Tiger's Claw: A Novel

important air and naval bases must be undertaken immediately. Third, we threaten immediate nuclear retaliation for any nation that dares to attack us again. We should have responded to the attack on Guangzhou with an attack against the Aleutians or Hawaii, but no matter—we will make it clear to the Americans that their most important Pacific bases will become nothing but charred ruins if they . . .” And the connection was suddenly cut.

“Another thing that does not work around here,” Zu said half aloud. He walked over to his bulletproof office window. He could see several plumes of black smoke and winks of fire off in the distance, probably from more protests. The daily numbers of civilian casualties were no longer counted in the hundreds from these clashes—they were now in the thousands. And yet not only did the protests not stop, they only grew and multiplied.

There was a knock on the door. “Come,” Zu ordered, and his deputy chief of the general staff, General Sun Ji, entered. “I was speaking with Admiral Zhen a moment ago, and we were cut off,” Zu said. “Get him back on the line for me.”

“I am afraid that is impossible, sir,” Sun said.

“Why?”

“Zhen has been arrested for treason and dereliction of duty, sir,” Sun said. “He has been sentenced to summary execution.”

“What?” Zu thundered, shooting to his feet. “Who ordered this? I did not order it! Was it that popinjay Gao? I will beat that man senseless with my own bare hands before I throw him in prison! I said, who ordered Zhen’s arrest, Sun?”

“I did, Zu,” a voice from the outer office said, and to Zu’s complete surprise, Zhou Qiang entered the office.

“You!” Zu cried. “I thought you were dead!”

“Next time you want someone dead, Zu, do it yourself to be sure the job is done properly,” Zhou said. “Zhen will not be the only one receiving summary execution tonight.”

“Why, you bastard!” Zu shouted, and he whipped open a desk drawer, picked up a NORINCO Model 77B that he always had stashed away there, aimed, and pulled the trigger . . . and nothing happened.

“You should always check yourself to see that your personal weapons are loaded, Zu,” Zhou said. Zu’s eyes bulged in disbelief when he turned to the only man who had access to his office and desk at any time—his deputy chief of staff, Sun Ji, who was standing behind Zhou, his hands behind his back, smiling. Sun motioned behind him, and several soldiers came in, put Zu in handcuffs, and pulled him out.

“I am glad that nightmare is over,” Zhou said. He turned to Sun. “You will take over as chief of the general staff. I will be sure to recommend the position to the Central Military Committee.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sun said.

“I will leave you to deal with the Russians as to the sinking of their precious aircraft carrier Vladimir Putin by the Americans in Zhujiang Bay,” Zhou said. “Frankly, I hope they choke on it. What did they expect by making a deal with a megalomaniac like Zu?”

“Had I been asked, sir, I would have advised Zu against dealing with the Russians,” Sun said. “They cannot be trusted.”

Zhou studied Sun for a few long moments, then said, “Neither can you be trusted, Sun.” General Sun blinked, but stood with his hands behind him at parade rest. “Maybe no one can be trusted these days. When no one can be trusted, perhaps China’s response should be to do what it has always done in its thousands of years of history: retreat into itself. Lock itself away from the modern world, whether that modern world is seventeenth-century Portugal, nineteenth-century England, or twenty-first-century America.” He shook his head. “I am going home, Sun. Tomorrow is the first day of China’s future. Remember that.” Sun snapped to attention as Zhou shuffled out of the chief of the general staff’s office and departed.

After Sun heard the outer office door close, he relaxed from his brace, went over to Zu’s desk, sat down in his chair, and put his feet up on the desk.

“You are a senile, hopeless, tottering old man, President Zhou,” General Sun said. “You need to be thrown out into the gutters along with the Politburo, the Central Committee, and all you other political has-beens. If you cannot keep up with the modern world, you should be eliminated.” He found one of Zu’s cigarettes and a lighter and lit up. “And I am just the man to make that happen.”

SACRAMENTO OLD CITY CEMETERY, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

THAT SAME TIME

The honor guard finished folding the flag that had draped the ceremonial casket, and the captain of the honor guard clutched the flag between his two palms. They were in front of the McLanahan family columbarium at the historic cemetery in downtown Sacramento, the cemetery that held the remains of nearly two hundred years of McLanahans.

But instead of the captain handing the flag to a family member, he handed it to President Kenneth Phoenix, who was accompanied by Vice President Ann Page. The president took it and clutched it to his chest, and Ann touched it and held it. Together they turned and walked over to the front row of family members seated closest to the empty casket. He stood in front of Bradley, bent at the waist, held out the folded American flag, and said in a soft voice, “Bradley, Nancy, Margaret, on behalf of a grateful nation . . .”

And then he stopped. Choking back a sob, Phoenix pressed the folded flag again against his chest . . . then suddenly dropped to his knees on the artificial grass carpeting surrounding the casket. The Secret Service agents accompanying the president surged forward, afraid he might be sick or just overcome with grief, but Ann Page warned them away with a silent, angry scowl.

“Bradley, I ask you one more time,” President Phoenix quietly implored, his head bowed. “Allow me to take your father’s remains to Washington. He deserves to join our country’s greatest heroes in death. He deserves to be honored by every loyal American soldier, sailor, airman, and marine in Arlington National Cemetery. It wouldn’t be forever. Let him be honored by our country until your passing, in a special national memorial columbarium, and then he can be brought back here for final rest with you and your mother. It is the least we can do for America’s greatest aviation hero.”

Bradley sobbed for several long moments, comforted by his aunts, then shook his head. “No, Mr. President,” he said. “Dad wouldn’t have wanted it that way. I don’t know much about my dad, but I do know this: he didn’t think of himself as a hero. He was a crewdog, plain and simple. I don’t know what that is, but that’s what he was. That’s all I know about him. He saw the objective, planned the mission, and executed the plan. He didn’t expect praise, commendations, or medals—all he wanted was results, and then to be allowed to go home.”

“Jesus, Bradley,” Ann Page said. “Your father was one of the most inspirational figures of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. You can’t just . . . just bury him. Think of our country. We need heroes, Brad. Your father is the perfect example of what every American should aspire to become.”

“Maybe, Miss Vice President,” Bradley said, “but my dad wouldn’t buy that for an instant, and you know that.” Ann lowered her head in silent assent. “Dad did stuff because it needed to be done, because the fight was on and he had to get in there and engage. When the fight was over, he broke off and headed for home. That’s all I know about Patrick Shane McLanahan, but I think that’s all I need to know. I think that’s all the world needs to know about him too.”

Bradley stood before the president of the United States and held out a hand, and President Phoenix took it, got to his feet, and stood beside him. Together they walked to the open columbarium chamber. Bradley inserted the urn into the crypt. Phoenix took the columbarium cover from an astonished cemetery worker, and together Bradley and the president of the United States secured the cover to the columbarium in place.

“God rest the soul of Lieutenant General Patrick Shane McLanahan,” the president of the United States said in a loud voice. “God rest all our souls.”