opposite direction, as if telling them, one by one again, that he knew damn well some of them — and a lot of their high-paying constituents — would like nothing more than an expensive, thrilling hostility, and telling them, and their special constituents, to forget it. “This confrontation has a solution.” His tone left no room for argument. “Now, what are your ideas about what that solution is?” Their blank faces reminded him of a roomful of New Mexican ranch barons who had just been told to find ways to double the water allotments for the Navajo and Hopi reservations. “I suppose,” Secretary of State Padgett offered, “we could ask for a secret, top-level summit to discuss the matter face to face.” The president shook his head. “A meeting with whom, Abner? The Zhongnanhai leadership will likely not want it to seem as if there’s anything to talk about — not without calling the whole Central Committee into session and then getting at least an eight-to-one majority on the Standing Committee to approve it.”
“Then send them a message they can’t miss,” Guerrero suggested. “Approve the appropriations for the air force’s new fighter, a bigger and longer-range bomber, and the army’s Protector artillery system. That will get their attention. Probably scare the shit out of them and get them to a summit, too. Yes, with that threat hanging over them, I’d think they’d jump for a summit in a nanosecond.” A murmur of approval flowed around the room. Even Secretary Stanton failed to object. He looked concerned, his face ashen, as if his resolve for the smaller, quicker military had been shaken badly. Vice President Erikson demurred, “I’m not sure that’s the right message to be sending, General.
It could escalate matters rather than pacifying them.” Stanton regained some of his confidence. “Whatever we do will in all probability heighten the problem, Brandon, even if we do nothing. Too little could be construed as weakness; too much as threatening. I think some show of force, resolve, and readiness could make them hesitate to push us too hard.” Erikson nodded reluctantly. “You could be right, Harry. Perhaps a simple approval of already existing weapons systems wouldn’t be too strong.”
“Do we really want to return to a policy of mutual deterrence?
Something that could drag on for years and drain both national economies?” the president asked. “Make China hunker down behind its Great Wall again with its missiles bristling just when we’re making progress?”
Admiral Brose’s voice boomed out over the geopolitical debate. “I think what the president might find most effective is a smaller solution to the immediate tactical problem. How do we prove what the Empress is carrying?”
The blank looks reappeared on the faces of the gathered military and civilian brains.
“That’d be nice,” President Castilla agreed mildly. “You have an idea how to accomplish that, Stevens?”
“Send a crack team of SEALs from the Crowe to perform a clandestine recon of the Empress’s cargo.”
“Can that be done?” Vice President Erikson wanted to know. “On the high seas? From and to moving ships?”
“It can,” Brose assured him. “We have special equipment and trained teams.”
“Safely?” Secretary Stanton worried.
“There’d be risk, naturally.”
“Of failure? With casualties?” Abner Padgett of State asked.
“Yes.” “Of discovery?” Erikson pressed.
“Yes.”
Secretary of State Padgett shook his head violently. “An overt act of invasion, even aggression, against Chinese territory on the high seas?
At that point, we’re inviting war.”
Everybody nodded, solemnly or vigorously, in agreement, while the president took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much risk of discovery are you talking about, Admiral?”
“Minimal, I’d say. With the right team, under the right leader who’d understand that his people could not — under any circumstances — be discovered. To abort first no matter what the danger to the team.”
The president sat silently, his eyes distant, thinking again about the millions of people across the country who might soon be nervously watching TV or listening to the radio with one eye and one ear on the alert as they went about their daily lives, which most were rightly loathe to sacrifice for an unnecessary war.
His military and civilian advisers turned their collective gaze on Chief Staff Charlie Ouray as if he could read what was happening inside President Castilla’s mind.
“Sir?” Ouray said.
Castilla gave a small nod, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll take that under consideration, Stevens. It offers a possible solution.
Meanwhile, I need to inform all of you that for some days we’ve been pursuing an intelligence operation that could solve the entire situation.” He stood. “Thank you all. We’ll meet again soon. Until then, I want everyone to get your sectors ready. Send me a report about how you envision handling China and how and when you’ll be completely ready for a full-scale conflict.”
In the passenger compartment of his private Mercedes limousine, Wei Gao-fan savored both his Cuban Cohiba and his recent success over Niu Jianxing. With the Zhou Enlai flexing its torpedoes, and the American frigate Crowe polishing its missiles, Niu, the reformer — in Wei’s mind, “reformer” meant appeaser, revisionist, and capitalist — was going to find few on the Central Committee receptive to his demeaning “human-rights” treaty, or, in the end, the disastrous direction Niu intended to take China.
The Mercedes was parked on a side street in the Changning district.
Separated from his bodyguard in the front seat by a panel of bulletproof glass, Wei studied the area, where lights showed from windows, the street’s only illumination. He was waiting for his chauffeur and second bodyguard to return from their assignment.
Wei did not like loose threads or unresolved issues. Li Aorong and his daughter were both, and they needed to be swept up and disposed of.
Until they were, he would not feel secure. His plan had risks, and while Niu Jianxing was many things Wei disliked, a fool was not among them.
The other members of the Standing Committee could be brought back to their senses once the Owl was silenced.
Abruptly he straightened. There were footsteps in the night, approaching the limousine. The front door of the Mercedes opened, and his chauffeur and chief bodyguard slid in behind the wheel next to the other bodyguard. Wei watched his chauffeur pick up the intercom.
His voice sounded clearly from the rear speaker as he reported: “Master Li is in his house, as he said, but I saw no evidence of the daughter having been there recently, master. Her children were asleep with their nanny in a separate cottage.”
“You searched everywhere?”
“The potion knocked the old man into deep sleep. The children and the woman were already asleep. The grounds and buildings were otherwise deserted. I was able to investigate thoroughly, as you instructed.” The chauffeur turned his head to look back through the one-way glass as if he could see Wei. He was frowning. “There was something else.”
“What?” Wei tensed.
“Public Security Bureau people. Major Pan Aitu himself and a team.”
“Where?”
“Lurking outside. Some in cars. Very discreet.”
“Watching the house?”
“Or Li Aorong.”
Probably both, Wei Gaofan thought to himself. He shifted uneasily in his seat. Pan would never dare act against his interests … unless someone else were backing him. Niu? It was possible Niu had discovered that Wei had used pressure to have Li Aorong released from Public Security custody. He shook his head angrily, thinking. Yes, this smacked of further interference from the dangerously liberal Niu.
His cell phone buzzed so loudly he ducked below the windows as if he had been fired upon, forgetting his bulletproof safety. He recovered at once and straightened, annoyed at how tense he was.
He jammed his cell phone button and barked, “Wei here.” “We have Jon Smith,” Feng Dun said.
