What Comes Around_An Alex Hawke Novella

by Ted Bell

  “Why?”

  “Simple. A few pantywaists in the U.S. Congress are thus far unwilling to go along with the PM’s scheme for fear of losing one of their big billion-dollar float babies. So, alas, our convoy scheme is paralyzed at the moment. But, look, we’re not going to sit around on our arses and let this stand. No, not for one blasted moment!”

  “What are we going to do about it, sir?”

  “You mean, what are you going to do about it, dear boy. That’s why I’m springing for lunch.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. No free lunch, as they say.”

  “Damn right. Never has been. Not in this man’s navy, at any rate.”

  “How can I help, sir? I’ve been sitting on the sidelines for far too long. I’ve got grass and flowers growing up through the soles of my shoes.”

  C looked around to establish whether anyone was within earshot. The aural perimeter thus secured, he said, “We at Six have established a back-channel communication with a high-ranking Chinese naval officer. Three-star admiral, in fact. Someone with a working brain in his head. Someone who does not want go to war over his own government’s deliberate and insane maritime provocations any more than we do.”

  Hawke leaned forward. The hook, having been set, now drew him nigh to the old master.

  “This sounds good.”

  “It is. Very.”

  “Congratulations, sir.”

  “What makes you think this one is mine, Alex?”

  “A wild guess.”

  “Well. Nevertheless.”

  “So,” Hawke said, “the Chinese are well aware that they cannot possibly afford to go to war with the West now. In a decade? Perhaps. But not now. They haven’t got the bottle for it. And, moreover, they haven’t got the arsenal.”

  “Of course not. According to our chaps on both sides of the pond, they are at least five to ten years behind the West in terms of advanced weaponry. And I mean both in the air and on the sea. No, it’s an obvious political ploy, albeit an extremely dangerous one.”

  “To what end?”

  “Simple. They wish to divert attention away from their burgeoning internal domestic turmoil, particularly Tibet, and the daily insanity run rampant in their ‘client state,’ North Korea. Thus this bellicose show of force. Show the peasant population and the increasingly restive middle class just how big, bad, and powerful the new boys are.”

  “Sheer insanity.”

  “Our world and welcome to it. But you, and I do mean you, Alex Hawke, with a little help from me, are going to put a stop to it. Even if it’s only a stopgap, temporary measure. I intend to buy us some time for diplomacy or other stratagems.”

  “Tell me how, sir.”

  “Operation Pacifist. Clever, eh? You’ll be reporting solely to me on this. Any information is strictly need-to-know. I have arranged a secret rendezvous for you. You will be meeting with a high-ranking Chinese admiral, whose name is Tsang, on a small island in a remote quadrant of the South China Sea. An uninhabited bit of paradise known as Xiachuan Island. Tsang wants to talk about a way he sees out of this extraordinarily dangerous confrontation with the West. Then it will become a matter of whether or not we can get the PM and Washington to go along with whatever proposals you come home with.”

  “Why me?”

  “Security. He said any meeting with our side had to be conducted in absolute secrecy, for obvious reasons, and that he wanted a completely untraceable contact. In a remote location known only to him and me. Together we selected Xiachuan Island. Completely deserted for years. It was home to a World War II Japanese air force base, but abandoned because of Japan’s current territorial dispute with China.”

  “How does one visit this island paradise?”

  “One flies. There is a serviceable eight-thousand-foot airstrip there that should accommodate you nicely.”

  “What kind of bus shall I be driving?”

  “An American F-35C Lightning. One of ours. Especially modified for nighttime insertions. All the latest offensive and defensive goodies, I assure you. Kinetic energy weapons and all that. The sort of thing you enjoy.”

  “Lovely airplane. Always wanted another crack at one.”

  “Well, my boy, you’ll get one. First thing tomorrow morning, in fact. I’ve already cleared your calendar. You’ll report at seven to Lakenheath RAF. Three days of intensive flight training in the Lightning with a USAF chief instructor off your wingtip. Courtesy of CIA and President McCloskey’s White House. Then off you go into the wild blue yonder.”

  “Aye-aye, sir. I think McCloskey has shown rather a lot of courage in this Chinese showdown. He’s a hard-liner and just what we need at present. I just hope he keeps his wits about him. These are dangerous waters we’re entering, full of political mines and razor-sharp shoals.”

  “Indeed. The mainstream American press is hounding the president relentlessly, aren’t they? Look at his poll numbers. He just needs to stand his ground against this senseless Chinese and North Korean bullying.”

  “Hmm. One thing if I may. This admiral, how high ranking is he, exactly? I mean to say, is he powerful enough to actually defuse this latest crisis?”

  “High enough. He is the Chinese chief of naval operations.”

  Hawke smiled. “Start at the top and work your way up. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And how much of a gratuity am I going to be transporting to the good admiral in return for all this assistance in defusing the global crisis from the inside?”

  “One hundred million pounds sterling. Cash. In a lockbox you’ll carry in the cockpit with you.”

  Hawke whistled and said, “That’s all?”

  “If you succeed, it’s worth every shilling. Now, let’s order some lunch and talk of more pleasant things. I understand our mutual friend, Ambrose Congreve, is to be wed next Christmas. I assume you’re to be best man?”

  “Well . . . to be honest, I don’t really know. I would assume so. But I haven’t heard from him on the subject.”

  “Didn’t mean to step into that one.”

  “Not at all. Perhaps they’ve called the whole thing off and he simply hasn’t the heart to tell me.”

  Sir David picked up his menu and began to study it intently.

  “Well. You will find an obsessively complete dossier on Operation Pacifist waiting for you when you get home to Hawkesmoor. Motorcycle courier just dropping it off with Pelham now. Memorize it and burn it. Now, then, Alex, what will you be having for lunch?”

  “Not sure, sir. What looks expensive?”

  CHAPTER 5

  The White House

  PRESIDENT TOM MCCLOSKEY stared at the live feed from the East China Sea. He was, he knew in some secret part of him, in a state of shock. Hell, all of them were in shock—McCloskey himself; his close friend since Annapolis, Vice President David Rosow; his beautiful new and wildly popular secretary of state, Kim Oakley Case; the always reliable secretary of defense, Anson Beard; and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Charlie Moore.

  And all the rest of the crisis team; every one of them had been staring at the Situation Room screens for over an hour.

  What they were seeing up there was real-time terror. Innocent American lives were being threatened half a world away, and there was not one damn thing he or anybody else in the White House or over at State, CIA, or the Pentagon could do about it. Not one damn thing.

  “Shit,” he whispered under his breath. “Shit.”

  China and her increasingly bellicose surrogate, North Korea, as of forty-eight hours ago, were staging joint naval war games in the East China Sea. North Korea had made a big show of it for the press, trotting out their latest warships. According to his most recent CIA naval intelligence briefing, and some help from British intelligence, it was clear that China had long been planning to use the Nor
th Korean navy as a pawn in this little game of their own. Test American resolve.

  But how?

  Nobody at CIA, State, the Pentagon, or any other intelligence agency had prepared him for this. This was a goddamn nightmare, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. The whole country was coming unglued over a few inadvertent remarks he’d made at the G 7 summit in Prague the week before. Jesus Christ. The media, no friends of his in the run-up to the damn election, were all over him for a couple of misstatements he’d made to Putin about China.

  The joint press event was over and done with and he’d assumed the mikes were dead. Reasonable assumption.

  They weren’t.

  What he’d said was innocent enough. The once-powerful Putin, now increasingly in danger of becoming China’s bitch, was playing hardball with the United States over China’s currency manipulations. And McCloskey hadn’t come this far to be backed into a corner by the Russian’s trumped-up tough-guy act, and he was planning to draw a line in the sand and call the Russian’s bluff. But he wasn’t going to tell Putin that, no sir. He was going to sow a few seeds of disinformation and let the Kremlin show its cards. His own wife had told him what a shrewd idea it was, f’crissakes.

  So what he said to the Russian was, “Prime Minister, just give me a little wiggle room here. Just enough to get through the All-Asia Conference next month. After that, I can show a lot more flexibility. Trust me.”

  And for that, a few offhand comments taken completely out of context, he was paying a steep price. Using up a lot of political capital to hold his fragile coalition together. Had the Senate whip and the Speaker of the House breathing down his neck, wanting him to issue a clarifying statement.

  Hell, he had Tom Friedman and the New York Times questioning his fitness for office. The Washington Post! The Post ran a goddamn editorial in the most recent Sunday edition headlined “Is He Losing It?” Well, so be it. Politics at this level was a game for those who could take the heat, stay in the kitchen, and keep their heads in the fucking oven.

  And now this!

  At 0441 hours GMT, a North Korean fast-attack warship had deliberately rammed and disabled a small and lightly armed U.S. Navy surveillance vessel now taking on water in the disputed international region of the East China Sea. It was a moonless night, there was fog, but there was no conceivable excuse for the USN captain’s behavior.

  In a state of relatively minor duress, he had folded his cards and surrendered his vessel to the North Koreans, for God’s sake. Was the U.S. skipper insane?

  The U.S. boat was CIA, of course, but the captain of the North Korean vessel didn’t know that. All he knew was that his claim of territorial incursion and his demand to board (backed up by overwhelming firepower) had been granted by the U.S. skipper.

  Now, the president of the United States and his team watched as four young able-bodied American seamen, bound and blindfolded, were kneeling side by side with their backs against a steel bulkhead on the foredeck of their vessel.

  The American skipper and his crew were being held at gunpoint up on the bridge. God knew what was going up there, McCloskey thought, feeling a sense of impotent rage come close to overwhelming him.

  An oddly tall and lean Korean officer was screaming at the four captives, bending down, getting right up into their faces.

  “What’s that bastard saying?” McCloskey said to the State Department translator.

  He told him.

  “Son of a bitch,” the president muttered.

  “He’s got a gun!” someone at the table said.

  The NK navy officer stepped in front of one of the Americans and stuck a large black automatic pistol up under his chin. The officer was red-faced and screaming at the sailor now, venting all his pent-up hatred and anger on the helpless sailor.

  Everyone in the room saw the blindfolded youth working his mouth and knew instantly what would happen next.

  “Don’t do it, boy!” General Charles Moore, chairman of the Joint Chiefs said to the screen. “Don’t give that bastard any excuse, son! None, no way, never.”

  “Oh, Christ,” McCloskey said, “no, no, no.”

  The sailor spat, catching the hysterical officer square in the face.

  The Korean officer recoiled in anger, using the sleeve of his uniform to wipe away the saliva.

  He suddenly raised his arm and drove the pistol into the sailor’s face, smashing his nose into a red pulp.

  “Sonofabitch!” the president said, leaning forward, his face twisted in anger.

  Further enraged by the sight of blood, the North Korean officer put the barrel of his automatic between the young American’s eyes . . . and pulled the trigger.

  The dead sailor slumped forward, facedown on the cold wet deck.

  “Tell me I’m not seeing this,” the president said, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen.

  “He’s going to execute all four,” General Moore said in a steady voice that sounded oddly detached.

  And, as they all watched in abject horror, that is exactly what he did. Head shots, at close range.

  A pin could drop.

  “Turn that damn thing off,” the president said.

  “Off, Mr. President?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  An ashen-faced aide made a throat-cutting motion, and the monitors all went black at once.

  “That’s better, isn’t it?” McCloskey said, propping his polished cowboy boots on an empty chair and firing up a Marlboro.

  No one said a word.

  “It’s a bitch, ain’t it?” the president said to no one in particular. “Four of our boys dead. The goddam NKs in possession of one of our CIA shit-buckets chock-full of classified information. Damn it to hell. Somebody give me a good reason not to turn North Korea into a goddamn NK-Mart parking lot. China, too, if they dick around with our navy anymore. I’m serious. I’ll tell you all one thing. I’d like to know what Admiral Wainwright has to say about all this. Tony? What the hell am I going to do now?”

  A palpable pall of shocked silence hung over the room.

  “Tony?” the president repeated, swiveling around, searching all the faces in the room.

  Finally, someone had the guts to speak up. Secretary of State Kim Case, which surprised no one.

  “Mr. President?” the slim, attractive blonde said.

  “Yeah, Kim, what is it?”

  “Admiral Wainwright is dead, sir. He died in the terrorist attack on the Dreadnought in Tripoli last May.”

  The president was very quiet for a long time before he looked up, staring at the secretary, his face a stone mask.

  “I know that, Kim. What I said was, I’d like to know what he thought. And I would like to know that, I really would. But he’s dead. Isn’t he?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. He is.”

  A stunned silence descended.

  No one said a word. What more was there to say?

  Emily Young, the president’s lovely young personal secretary, could be heard sobbing quietly in dark corner of the room. Emily didn’t think she could take much more of this. She loved the old cowboy. Actually was in love with him. It killed her to see the boss like this, a wounded stag. And all of them, the press, with their goddamn knives out . . . and, like a mule in a hailstorm, he just had to stand there and take it.

  She heard the president say, “Emily, for crissakes, will you stop bawling? What the hell is wrong with everybody?”

  There was no answer.

  The president stood, looked around at all the upturned faces, and said, “Well, thank you everyone. We’ll reconvene in one hour.”

  After they filed out, he sat back down again, gazing absently into the middle distance, smoking his Marlboro down to a bright orange coal. He’d never felt so lost and alone in his life.

  THE WHITE HOUSE sous-chef looked
beat.

  It was almost midnight on a Friday night and, for Chef Tommy Chow, it had already been a very long week. First thing Monday morning, Matt Lauer and the whole damn Today show crew had shown up early for a live broadcast and wanted breakfast. Then the lavish state dinner for the prime minister of England, the Rose Garden luncheon the First Lady held annually for the Daughters of the American Revolution, and on and on, no rest for the weary.

  And now he’d gotten a last-minute call from the ranking West Wing staffer saying the president had invited a few of his closest cabinet members for an impromptu breakfast in the morning. Talk about China and North Korea, Tommy imagined. Hell, that’s all they ever talked about lately.

  “Go home, Tommy,” one of his guys said. “You look exhausted. We can finish the prep by ourselves.”

  “No. I insist. You guys head out. I promised the boss man I’d take care of this breakfast thing and I’m going to do it. Seriously, get the hell out of here and go home to your families, okay? I got no family. Not here in Washington anyway. Leave the graveyard shift to me. Okay?”

  “You got it, boss. Have it your way,” the pastry chef said, and they all bolted for the exits.

  Chow waited until the last one had left before he began prepping tomorrow’s cabinet breakfast. Huevos rancheros, the presidential favorite, home fries, frijoles refritos with melted Monterey Jack, rashers of bacon and jalapeño-flavored sausage patties, honey biscuits, and hot sauce. Tex-Mex, they called it. Hardly his idea of haute cuisine, but they didn’t care for that much upstairs anymore.

  A rueful smile flitted across Chow’s face as he stirred what he privately referred to as his “secret sauce” into the president’s eggs.

  The graveyard shift, he mouthed silently.

  Truer words would never be spoken.

  Not in this White House, anyway.

  CHAPTER 6

  South China Sea

  A LOUD, KEENING wail suddenly filled the Lightning’s cockpit. Holy mother of God, Hawke thought, he’d just been painted by enemy radar!

  He whipped his head around and saw the Chinese SAM missile’s fiery flame signature streaking up toward his Lightning, dead on his six, homing in on the afterburner. By the speed of the incoming, he guessed it to be one of the newer Hong Qi 61s. Where the hell had it come from? Some kind of new Chinese radar-proof shore battery on a nearby atoll? None of his so-called sophisticated gadgetry had even picked the damn thing up!