Tom Clancy - The Bear and the Dragon

“Yeah, I’d take any of them out on a job,” Ding agreed. Kirillin beamed at the news, unsurprising as it was.

They got him,” Murray told Ryan. ”Our friend Clark was there to watch. Damned ecumenical of the Russkies.”

“Just want to be an ally back to us, I suppose, and RAINBOW is a NATO asset. You suppose he’ll sing?”

“Like a canary, probably,” the FBI Director predicted. “The Miranda Rule never made it to Russia, Jack, and their interrogation techniques are a little more-uh, enthusiastic than ours are. Anyway, it’s something to put on TV, something to get their public seriously riled up. So, boss, this war going to stop or go?”

“We’re trying to stop it, Dan, but-”

“Yeah, I understand,” Murray said. “Sometimes big shots act just like street hoods. Just with bigger guns.”

This bunch has H-bombs, Jack didn’t say. It wasn’t something you wanted to talk about right after breakfast. Murray hung up and Ryan checked his watch. It was time. He punched the intercom button on his phone.

“Ellen, could you come in, please?”

It took the usual five seconds. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“I need one, and it’s time to call Beijing.”

“Yes, sir.” She handed Ryan a Virginia Slim and went back to the anteroom.

Ryan saw one of the phone lights go on and waited, lighting his smoke. He had his speech to Premier Xu pretty well canned, knowing that the Chinese leader would have a good interpreter nearby. He also knew that Xu would still be in the office. He’d been working pretty late over the past few days-it wasn’t hard to figure out why. Starting a potential world war had to be a time-consuming business. So, it would be less than thirty seconds to make the guy’s phone ring, then Ellen Sumter would talk to the operator on the far end-the Chinese had full-time switchboard operators rather than secretary-receptionists as in the White House-and the call would be put through. So, figure another thirty seconds, and then Jack would get to make his case to Xu: Let’s reconsider this one, buddy, or something bad will happen. Bad for our country. Bad for yours. Probably worse for yours. Mickey Moore had promised something called Hyperwar, and that would be seriously bad news for someone unprepared for it. The phone light stayed on, but Ellen wasn’t beeping him to get on the line … why? Xu was still in his office. The embassy in Beijing was supposed to be keeping an eye on the guy. Ryan didn’t know how, but he was pretty sure they knew their job. It might have been as easy as having an embassy employee-probably an Agency guy-stand on the street with a cell phone and watch a lit-up office window, then report to the embassy, which would have an open line to Foggy Bottom, which had many open lines to the White House. But then the light on the phone blinked out, and the intercom started:

“Mr. President, they say he’s out of the office,” Mrs. Sumter said.

“Oh?” Ryan took a long puff. “Tell State to confirm his location.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Then forty seconds of silence. “Mr. President, the embassy says he’s in his office, as far as they can tell.”

“And his people said …?”

“They said he’s out, sir.”

“When will he be back?”

“I asked. They said they didn’t know.”

“Shit,” Ryan breathed. “Please get me Secretary Adler.”

“Yeah, Jack,” SecState said a few seconds later.

“He’s dodging my call, Scott.”

“Xu?”

“Yeah.”

“Not surprising. They-the Chinese Politburo-don’t trust him to talk on his own without a script.”

Like Arnie and me, Ryan thought with a mixture of anger and humor. “Okay, what’s it mean, Scott?”

“Nothing good, Jack,” Adler replied. “Nothing good.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“Diplomatically, there’s not much we can do. We’ve sent them a stiff note, and they haven’t answered. Your position vis-à-vis them and the Russian situation is as clear as we can make it. They know what we’re thinking. If they don’t want to talk to us, it means they don’t care anymore.”

“Shit.”

“That’s right,” the Secretary of State agreed.

“You’re telling me we can’t stop it?”

“Correct.” Adler’s tone was matter-of-fact.

“Okay, what else?”

“We tell our civilians to get the hell out of China. We’re set up to do that here.”

“Okay, do it,” Ryan ordered, with a sudden flip of his stomach.

“Right.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Ryan switched lines and punched the button for the Secretary of Defense.

“Yeah,” Tony Bretano answered.

“It looks like it’s going to happen,” Ryan told him.

“Okay, I’ll alert all the CINCs.”

In a matter of minutes, FLASH traffic was dispatched to each of the commanders-in-chief of independent commands. There were many of them, but at the moment the most important was CINCPAC, Admiral Bart Mancuso in Pearl Harbor. It was just after three in the morning when the STU next to his bed started chirping.

“This is Admiral Mancuso,” he said, more than half asleep.

“Sir, this is the watch officer. We have a war warning from Washington. China. ‘Expect the commencement of hostilities between the PRC and the Russian Federation to commence within the next twenty-four hours. You are directed to take all measures consistent with the safety of your command.’ Signed Bretano, SecDef, sir,” the lieutenant commander told him.

Mancuso already had both feet on the floor of the bedroom. “Okay, get my staff together. I’ll be in the office in ten minutes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The chief petty officer assigned to drive him was already outside the front door, and Mancuso noted the presence of four armed Marines in plain sight. The senior of them saluted while the others studiously looked outward at a threat that probably wasn’t there … but might be. Minutes later, he walked into his hilltop headquarters overlooking the naval base. Brigadier General Lahr was there, waiting for him.

“How’d you get in so fast?” CINCPAC asked him.

“Just happened to be in the neighborhood, Admiral,” the J-2 told him. He followed Mancuso into the inner office.

“What’s happening?”

“The President tried to phone Premier Xu, but he didn’t take the call. Not a good sign from our Chinese brethren,” the theater intelligence officer observed.

“Okay, what’s John Chinaman doing?” Mancuso asked, as a steward’s mate brought in coffee.

“Not much in our area of direct interest, but he’s got a hell of a lot of combat power deployed in the Shenyang Military District, most of it right up on the Amur River.” Lahr set up a map stand and started moving his hand on the acetate overlay, which had a lot of red markings on it. For the first time in his memory, Mancuso saw Russian units drawn in blue, which was the “friendly” color. It was too surprising to comment on.

“What are we doing?”

“We’re moving a lot of air assets into Siberia. The shooters are here at Suntar. Reconnaissance assets back here at Zhigansk. The Dark Stars ought to be up and flying soon. It’ll be the first time we’ve deployed ’em in a real shooting war, and the Air Force has high hopes for them. We have some satellite overheads that show where the Chinese are. They’ve camouflaged their heavy gear, but the Lacrosse imagery sees right through the nets.”

“And?”

“And it’s over half a million men, five Group-A mechanized armies. That’s one armored division, two mechanized infantry, and one motorized infantry each, plus attachments that belong directly to the army commander. The forces deployed are heavy in tanks and APCs, fair in artillery, but light in helicopters. The air assets belong to somebody else. Their command structure for coordinating air and ground isn’t as streamlined as it ought to be, and their air forces aren’t very good by our standards, but their numbers are better than the Russians’. Manpower-wise, the Chinese have a huge advantage on the ground. The Russians have space to play with, but if it comes down to a slugging match, bet your money on the People’s Liberation Army.”