The Bear and the Dragon

stood and headed into Ed’s private washroom. It had a shower, like hers. She’d make use of her own shortly, and for the moment settled for some water splashed on her face and a reluctant look in the mirror that resulted in a grimace at what the look revealed.

The Deputy Director (Operations) of the Central Intelligence Agency shook her head, and then her entire body to get the blood moving, and then put her blouse on. Finally, she shook her husband’s shoulder.

“Out of the hutch, honey-bunny, before the foxes get you.”

“We still at war?” the DCI asked from behind closed eyes.

“Probably. I haven’t checked yet.” She paused for a stretch and slipped her feet into her shoes. “I’m going to check my e-mail.”

“Okay, I’ll call downstairs for breakfast,” Ed told her.

“Oatmeal. No eggs. Your cholesterol is too high,” Mary Pat observed.

“Yeah, baby,” he grumbled in submissive reply.

“That’s a good honey-bunny.” She kissed him and headed out.

Ed Foley made his bathroom call, then sat at his desk and lifted the phone to call the executive cooking staff. “Coffee. Toast. Three-egg omelet, ham, and hash browns.” Cholesterol or not, he had to get his body working.

You’ve got mail,” the mechanical voice said.

“Great.” The DDO breathed. She downloaded it, going through the usual procedures to save and print, but rather more slowly this morning because she was groggy and therefore mistake-prone. That sort of thing made her slow down and be extra careful, something she’d learned to do as the mother of a newborn. And so in four minutes instead of the usual two, she had a printed hard copy of the latest SORGE feed from Agent SONGBIRD. Six pages of relatively small ideographs. Then she lifted the phone and punched the speed-dial button for Dr. Sears.

“Yes?”

“This is Mrs. Foley. We got one.”

“On the way, Director.” She had some coffee before he arrived, and the taste, if not the effect of the caffeine, helped her face the day.

“In early?” she asked.

“Actually I slept in last night. We need to improve the selection on the cable TV,” he told her, hoping to lighten the day a little. One look at her eyes told him how likely that was.

“Here.” She handed the sheets across. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.” His eyes didn’t leave the page as his hand reached out for the cup. “This is good stuff today.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s Fang’s account of a Politburo discussion of how the war’s going … they’re trying to analyze our actions … yeah, that’s about what I’d expect …”

“Talk to me, Dr. Sears,” Mary Pat ordered.

“You’re going to want to get George Weaver in on this, too, but what he’s going to say is that they’re projecting their own political outlook onto us generally, and onto President Ryan in particular … yeah, they’re saying that we are not hitting them hard for political reasons, that they think we don’t want to piss them off too much …” Sears took a long sip of coffee. “This is really good stuff. It tells us what their political leadership is thinking, and what they’re thinking isn’t very accurate.” Sears looked up. “They misunderstand us worse than we misunderstand them, Director, even at this level. They see President Ryan’s motivation as a strictly political calculation. Zhang says that he’s laying back so that we can do business with them, after they consolidate their control over the Russian oil and goldfields.”

“What about their advance?”

“They say-that is, Marshal Luo says-that things are going according to plan, that they’re surprised at the lack of Russian opposition, and also surprised that we haven’t struck any targets within their borders.”

“That’s because we don’t have any bombs over there yet. Just found that out myself. We’re having to fly the bombs in so that we can drop them.”

“Really? Well, they don’t know that yet. They think it’s deliberate inaction on our part.”

“Okay, get me a translation. When will Weaver get in?”

“Usually about eight-thirty.”

“Go over this with him as soon as he arrives.”

“You bet.” Sears took his leave.

Bedding down for the night?” Aleksandrov asked.

“So it would seem, Comrade Captain,” Buikov answered. He had his binoculars on the Chinese. The two command-reconnaissance vehicles were together, which only seemed to happen when they secured for the night. It struck both men as odd that they confined their activities to daylight, but that wasn’t a bad thing for the Russian watchers, and even soldiers needed their sleep. More than most, in fact, both of the Russians would have said. The stress and strain of keeping track of the enemies of their country-and doing so within their own borders-were telling on both of them.

The Chinese drill was thorough, but predictable. The two command tracks were together. The others were spread out, mainly in front of them, but one three hundred meters behind to secure their rear. The crews of each track stayed together as a unit. Each broke out a small petrol stove for cooking their rice- probably rice, the Russians all thought. And they settled down to get four or five hours of sleep before waking, cooking breakfast, and moving out before dawn. Had they not been enemies, their adherence to so demanding a drill might have excited admiration. Instead, Buikov found himself wondering if he could get two or three of their BRMs to race up on the invaders and immolate them with the 30-mm rapid-fire cannons on their tracked carriers. But Aleksandrov would never allow it. You could always depend on officers to deny the sergeants what they wanted to do.

The captain and his sergeant walked back north to their track, leaving three other scouts to keep watch on their “guests,” as Aleksandrov had taken to calling them.

“So, Sergeant, how are you feeling?” the officer asked in a quiet voice.

“Some sleep will be good.” Buikov looked back. There was now a ridgeline in addition to the trees between him and the Chinks. He lit a cigarette and let out a long, relaxed breath. “This is harder duty than I expected it to be.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain. I always thought we could kill our enemies. Baby-sitting them is very stressful.”

“That is so, Boris Yevgeniyevich, but remember that if we do our job properly, then Division will be able to kill more than just one or two. We are their eyes, not their teeth.”

“As you say, Comrade Captain, but it is like making a movie of the wolf instead of shooting him.”

“The people who make good wildlife movies win awards, Sergeant.”

The odd thing about the captain, Buikov thought, was that he was always trying to reason with you. It was actually rather endearing, as if he was trying to be a teacher rather than an officer.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Beef and black bread, Comrade Captain. Even some butter. But no vodka,” the sergeant added sourly.

“When this is over, I will allow you to get good and drunk, Boris Yevgeniyevich,” Aleksandrov promised.

“If we live that long, I will toast your health.” The track was where they’d left it, and the crew had spread out the camouflage netting. One thing about this officer, Buikov thought, he got the men to do their duty without much in the way of complaint. The same sort of good comradely solidarity my grandfather spoke about, as he told his endless tales of killing Germans on the way to Vienna, just like in all the movies, the sergeant thought.

The black bread was canned, but tasty, and the beef, cooked on their own small petrol heater, wasn’t so bad as to choke a dog. About the time they finished, Sergeant Grechko appeared. He was the commander of the unit’s #3 BRM, and he was carrying …

“Is that what I think it is?” Buikov asked. “Yuriy Andreyevich, you are a comrade!”

It was a half-liter bottle of vodka, the cheapest “BO?KA” brand, with a foil top that tore off and couldn’t be