaking of hosts, I’m going to see if I can recapture the prime minister,” Hasen said. “Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course,” Anita said.

  Hasen left, and Hood asked Anita if she would like a drink. She said yes and motioned to a waiter. The whitejacketed young Chinese hurried over. She asked for champagne. Hood ordered a Coke.

  “Do you not drink?” the woman asked.

  “Rarely,” Hood replied. “I like to remember what I hear. More important, I like to remember what I said.”

  “Moderation, Mr. Hood.”

  “Not something Americans are very good at,” he replied.

  “I understand. When I was in school I read novels by Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Fitzgerald. The men were always drinking too much.”

  “The authors, too, I fear.”

  The woman smiled. Anita Le was a striking woman. She was dressed in a sequined white gown that did justice to her slender, athletic figure. She had straight black hair with hints of red and a round, open face with large eyes. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. She had poise that came from years of negotiating the sharp edges of life.

  Hood glanced over at Hasen. He was still trying to insert himself into a conversation with the prime minister. The crowd around him had grown considerably.

  “Is this your first visit to Beijing?”

  “It is,” Hood replied. “Do you work full-time as a translator?”

  “No. I teach literature at Beijing University. You can tell a lot about the ethos of a culture from its fiction.”

  “Do you follow contemporary literature or just the classics?”

  “I stay as current as time allows,” she said. “Though I must confess I have no particular interest in most of the work being produced by your country right now. Most of it is wish fulfillment for women and men, with very little to offer both. That divides rather than unites a culture.”

  “You mean romances for the women and spy stories for the men.”

  “Yes.”

  “I look at that stuff as aspirational,” Hood said. “It creates idealized heroes and heroines that make us want to be better.”

  “They are comic books for adults,” Anita replied dismissively.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Hood asked.

  “Popular literature is more about superficial external desires, to be strong or beautiful, than about internal growth,” she replied. “There was a time in the nineteenth and early twentieth century when American authors like Herman Melville and John Steinbeck and Upton Sinclair addressed social and psychological issues instead of fantasies.”

  “Fantasies have truth in them,” Hood said. “Moby-Dick is a fantasy.”

  “Only as far as the whale is concerned,” the woman replied, “and it is not to be taken literally. The white whale is a personification of Captain Ahab’s destructive desires.”

  “I’m sure many of the enemies in contemporary American literature can be seen that way.”

  “No,” the woman replied with a firm shake of her head. “The Chinese are inevitably portrayed as enemies, as are the Russians. These are very specific references in all your spy novels, your James Bond adventures, and they distort reality in a quest for propaganda.”

  “James Bond is British,” Hood pointed out.

  “An irrelevant detail. The mentality is still Western.”

  “To some degree,” Hood admitted the truth of that. “You have read James Bond novels?”

  “Only Dr. No,” she said. “I saw several of the films. Comedies, really. Dr. No was a villain born in Beijing, a member of several tong gangs, a man with a translucent yellow skin with a Chinese Negro bodyguard. Destroying American missiles with a laser beam while posing as an exporter of guano. Mr. Hood, have you ever met a Chinese like that?”

  “No,” he had to admit.

  “Or a dazzlingly brilliant spy like Mr. Bond, who announces his identity to everyone he meets while moving through the world in a tailored tuxedo?” Anita said. She gestured vaguely at Hood’s attire. “A spy would be discreet.”

  “One would think,” Hood said uncomfortably. He saw Hasen returning with the prime minister. Hood’s own powers of subtle intelligence gathering were about to be tested.

  Hood did not know if they would ever find common ground where literature or literary protagonists was concerned. But the woman spoke English magnificently, and while she had the aggressive confidence of an academic, she listened when he was speaking. There was curiosity at work.

  Anita’s manner changed instantly when the men returned. She moved between but slightly behind her father and Hood. Her chin was no longer high and proud but lowered, like her eyes. It was not subservience but respect. Hood wondered if the writers Anita disliked so much would have bothered to note the dynamics between a father and daughter, a prime minister and translator.

  Not the ones who had made Le Kwan Po a Fu Manchu–style tyrant, he reflected.

  Hood and the prime minister shook hands.

  “Mr. Hood. Mr. Hasen says you wished to meet me,” the prime minister said through Anita.

  “Yes, sir,” Hood replied. “Is there someplace we can talk for a moment, privately?”

  “Right here,” the prime minister said. “No one can hear us, and most do not understand English. If you speak and I listen, we will be secure.”

  “All right,” Hood said.

  “But, Mr. Hood—I know your name. Why is that?” the prime minister asked.

  “I’ve been in government for quite some time,” Hood replied.

  “In what capacity?”

  “Most recently as the director of the National Crisis Management Center,” Hood replied.

  “Yes, of course. The renowned Op-Center. Your spies uncovered plots around the world, prevented wars.”

  Anita looked at Hood as she finished translating. Her expression darkened, and Hood felt a flush.

  “Then you know, of course, General Michael Rodgers,” Le Kwan Po said.

  There was an edge to Anita’s voice that had not been there before. Anita had to feel as though Hood had been leading her, patronizing her.

  “Yes, sir. I worked very closely with General Rodgers for years.”

  “Are you here at his request?”

  “Only partly, sir,” Hood admitted. “The president also had reasons for sending me.”

  “I would like to hear those reasons,” Le Kwan Po said. “President Debenport seems to take a harder view of our government than his predecessor.”

  “Harder in what sense, Mr. Prime Minister?”

  “Black and white,” Le Kwan Po replied.

/>   “I cannot answer for the president, sir,” Hood said. “I can tell you that his regard for you personally is very high. As is mine.”

  “Thank you,” the prime minister replied. He looked at his watch. “The toasts do not begin for another forty minutes. Perhaps we had better go elsewhere.”

  “All right.”

  Le Kwan Po led the way through the crowd toward the back of the ballroom. Well-wishers bowed or clasped his hand. Le smiled politely and patiently as he continued moving forward. It was a tremendous political asset, being attentive without stopping, giving a moment of your time without breaking stride. Le did that and one thing more: he did not show any favoritism. Everyone got the same smile, the same moment of contact. Debenport—and James Bond—might see the Chinese as black, but Le Kwan Po was definitely gray.

  And his daughter was definitely annoyed. She was still walking behind her father, which meant she was walking behind Hood. He caught her sharp stare whenever he maneuvered around someone in the packed hall.

  The group reached the back of the hall. A soldier wearing a formal black uniform opened a door for the prime minister. Le extended an arm, urging the ambassador and Hood to enter. They did, followed by the prime minister and his daughter.

  Hood would talk to Anita later. He would try to explain that she was not wrong about so much spy fiction—though what is often distilled for narrative convenience is not necessarily false.

  Maybe you can invite her to go whale-watching, Hood thought. That would keep his record of wrongheaded approaches to women intact.

  For now, though, Hood had more important matters to deal with. Which was one way life and fiction differed very dramatically. Despite the tuxedo and impressive résumé, he doubted that any spy could attend to a crisis and a woman at the same time.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:22 P.M.