by Jeff Edwards
The car was one of the new Zhonghua M-1s that the Party was so proud of. Five and a half meters of sleek, lacquered black steel, which they were heralding as the first truly all-Chinese limousine. When he’d first seen it, Tian had found himself smiling at the irony posed by the car’s very existence. China’s leading auto manufacturer, the state-owned Brilliance China Automotive, had been forced to partner with BMW (German capitalists) and Italdesign (Italian capitalists) to produce their all-Chinese masterpiece of communist automotive engineering.
The Politburo had chosen to carefully ignore strategic parts of that partnership, the same way that they had chosen to ignore a hundred other changes brought on by globalization and the Information Age. They were so confident in the inherent superiority of the communist social and economic model that they continued to operate as if their actions took place in a vacuum. If Tiananmen Square had taught them nothing else, they should have learned that the world was watching China. To act in ignorance of this fact was to court trouble. Which was, ultimately, why Tian found himself being called across town in the rain and the dark to answer for the actions of his government. He sighed. His country still had much to learn.
Tian fidgeted with his coat buttons and drew the collar more tightly around his neck. He did not yet know why the American president had summoned him at this hour, and that lack of knowledge left him with a cold spot in the pit of his stomach. He did not know what the Americans were going to say, but he knew from the way they had chosen to say it, that it was not going to be good.
At the beginning of his diplomatic career, Tian had viewed the intricacies of state protocol with a critical eye. In the vanity of his youth, he had dismissed the diplomatic ceremonies and rules of political etiquette as nothing more than useless rituals. But thirty years in his country’s diplomatic service had opened his eyes to many things, not the least of which was the foolishness of his own youth. Protocol (and the Americans thought of it that way in their own language—with a capital “P”) went far beyond ritual. As the Americans practiced it, Protocol was more than a system of rules for diplomatic communication; it was a language in and of itself. It was a rich and subtle language, in which every detail had meaning.
Tian checked his watch. Tonight’s meeting was an excellent example. To begin with, the president wanted to meet directly with Tian. That was a most disturbing development. Other than the little ceremony that took place when he accepted the diplomatic credentials of a new ambassador, the president rarely met with ambassadors at all. Meetings with foreign ambassadors were usually entrusted to the secretary of state or an appointed underling. For the president to call for a personal meeting with an ambassador was nearly always a signal of extremely unusual circumstances. The very thought made Tian nervous, and he checked his watch again. No, traffic was light, and he would be on time. He took a breath.
The Americans had given Tian another hint of possible problems when they’d asked him to come alone. Under normal circumstances, he would have been accompanied by his deputy chief of mission. By excluding Tian’s deputy from the invitation, the Americans were forcing the ambassador to face them alone. This was, of course, their prerogative, but it was one that the Americans rarely exercised. It was another bad sign, and Tian was not at all pleased with the prospect of walking alone into a room full of angry Americans.
The designated location for the meeting was yet another clue. There were three traditional choices for diplomatic meetings in the White House. The Roosevelt Room had a neutral connotation, and the majority of diplomatic meetings were conducted there. The West Wing Lobby was Dao shan huo hai—a mountain of swords and sea of flames. The Americans had an equivalent expression. What was it? The doghouse? Yes … the West Wing Lobby was the doghouse. An ambassador called to a meeting there could be certain that he had angered the American government.
But no, tonight’s meeting was scheduled for the Oval Office, the third and by far the least common site for diplomatic conferences. The selection of the Oval Office meant one of two things, each of which were—oddly enough—at opposite ends of the spectrum. If the president wanted to ask a favor of China, or of Shaozu Tian himself, he might call for an Oval Office meeting. The favor would have to be enormous for the Americans to invoke such a rare privilege. And, though Tian had racked his brain to the point of a headache, he could not think of a single favor China could bestow that might warrant such treatment. Which meant that, in all probability, the Oval Office had been selected for the second reason: the president was angry at China. Not just angry either, spectacularly angry. Too angry for the doghouse—a thought that made Tian squirm uncomfortably in the limousine’s leather seat. Maybe even dangerously angry. And he was calling in the ambassador of the People’s Republic so that he could vent his wrath in person, in the Oval Office—the very seat of his country’s power.
Such a meeting could conceivably lead to the disruption of diplomatic ties, or even trade embargoes and the loss of Most Favored Nation status. It was even conceivable that a meeting of that sort might serve as a precursor to war. Tian realized that his armpits were damp. The more he thought about it, the more this promised to be an ugly night.
* * *
As the limousine slid to a stop before the black steel bars of the diplomatic security gate that led to the White House grounds, Tian peered out the windshield through the rhythmic sweep of the wipers. The limousine had diplomatic license plates, which made the interior spaces sovereign Chinese territory, and therefore, immune to inspection. But the exterior of the car was—through the vagaries of diplomatic custom—classified as U.S. territory and was subject to inspection.
The steel gate slid open, and Tian’s driver eased the big car forward into a three-sided enclosure built from the same black steel bars that supported the rest of the White House fence. As soon as the limousine braked to a stop, the gate slid shut behind it, leaving the car boxed and helpless in a steel cage. My predicament exactly, Tian thought. Boxed in and helpless.
An expressionless armed Marine guard stepped out of the concrete guardhouse and walked over to stand in the rain near the driver’s window—hands tucked behind his back and feet spread shoulder-width apart in the formal posture known as parade rest. A pair of dark-uniformed Secret Service agents with powerful flashlights and inspection mirrors conducted a thorough search of the car’s wheel wells and the underside of the chassis, working smoothly from the front of the car toward the rear. The men moved with determination and precision, not letting the pouring rain deter them, or hurry their procedures in the slightest.
When their visual inspection was finally complete, the Secret Service personnel backed away from the limousine and took up positions near the inner gate. One of them raised his right wrist to his mouth and spoke quietly into a microphone concealed in his sleeve.
A few seconds later, another pair of Secret Service agents stepped out of the guardhouse. Each of these men carried a device that looked like a cross between a lunch box and a vacuum cleaner. They were smaller than the models in use at the Chinese Embassy, but Tian had no trouble recognizing them through the rain-blurred window. They were ion-spectrometers: machines that sucked in air and sniffed it for the specific trace molecules given off by explosive chemicals. It was the electronic equivalent of a dog’s nose.
Tian hoped that the smaller American spectrometers were smarter than the Chinese models. The ones at the embassy had a tendency to sound their alarms upon detecting the nitroglycerin in Tian’s heart medication.
Despite the downpour, the Secret Service agents went to work at once, letting their machines sniff the exterior of the car, in a pattern that closely duplicated the visual inspection that their fellow agents had just completed. And, like their fellow agents, they gave no hint of even noticing the rain that pounded down on them from the dark Washington sky. Tian could not help but admire their patience and determination.
Satisfied at last, the Secret Service agents retreated into the guardhouse. The Marine guard
took a step backward, came to attention, and saluted. As if in response, the inner gate slid open, allowing Tian’s limousine access to the White House grounds. With barely a nod of acknowledgment, Tian’s silent driver steered the car into the White House driveway and turned toward the famed West Wing.
Tian reached across the seat for his diplomatic pouch, pulled it to him, and held it in his lap. The esteemed members of the Politburo could not seem to grasp the fact that the Americans were different now. The terrorist attacks on New York and Washington had changed them, hardened them—as fire hardens steel. They were less trusting now and a good deal less naive about world affairs. And—after decades spent trying to broker peace at nearly any price—they had become awfully eager to reach for their guns. Surely the American invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq were ample evidence of that.
Tian tightened his grip on the diplomatic pouch, rubbing the largest, most familiar nick in the old leather with the ball of his thumb. He had not been told why he was being called to task, so he was reduced to guessing—a thoroughly uncomfortable situation for an international diplomat to find himself in. If the Americans were truly angry, it might well be over his country’s most recent ballistic missile test. Based on that as yet untested assumption, his staff had drafted extensive notes on potential arguments that he might employ. His diplomatic pouch contained twenty-two pages of Chinese pictographs in the neat calligraphy of his deputy chief of mission. Tian did not anticipate having to refer to those notes. He had read and re-read them until he could nearly recite them from memory. Still, there was a vague comfort in the knowledge that they were available to him if needed—the same sense of sufficiency that came from knowing that your vehicle carried a spare tire, even if you did not expect to need it, or know how to change it.
His staff had done their work well, and Tian intended to score some points—provided that the missile test did, in fact, prove to be the subject of this meeting. Despite his preparations, he had no desire to argue this point. Unfortunately, he had no choice—his orders from the Politburo were unmistakable. If the Americans raised the issue of the missile test, he was to give no ground. The words of Premier Xiao had been quite clear on this: Bu huan er san—to part on hard terms—was acceptable. He was not to bend, or even appear to bend on this matter.
Tian shifted in his seat and hoped fervently that he had guessed wrong. This was an issue on which it was not even remotely wise to anger the Americans. They had become quick to react to anything they perceived as a threat, and these days it was difficult to predict what would fall into that category.
Despite his hopes to the contrary, he had little doubt that the missile test would be the topic of this meeting. He would know in a few seconds. The Laws of Protocol were about to give him a final clue. He would be able to take a reading on the disposition of the Americans according to who was waiting to meet him at the entrance to the West Wing. If tempers were reasonable, he would be greeted by David Spiros, the National Security Council country officer assigned to China. If the Americans were pleased with China, or if they wanted to ask a favor, they would send Gregory Brenthoven, the national security advisor himself. If they were truly angry, they would send a minor functionary from the NSC, probably someone whom Tian would not recognize.
The limousine pulled out of the rain under the curved overhang of the West Wing portico and stopped opposite the marble steps that led into the White House. The rhythmic whunk-whunk of the wipers swept the windshield uselessly a few times before the driver shut them off. Heart in his mouth and lips pressed tightly together, Tian peered through the steamy window toward the door at the top of the steps. It was guarded by a pair of United States Marines in full dress uniforms. As was the custom, one of the Marines came to attention and honored the Chinese Embassy’s vehicle with a crisp salute. Then the guard dropped his salute and marched down the steps to open the rear door of the limousine.
Able to learn nothing further from his vantage point in the back seat, Tian uttered a sigh and, clutching his leather diplomatic pouch, pulled himself from the automobile. Then, as Tian stood and straightened his suit, the Marine came to attention again, and rendered a second salute.
Tian acknowledged the salute with a nod and started walking up the steps. The damp night air enveloped him like an evil spell; he felt flares of arthritic pain in his knees and hips, echoed dully by an ache of anxiety in his chest. He concentrated on keeping his steps even and his face implacable. One did not show weakness in the face of a potential adversary.
The Marine remaining at the top of the steps opened the door, and Tian caught sight of the person assigned to greet him. It was a youngish woman, and Tian did not recognize her at all.
“Bao tian tian wu,” he said under his breath. Literally a reckless waste of grain, but in this context it meant an ill omen. This was not going to go well. He smiled and extended his hand for the woman to shake.
This was not going to go well at all.
CHAPTER 3
DEUTSCHE MARINE NAVAL ARSENAL
KIEL, GERMANY
MONDAY; 07 MAY
0951 hours (9:51 AM)
TIME ZONE +1 ‘ALPHA’
Dirty-looking clouds scudded across an iron-colored sky. In a few hours, the spring sun would burn away the overcast, but for now, the damp remnants of winter hung over the harbor. The water that lapped up against the rusting steel pilings seemed oily and dark, its froth the color of a dead fish’s belly.
Kapitan Stefan Gröeler leaned against the dock railing and watched the huge yellow ammunition crane lift the last of the torpedoes off the ordnance barge. Suspended from the crane’s heavy cable by a four-way sling, the weapon swung slowly out to hover above the aft deck of Gröeler’s submarine, the U-307. Crewmen in gray coveralls grabbed the dangling weapon’s tag-lines and began to guide it into the proper attitude for lowering through the main hatch. The men worked in near silence, as they should have, with the Team Leader watching closely and issuing brief commands. “Hold fast on the forward line,” or “Bring the nose down farther,” or “Check the crane,” or “Watch your deck clearance!”
Gröeler nodded almost imperceptibly. They were good men—a good crew.
His eyes lingered on the weapon suspended above the deck. It hung nose down and tail high, close to the thirty-seven–degree angle needed to lower it through the weapons hatch.
The Team Leader issued another command, and the nose dropped a few more degrees. Satisfied, he turned, made eye contact with the crane operator, and opened and closed the fingers of his right hand several times like the quacking of a duck: the hand signal for lower slowly.
The polymerized coating of the Ozeankriegsführungtechnologien DMA37 torpedo gave the weapon a shiny green look, as though it were a child’s toy made of plastic. In comparison, the rounded profile of the Type 212B submarine seemed especially menacing: a sleek, dark-skinned predator floating low in the water. It was a false impression; both machines were dangerous. The quietest, most capable diesel submarine ever built, paired with one of the most sophisticated and lethal undersea weapons that modern military science could devise.
The morning sun found its way through a hole in the clouds, and Gröeler squinted slightly. The skin around his eyes was crosshatched with heavy crow’s feet. Not laugh lines, but rather a cumulative network of wrinkles caused by thousands of hours spent peering through periscopes and attack-scopes.
He was a short, solidly built man, with ice-blue eyes that moved quickly and missed very little. Behind his back, the men called him das Armkreuz—the spider. Under another circumstance, the nickname might have been disparaging. But Gröeler knew that his crew considered it a compliment. It signified their respect for his skill as a hunter. He moved quietly, worked meticulously, and killed quickly.
He rummaged in the pocket of his gray Deutsche Marine coveralls for a cigarette. Smoking was forbidden at the ammunition piers, but he was in command here. It was his submarine, they were his torpedoes, and the gray-coveralled cr
ewmen working down on the deck were his to command. He lit the cigarette with a slender butane lighter made of good German steel. He drew a lung full of smoke. It was a stupid rule anyway. The plasticized-hexite explosive used in the torpedoes was incredibly stable. Without a precisely measured electrical charge from an arming mechanism, it was just so much harmless chemical modeling clay. With the proper initiating charge … well, that was a different matter. But ten cartons of smoldering cigarettes and a hundred butane lighters couldn’t hope to set one of those weapons off.
He took another hit off the cigarette, exhaling fiercely through his nostrils. Still, it was good to have such rules. They gave the men direction: road signs for separating acceptable behavior from unacceptable behavior. And it was good for the men to see their kapitan breaking such rules. They needed to be reminded that his was the final word on all subjects. As commanding officer of the wolfpack, his orders were not subject to question. He, and he alone, would decide when to follow regulations and when to break them.
He looked at his watch. They would finish with the torpedoes shortly, and then they could begin loading the missiles. It was obvious that his crew would finish ahead of schedule. He stepped away from the railing, executed a precise turn to the right, and began walking with a crisp, deliberate stride.
It was time to inspect the other three submarines under his command and check the status of their weapons on loads. No doubt they would also be ahead of schedule, but probably not so far as his own crew. He had, after all, personally selected every one of his men. They were, quite literally, the best that the German Navy had to offer. And after six months of intensive pre-mission training, they meshed like the proverbial well-oiled machine.