Tom Clancy - The Bear and the Dragon

“Soon, I hope, but we’re not exactly sure. You know how that works.”

“Da.” You depended on the reports of your agents, but you were never sure when they would come in, and in the expectation came frustration. Sometimes you wanted to wring their necks, but that was both foolish and morally wrong, as they both knew.

“Any public reaction?” Ryan asked. The Russians would have seen it sooner than his own people.

“A nonreaction, Mr. President. No public comment at all. Not unexpected, but somewhat disappointing.”

“If they move, can you stop them?”

“President Grushavoy has asked that very question of Stavka, his military chiefs, but they have not yet answered substantively. We are concerned with operational security. We do not wish the PRC to know that we know anything.”

“That can work against you,” Ryan warned.

“I said that very thing this morning, but soldiers have their own ways, don’t they? We are calling up some reserves, and warning orders have gone out to some mechanized troops. The cupboard, however, as you Americans say, is somewhat bare at the moment.”

“What have you done about the people who tried to kill you?” Ryan asked, changing the subject.

“The main one is under constant observation at the moment. If he tries something else, we will then speak to him,” Golovko promised. “The connection, again, is Chinese, as you know.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Your FBI agent in Moscow, that Reilly fellow, is very talented. We could have used him in Second Directorate.”

“Yeah, Dan Murray thinks a lot of him.”

“If this Chinese matter goes further, we need to set up a liaison group between your military and ours.”

“Work through SACEUR,” Ryan told him. He’d already thought that one through. “He has instructions to cooperate with your people.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I will pass that along. So, your family, it is well?” You couldn’t have this sort of meeting without irrelevant pleasantries.

“My oldest, Sally, is dating. That’s hard on Daddy,” Ryan admitted.

“Yes.” Golovko allowed himself a smile. “You live in fear that she will come upon such a boy as you were, yes?”

“Well, the Secret Service helps keep the little bastards under control.”

“There is much to be said for men with guns, yes,” the Russian agreed with some amusement, to lighten the moment.

“Yeah, but I think daughters are God’s punishment on us for being men.” That observation earned Ryan a laugh.

“Just so, Ivan Emmetovich, just so.” And Sergey paused again. Back to business: “It is a hard time for both of us, is it not?”

“Yeah, it is that.”

“Perhaps the Chinese will see us standing together and reconsider their greed. Together our fathers’ generation killed Hitler, after all. Who can stand against the two of us?”

“Sergey, wars are not rational acts. They are not begun by rational men. They’re begun by people who don’t care a rat-fuck about the people they rule, who’re willing to get their fellow men killed for their own narrow purposes. This morning I saw such a place. It was Satan’s amusement park, I suppose, but not a place for a man like me. I came away angry. I wouldn’t mind having a chance to see Hitler, long as I have a gun in my hand when I do.” It was a foolish thing to say, but Golovko understood.

“With luck, together we will prevent this Chinese adventure.”

“And if not?”

“Then together we will defeat them, my friend. And perhaps that will be the last war of all.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” the President replied. “I’ve had that thought before myself, but I suppose it’s a worthy goal.”

“When you find out what the Chinese say …?”

“We’ll get the word to you.”

Golovko rose. “Thank you. I will convey that to my President.”

Ryan walked the Russian to the door, then headed off to the ambassador’s office.

“This just came in.” Ambassador Lewendowski handed over the fax. “Is this as bad as it looks?” The fax was headed EYES-ONLY PRESIDENT, but it had come into his embassy.

Ryan took the pages and started reading. “Probably. If the Russians need help via NATO, will the Poles throw in?”

“I don’t know. I can ask.”

The President shook his head. “Too soon for that.”

“Did we bring the Russians into NATO with the knowledge of this?” The question showed concern that stopped short of outrage at the violation of diplomatic etiquette.

Ryan looked up. “What do you think?” He paused. “I need your secure phone.”

Forty minutes later, Jack and Cathy Ryan walked up the steps into their airplane for the ride home. SURGEON was not surprised to see her husband disappear into the aircraft’s upper communications level, along with the Secretary of State. She suspected that her husband might have stolen a smoke or two up there, but she was asleep by the time he came back down.

For his part, Ryan wished he had, but couldn’t find a smoker up there. The two who indulged had left their smokes in their luggage to avoid the temptation to violate USAF regulations. The President had a single drink and got into his seat, rocking it back for a nap, during which he found himself dreaming of Auschwitz, mixing it up with scenes remembered from Schindler’s List. He awoke over Iceland, sweating, to see his wife’s angelic sleeping face, and to remind himself that, bad as the world was, it wasn’t quite that bad anymore. And his job was to keep it that way.

Okay, is there any way to make them back off?” Robby Jackson asked the people assembled in the White House Situation Room.

Professor Weaver struck him as just one more academic, long of wind and short of conclusion. Jackson listened anyway. This guy knew more about the way the Chinese thought. He must. His explanation was about as incomprehensible as the thought processes he was attempting to make clear.

“Professor,” Jackson said finally, “that’s all well and good, but what the hell does something that happened nine centuries ago tell us about today? These are Maoists, not royalists.”

“Ideology is usually just an excuse for behavior, Mr. Vice President, not a reason for it. Their motivations are the same today as they would have been under the Chin Dynasty, and they fear exactly the same thing: the revolt of the peasantry if the economy goes completely bad,” Weaver explained to this pilot, a technician, he thought, and decidedly not an intellectual. At least the President had some credentials as a historian, though they weren’t impressive to the tenured Ivy League department chairman.

“Back to the real question here: What can we do to make them back off, short of war?”

“Telling them that we know of their plans might give them pause, but they will make their decision on the overall correlation of forces, which they evidently believe to be fully in their favor, judging from what I’ve been reading from this SORGE fellow.”

“So, they won’t back off?” the VP asked.

“I cannot guarantee that,” Weaver answered.

“And blowing our source gets somebody killed,” Mary Pat Foley reminded the assembly.

“Which is just one life against many,” Weaver pointed out.

Remarkably, the DDO didn’t leap across the table to rip his academic face off. She respected Weaver as an area specialist/consultant. But fundamentally he was one more ivory-tower theoretician who didn’t consider the human lives that rode on decisions like that one. Real people had their lives end, and that was a big deal to those real people, even if it wasn’t to this professor in his comfortable office in Providence, Rhode Island.

“It also cancels out a vital source of information in the event that they go forward anyway-which could adversely affect our ability to deal with the real-world military threat, by the way.”