doubledigit numbers, followed by a time code in letters, followed by another number. He put the MiG on autopilot as he wrote the figures on a pad that hung from a chain below the altimeter. Since he was still in his ascent to 22,000 feet, the pad was hanging slightly toward him, the always-reliable low-tech plumb in his cockpit. The tower asked Fa Khan to repeat the numbers, which he did. When the radio officer confirmed that the read-back was accurate, the lieutenant commander signed off. He referred to a thick but compact map book in a lockbox beneath the seat.
There were four maps on each page of the volume. The numbers referred to a section number, a page number, a map number, and then two coordinates. The last two numbers pinpointed a patrol zone.
Fa Khan raised the visor of his helmet as he looked at the map. He checked it against the numbers. Twice. Then again.
There was no mistake.
He went back to the pad and worked out the letters. The corresponding numbers were six, zero, zero. Six o’clock in the morning. That was a little less than two hours from now.
The lieutenant commander had no idea what was up, but he knew how much time and fuel it would take him to reach the target zone. He calculated backward so he would arrive exactly at six A.M. He would also keep an eye open for other aircraft that would be converging on the target, a point just outside the territorial waters of the breakaway republic of Taiwan. The last number of the series indicated that Fa Khan would be joined by seventeen other fighter jets from Dachang. That was the remainder of his squadron as well as two other squadrons.
Apparently, this was a day when change was coming a little faster than normal.
And yet, one thing did not change: the determination in his eyes and spirit as he altered his flight path slightly in preparation for the rendezvous.
FORTY-FOUR
Paul Hood woke early.
The car to take him to the airport was arriving at six. From there, he would fly to Xichang. He lay in bed for a while, hoping to get back to sleep. But his mind was instantly on patrol, marching toward problems on the near and far horizon.
He did not want to think right now. There was no new information and no way to get it. He grabbed a book he had packed, a biography of the explorer Richard Francis Burton. It had arrived at his apartment shortly before he left. It was in a box of books his former wife had sent him. Sharon was still packing up his things and shipping them out when she had the time. Presumably, to make room for the stuff her boyfriend was leaving at the house, like his videotape collection of the Washington Redskins’ greatest games.
He stopped reading when Burton took an African spear through both cheeks. The graphic attack by tribesmen did not induce sleep. Hood set the book aside and just sat there. He was jet-lagged but overstimulated by his frustrating lack of information. He was used to having people to turn to, a team, specialists. None of that had been set up before his departure. Hood was in the midst of the evolving situation, yet he knew very little about the scenario or the dynamics between the different players.
He thought about Anita instead. She was completely devoted to her work and to her father. There did not appear to be room or need for anything else. Men at the party did not seem to notice her. Most probably knew who she was. Perhaps they had tried talking to her before and were put off.
Anita apparently stayed in the two worlds where she felt comfortable: ivory-tower politics and academia. If anyone wanted to be with her, it had to be within those two disciplines. There was something to be said for that. Although it made her a poor spy, as she had demonstrated, it would be very difficult for anyone to take her by surprise, intellectually or emotionally.
The secure cell phone was set on Silent, so the light flashed without ringing. Hood reached over and picked it up. It was Bob Herbert.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Herbert said.
“No. What’s up?”
“An unusual Chinese military buildup in response to a traditional Taiwanese military exercise,” Herbert said. “Have you heard anything about that?”
“No.”
“Is there anyone you have met who might know about it?” Herbert asked.
“I can ask the prime minister later, with the caveat that it probably won’t do any good,” Hood said. “If he does know anything, he might not be inclined to share the information with me. Have you talked to Mike?”
“Not yet,” Herbert said. “I’m frankly at a loss here.”
“You sound like it.”
“Is it that bad?”
“You sound winded.”
“Maybe. I feel like I’m sitting on the sidelines, though I don’t know if I’m catching my breath or scratching my butt,” Herbert admitted.
“It’s that dry out there?”
“Arid,” Herbert said. “You know how Chinese politics are. No one says anything to anybody.”
“Yes. I experienced that firsthand,” Hood admitted.
“All we see are the shadow results of conflicts, the explosions in Charleston and South Africa. Our associates in D.C. and Interpol have no more information than we do about what is behind this or what might be next. Sergei Orlov had some background on the key players. Chou Shin was considered a moderate because he was trying to reconcile the ‘brother’ Communists of China and the Soviet Union. When the S.U. fell, he turned on Moscow with a series of pretty riled-up speeches.”
“The spurned lover,” Hood said.
“Yeah. Communism is a religion to him, and he will die for it,” Herbert said. “According to Orlov, the other nutcase — General Tam Li — is not a martyr. But he is an aggressive bastard who will risk his life or the lives of others to increase his power base. All of which tells us what we already know: these guys are dangerous. We need to try to find out if the Chinese action is related to the Taiwanese drill, the rocket launch, or something else.”
Herbert’s frustration came through the phone. It sucked hope from the room, from Hood.
“There is not much we can do about the armies,” Hood said. “We should concentrate on the rocket.”
“I figured Mike would be all over that with his marines,” Herbert said. “I got General Carrie to lend them to him.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“He’s not in command, but they’ll listen to him.”
“Of course.” Hood felt marginalized. But the generalto-general sympatics was inevitable.
“What about you?” Herbert asked.
“I did not get anywhere with the prime minister or his daughter, and I’m frankly at a loss what to do next.”
“Hence being awake at a few minutes after five in the morning.”
“Exactly,” Hood replied.
“What was the daughter like?” Herbert asked. “Businesslike and severe?”
“Businesslike yes, but very feminine.”
“Is there something there you can work?”
“I don’t think so,” Hood said. “Her father comes first. Everyone else comes a very distant second. I’m stumped, Bob.”
“Didn’t this sort of thing play out differently once upon a time?” Herbert asked plaintively.
“You mean, ‘Remember when we used to win these things?’ ” Hood asked.
“Well, I’m not willing to write this one off—”
“Nor am I,” Hood assured him. “But we did seem to have more control hunkered in the Tank with Striker in
