He was a part of all that, and he was also apart from it, like one of the gods of old China. He had insight into what was coming and the tools to affect it. He was also vulnerable to these events. The thrill was constant.
As long as all the gear worked, Fa Khan was happy. Not many men got to sit where he was. As he prepared to take off into a sun-drenched morning, he did what he did every day: he cherished his life and work.
Fa Khan’s patrol sector was Sector Seventeen. That took him northwest for 200 kilometers and then east 150 kilometers over the Yellow Sea. He returned via a southward course over the East China Sea, then east again in a long loop that brought him west to return to base. It was a 1,400-kilometer round trip, 200 kilometers within the MiG’s maximum range. If Fa Khan spotted uncharted sea traffic—smugglers were a primary target—or if he faced an engagement with the enemy, he would be able to meet them, hold them until reinforcements could arrive, and still return to base.
These patrols were vital to national security. China did not yet have the satellite capabilities of the United States, Russia, and their allies. That would begin to change later this morning with the launch from Xichang. If he was lucky, he might be in a position to spot the flames of the launch and the mighty contrail as the rocket sped into the heavens.
Lieutenant Commander Fa Khan had only been aloft for a few minutes, his heart still racing from the G forces he took during his sharp climb, when he received a coded communiqué from the tower. It was a series of five doubledigit numbers, followed by a time code in letters, followed by another number. He put the MiG on autopilot as he wrote the figures on a pad that hung from a chain below the altimeter. Since he was still in his ascent to 22,000 feet, the pad was hanging slightly toward him, the always-reliable low-tech plumb in his cockpit. The tower asked Fa Khan to repeat the numbers, which he did. When the radio officer confirmed that the read-back was accurate, the lieutenant commander signed off. He referred to a thick but compact map book in a lockbox beneath the seat.
There were four maps on each page of the volume. The numbers referred to a section number, a page number, a map number, and then two coordinates. The last two numbers pinpointed a patrol zone.
Fa Khan raised the visor of his helmet as he looked at the map. He checked it against the numbers. Twice. Then again.
There was no mistake.
He went back to the pad and worked out the letters. The corresponding numbers were six, zero, zero. Six o’clock in the morning. That was a little less than two hours from now.
The lieutenant commander had no idea what was up, but he knew how much time and fuel it would take him to reach the target zone. He calculated backward so he would arrive exactly at six A.M. He would also keep an eye open for other aircraft that would be converging on the target, a point just outside the territorial waters of the breakaway republic of Taiwan. The last number of the series indicated that Fa Khan would be joined by seventeen other fighter jets from Dachang. That was the remainder of his squadron as well as two other squadrons.
Apparently, this was a day when change was coming a little faster than normal.
And yet, one thing did not change: the determination in his eyes and spirit as he altered his flight path slightly in preparation for the rendezvous.
FORTY-FOUR
Beijing, China Thursday, 5:11 A.M.
Paul Hood woke early.
The car to take him to the airport was arriving at six. From there, he would fly to Xichang. He lay in bed for a while, hoping to get back to sleep. But his mind was instantly on patrol, marching toward problems on the near and far horizon.
He did not want to think right now. There was no new information and no way to get it. He grabbed a book he had packed, a biography of the explorer Richard Francis Burton. It had arrived at his apartment shortly before he left. It was in a box of books his former wife had sent him. Sharon was still packing up his things and shipping them out when she had the time. Presumably, to make room for the stuff her boyfriend was leaving at the house, like his videotape collection of the Washington Redskins’ greatest games.
He stopped reading when Burton took an African spear through both cheeks. The graphic attack by tribesmen did not induce sleep. Hood set the book aside and just sat there. He was jet-lagged but overstimulated by his frustrating lack of information. He was used to having people to turn to, a team, specialists. None of that had been set up before his departure. Hood was in the midst of the evolving situation, yet he knew very little about the scenario or the dynamics between the different players.
He thought about Anita instead. She was completely devoted to her work and to her father. There did not appear to be room or need for anything else. Men at the party did not seem to notice her. Most probably knew who she was. Perhaps they had tried talking to her before and were put off.
Not everyone is a professional small-talker, Hood reminded himself.
Anita apparently stayed in the two worlds where she felt comfortable: ivory-tower politics and academia. If anyone wanted to be with her, it had to be within those two disciplines. There was something to be said for that. Although it made her a poor spy, as she had demonstrated, it would be very difficult for anyone to take her by surprise, intellectually or emotionally.
The secure cell phone was set on Silent, so the light flashed without ringing. Hood reached over and picked it up. It was Bob Herbert.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Herbert said.
“No. What’s up?”
“An unusual Chinese military buildup in response to a traditional Taiwanese military exercise,” Herbert said. “Have you heard anything about that?”
“No.”
“Is there anyone you have met who might know about it?” Herbert asked.
“I can ask the prime minister later, with the caveat that it probably won’t do any good,” Hood said. “If he does know anything, he might not be inclined to share the information with me. Have you talked to Mike?”
“Not yet,” Herbert said. “I’m frankly at a loss here.”
“You sound like it.”
“Is it that bad?”
“You sound winded.”
“Maybe. I feel like I’m sitting on the sidelines, though I don’t know if I’m catching my breath or scratching my butt,” Herbert admitted.
“It’s that dry out there?”
“Arid,” Herbert said. “You know how Chinese politics are. No one says anything to anybody.”
“Yes. I experienced that firsthand,” Hood admitted.
“All we see are the shadow results of conflicts, the explosions in Charleston and South Africa. Our associates in D.C. and Interpol have no more information than we do about what is behind this or what might be next. Sergei Orlov had some background on the key players. Chou Shin was considered a moderate because he was trying to reconcile the ‘brother’ Communists of China and the Soviet Union. When the S.U. fell, he turned on Moscow with a series of pretty riled-up speeches.”
“The spurned lover,” Hood said.
“Yeah. Communism is a religion to him, and he will die for it,” Herbert said. “According to Orlov, the other nutcase—General Tam Li—is not a martyr. But he is an aggressive bastard who will risk his life or the lives of others to increase his power base. All of which tells us what we already know: these guys are dangerous. We need to try to find out if the Chinese action is related to the Taiwanese drill, the rocket launch, or something else.”
Herbert’s frustration came through the phone. It sucked hope from the room, from Hood.
“There is not much we can do about the armies,” Hood said. “We should concentrate on the rocket.”
“I figured Mike would be all over that with his marines,” Herbert said. “I got General Carrie to lend them to him.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“He’s not in command, but they’ll listen to him.”
“Of course.” Hood felt marginalized. But the generalto-general sympatics was inevitable.
“What about you?” Herbert asked.
“I did not get anywhere with the prime minister or his daughter, and I’m frankly at a loss what to do next.”
“Hence being awake at a few minutes after five in the morning.”
“Exactly,” Hood replied.
“What was the daughter like?” Herbert asked. “Businesslike and severe?”
“Businesslike yes, but very feminine.”
“Is there something there you can work?”
“I don’t think so,” Hood said. “Her father comes first. Everyone else comes a very distant second. I’m stumped, Bob.”
“Didn’t this sort of thing play out differently once upon a time?” Herbert asked plaintively.
“You mean, ‘Remember when we used to win these things?’ ” Hood asked.
“Well, I’m not willing to write this one off—”
“Nor am I,” Hood assured him. “But we did seem to have more control hunkered in the Tank with Striker in the field.”
“That was the hub. Now we’re in the fringes.”
“Not by choice,” Hood pointed out. “We’ve been pushed out by younger or more aggressive individuals with stronger beliefs. Or if not stronger, they put more muscle behind what they do believe.”
“Christ, Paul. You sound like an old soldier.”
“Bob, I am—we are,” Hood insisted. “We have been marginalized by people of passion, by people who want to build a career or an army or an ideology, or else destroy one.”
“I never thought I would hear you call me a moderate,” Herbert joked.
“You are devoted to your people,” Hood said. “Loudly, fiercely, but completely. That keeps you from watching your own ass, from elbowing your way to the front of the line.”
“I like where I am. And I do not see anything wrong with being one of the guys who holds it all together from the middle.”
“Which is exactly what I’m talking about,” Hood replied. “No one is a centrist anymore.” Hood was starting to get annoyed. Not with the vague, imagined usurpers but with himself. There was resignation in his voice, and he did not like that. “Look, I’ve got to get ready to go. The government car will be here soon.”
“And I have to take another walk around the intel we have collected,” Herbert said. “Have you thought about your own safety at the launch?”
“Not really. We’ll be in a bunker—”
“The concrete will protect you from an explosion, not from radiation,” Herbert cautioned.
“I guess we will just have to make sure that nothing happens,” Hood said.
“That’s a goal, not a plan,” Herbert said.
“I know.”
Hood’s conversation with Bob Herbert was different, too. There was a time when the men would have been discussing very specific options about evolving situations. Ideas would be on the table, intelligence would be in the data stream, and answers would emerge. Instead, they sat here complaining, like old men on a park bench reminiscing about the good old days.
Hood did not like that, either. He had always prided himself on being a professional. And for him, by definition, that was someone who did his best, even when he did not feel like it. Maybe it was post-traumatic shock about being plucked from Op-Center, but he was not doing his best. He and Herbert were like mice in a maze, moving along a route they did not know to a goal they could not see.
That had to change.
Now.
“Bob, we need to take another walk around this situation. There has to be something we’ve missed.”
“Such as? We’ve gone over the launch site, the schedule—”
“There must be something in the individuals, their personalities, their past actions that we can use.”
“Sure,” Herbert said. “Say, are you okay?”
“Why?”
“A minute ago you sounded down,” Herbert said. “Now you sound like you’re speeding.”
“It’s a new day and an important one,” Hood explained, rising. He had not intended that to be metaphorical, but it was both literally and figuratively true. “You’re right. We don’t have a plan, and we need one, something better than planting my ass in a concrete bunker and waiting for something to happen.”
Herbert was silent for a moment. “How about this,” he said. “Don’t go to the bunker. Ask to go somewhere else.”
“Where? A representative of the president of the United States will not be given an all-access pass.”
“Will Le’s daughter be there?” Herbert asked.
“Yes.”
“What if you could convince her that the prime minister is in danger?” Herbert asked.
“And use that how?”
“I am isolating potential targets at the launch site for Mike’s team,” Herbert said. “Maybe you can have a look at them as well. Between you and the marines, we can cover more territory.”
“I think Le and his daughter might go for that,” Hood said. “I’ll talk to them when I get there.”
“I like it,” Herbert said. “I’ll send the likeliest sites to your laptop. If you check it en route to the facility, I can talk to Mike about dividing the duties.”
“Absolutely,” Hood told him. “If I have any questions, I’ll give you a shout.”
“I’ll be here,” Herbert assured him. Now the intelligence chief sounded energized as well.
Hood hung up and took a quick shower. The water invigorated his body the way the ideas had invigorated his mind. Both contributed to the much-needed renewal of Hood’s spirit.
At least one thing had not changed over the years: Hood’s capacity to bootstrap himself and those around him. What the old Op-Center team may have lacked in zealousness they made up for in endurance and dedication.
That was not nothing.
At the moment, it could be everything.
FORTY-FIVE
Zhuhai, China Thursday, 7:18 A.M.
Tam Li was dozing at his desk when the intercom came on. He did not start at the sound, because he never slept very deeply. It was a habit soldiers acquired if they wanted to survive. He picked up the phone.
“Go ahead.”
“General, an aircraft is approaching from Beijing,” the orderly reported. “It is carrying Chou Shin of the Guoanbu.”
“How do you know?”
“We advised the pilot that the base is in a lockdown situation because of the maneuvers off Taipei,” the orderly replied. “The pilot insisted that command did not apply to his passenger.”
That was not good. Not at all. “Are they landing?” the general asked.
“They said they will, with or without assistance from the tower,” the orderly informed him.
“Bring them down,” the general said. “Send two security units to meet the aircraft and take them all into custody.”
“Arrest the Guoanbu director?” the orderly asked.
“And everyone with him.”
“Yes, sir,” the orderly said. “The security detachment leader will need to know the charge.”
“Murder,” Tam Li said without hesitation.
“Sir?”
“Chou Shin has committed homicidal acts of terrorism abroad.”
“Yes, sir,” the orderly said. “If there is resistance?”
“Tell the detachment leader to resist back!” the general shouted. He slammed the receiver into the cradle and looked at his watch. He did not need to prove the charges or even make them survive the morning. All he needed was for Chou Shin and the leadership at the launch site to be out of the way for the next few hours. After that, there would be a military crisis that only military leaders could solve.
The general was now completely awake. His olive green jacket was draped on the back of the chair. He got up and put it on. He tugged the hem to remove the wrinkles. He tugged it hard.
The bastard provocateur, he thought angrily. Chou Shin may have thought to confront the general and bully him into aborting his plan. That would not happen. In fact, Chou S
hin would not set eyes on Tam Li until a frightened nation had surrendered its will to the military. Not only would a general become the effective leader of one billion Chinese, but Chou’s antiquated Communist ideology would be buried at last and for all time. In a way, his arrival here was timely. Tam Li had planned to tell the prime minister that he was remaining in Zhuhai to watch the Taiwanese deployment in the strait, claiming it was more significant than usual. Now he could add to that the curious arrival of Director Chou, who was also supposed to be at the launch. The general would tell the prime minister that he was analyzing the data with the help of the Guoanbu.
Tam Li left the room with long, bold strides and entered a corridor that connected his office with the rest of the officers’ compound. The morning light was coming over the strait in strong yellow splashes. The pale green carpet of the hallway looked like solid amber. The general did not notice the salutes of his command as he passed. His eyes were on an office ahead, the headquarters of the strategic planning officer, Colonel Hark. He entered without knocking. The tall, lean Hark was standing at an electronic table with four other officers. The men all turned and saluted smartly as the general entered. He returned the salute perfunctorily and stood beside the table. A map of the region was being projected from below. Electronic blips on top showed the position of every commercial plane and ship in the area.
“What is our status?” Tam Li demanded.
“The forward aerial strike force is thirty-five percent deployed,” the colonel replied. “The naval task force is nearly twenty-five percent deployed. Everything is precisely on schedule.”
“I want our forces boosted to fifty percent—full deployment within the hour,” Tam Li ordered.
Hark regarded the general with open surprise. The other officers remained at attention.
“General, the Americans will see it on satellite,” Hark pointed out. “They will suspect we are sending out more than a routine patrol.”
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