Elliot Ackerman - 2034

A silence followed as she allowed this vision of hers to coalesce between them. Hunt was watching Wedge, closely observing his reaction to the events she’d described.

Slowly, his smile revealed itself.

“Does some part of this amuse you?”

The smile vanished. “No, ma’am.”

“Then what’s with the smile?”

“Nothing.” He appeared to be talking to the corners of the room. “Just tension, I guess.”

But she didn’t believe him. For a certain type of pilot, flying by the seat of your pants on a raid deep into enemy territory held an allure. Romance always attended a particularly daring mission. It also attended a suicide mission. And Hunt needed someone who would regard it as the former instead of the latter. Hunt also needed someone who thought they could make it back—even if they never did. Because a pilot determined to survive would stand a better chance of success.

Hunt began to review with Wedge some of the modifications made to the avionics in his Hornets, but she didn’t get far before he interrupted her, explaining that he’d already made an inspection of the aircraft.

“When?”

“The night I got here,” he answered. “I met your communications senior chief, Quint. Nice guy. I was still on West Coast time, so I stayed up to walk around the hangar. The planes look good, ma’am.”

She leaned back in her chair, pleased that he thought so. For what she suspected would not be the last time, she allowed herself to feel a measure of affection for Wedge. She also felt sympathy. A great deal would be asked of him. She thought of her own sleeplessness. “If you’re having trouble getting rest, I can have the ship’s doctor prescribe you something.”

Wedge shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am. It’s never really been a problem for me. Plus, out here, I sleep like a baby.” He popped back to attention, then disappeared from her office, into the bowels of the ship.

14:27 July 06, 2034 (GMT+8)

Shenzhen

The frail little man shuffled along the crest of the perfectly manicured grass hill, a golf club choked in his grip, the afternoon sun framing his silhouette. The same hospitality associate who’d taken Lin Bao to his junior suite now drove him toward the hill. Although Lin Bao had never met this man, he soon recognized him as Zhao Leji, member of the Politburo Standing Committee, secretary of the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection—the CCDI.

Those four letters, and the little man who embodied them—Lin Bao had feared both his entire professional life.

His golf cart arrived on the crest of the hill right as Zhao Leji was entering his backswing. Lin Bao sat completely still. If he had any lingering belief that the hospitality associate wasn’t involved with the communist party and its internal security apparatus, if he held on to a hope that she was simply a young woman from the provinces who’d come to Shenzhen and found a good job at Mission Hills, it was dispelled when Lin Bao noticed how she, too, sat completely still, equally fearful of distracting Zhao Leji.

Now, at the apex of his swing, the head of Zhao Leji’s club floated in the air, his entire body conforming to this upward articulation. With a swoosh , the club made a clean decapitation of the ball from its tee, his shot sailing out toward the horizon, where it disappeared into the mix of sun and afternoon smog. As Zhao Leji slid his club back into his bag, he noticed Lin Bao.

“Not bad for an old man,” said Zhao Leji, hoisting his clubs onto his shoulder. He would walk to the next hole, preferring the exercise, while his security detail trailed behind in a squadron of golf carts. He motioned for Lin Bao to join him, and to grab a set of clubs off the back of one of the carts. As Lin Bao followed after Zhao Leji, he noticed that the hospitality associate would not look at him, as if she suspected Lin Bao was about to meet a fate she had long feared for herself.

It was soon only the two of them, Lin Bao and Zhao Leji, hoofing it across the golf course, each burdened by their bag of clubs. Eventually, Zhao Leji began to talk. “These days, hiking across a golf course is the closest I get to honest labor….” He was breathing heavily. “I began my career during Mao’s Cultural Revolution, digging trenches on a commune…. You do the work yourself…. There is satisfaction in that…. You grew up in America, yes?” When he turned to face Lin Bao, Zhao Leji’s eyes became like tunnels. “That makes us very different, doesn’t it. Take our game of golf, for instance. Americans like to ride around in a cart and play with a caddy. When they take their caddy’s advice and win, they claim the win as their own. When they take that advice and lose, they blame their caddy…. It’s never good to be the caddy.”

They arrived at the next hole, a par-4.

Zhao Leji took his swing. It landed on the fairway.

Lin Bao took his swing. It landed in the trees.

Zhao Leji began to laugh. “Go on, my young friend. Try again.” Lin Bao said that it was all right, he didn’t need a second chance, he didn’t want to cheat. But Zhao Leji would hear nothing of it. “It’s not cheating,” he insisted, “if I make the rules.”

Lin Bao switched clubs.

He put his second shot on the fairway, a bit behind Zhao Leji’s, and as they walked to their balls, Zhao Leji resumed their conversation. “Some might say that after what happened at Zhanjiang, it’s frivolous for a man in my position to be out playing golf. But it’s important for our people to know that life goes on, that there is steady leadership at the helm, particularly in light of what might be coming next. If our intelligence is correct—and I suspect that it is—the Americans will have three carrier battle groups in position to blockade our coastline within the next two weeks. You’ve worked very closely with Minister Chiang, but I feel that I must let you know that he’s expressed some reservations as to your competence. He believes that you might have given him, and by that virtue the Politburo Standing Committee, bad advice with regard to American intentions. Your mother was American, correct? Minister Chiang believes that your affinity for her country might have clouded your judgment when advising him.”

The two gazed out at the next hole. The oblong fairway extended in front of them for almost two hundred yards. Then it cut sharply to the left, running between a copse of trees and a water obstacle. After reading the ground, Lin Bao concluded that if he hit too short, he’d wind up in the trees—which was recoverable. However, if he hit too long, he’d wind up in the water—which was not.

Zhao Leji stepped to the tee with a 3-wood.

Lin Bao stood behind him with a 2-iron.

As Zhao Leji sunk his tee into the green, he commented on Lin Bao’s club selection, noting that a 2-iron wouldn’t give him enough range. “It seems we’ve looked at the same problem and reached a different set of solutions,” he said.

Lin Bao averted his eyes to avoid any outward disagreement with Zhao Leji. But if he thought to exchange his 2-iron for a 3-wood, something within Lin Bao wouldn’t allow it; perhaps it was his pride, or dignity, or willfulness. Whatever it was, the defiance he felt when confronted by someone more powerful was familiar. He’d felt it as a naval cadet when older boys had teased him about his American heritage, or when he’d first been passed over for command of the Zheng He in favor of Ma Qiang, and now, staring at his 2-iron, he even felt that defiance when questioned by a man who with a single word could have a dark-suited thug put a bullet in his head. And so, Lin Bao explained, “A 3-wood is going to give you too much range. If you overplay, you’re going to wind up in the water. There’s no recovery then. If you underplay and wind up in the trees, at least you’ll be in a better position for your next shot instead of all the way back here on the tee. When the range falls between two clubs, it’s a better strategy to select the less ambitious choice.”