Edge of War

6

Washington, D.C.

Peter Frost caught President, Greene’s sleeve as he stepped toward the tee. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I’m a lousy golfer, Peter,” admitted Greene. “You think I should be using a five-iron?”

“I mean Vietnam. The Zeus plan.”

“Oh, and here I thought you were talking about something important.” Greene laughed and walked toward the ball. The laugh was a bit too sharp, he realized, but there was no way of taking it back, and he wouldn’t if he could.

“I’m serious, George,” said Frost.

Greene squatted down, as if inspecting the grass around the ball. He didn’t like golf, but had discovered that the game had various uses, the most important of which was allowing him to get out in the fresh air away from the constant pressure of the White House. It also gave him a way of talking with his aides and confidants — the press called them cronies — in a more relaxed atmosphere.

Golf was one of the benefits of climate change, at least from Greene’s perspective. A few years ago, February golf even in the Washington, D.C., area would have been a chilly affair. Global warming wasn’t all bad.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to hit,” said Greene, rising.

“What you’re doing is borderline legal,” said Frost.

“I don’t think there’s anything borderline about it,” said Greene. “As long as I hit the ball squarely. It goes down the middle of the fairway. No one will complain.”

“After the beating you’ve been taking all day, I’m surprised you’re willing to take the risk.”

“Not much of a beating, all things considered,” said Greene.

“Gulf of Tonkin? A thousand blogs have used the analogy.”

“Senator Grasso said that on the phone. Do you think he got it from them, or the other way around?”

“George — ”

“I like the Zeus plan,” said Greene, lining up the head of his club.

The CIA had obtained the missiles from Dubai and sold them, through a third-party government, to a South African company. The South African company was owned by a man who had once worked for the CIA but was now a private entrepreneur — a term favored over the less generous but better-known “mercenary.” The entrepreneur had hired an ex-Malaysian air force general to ship the weapons to Malaysia via his air freight company. The missiles were at this moment being loaded onto a pair of MiG-21s owned by a private company and leased to the Malaysian air force. There was paperwork indicating that the missiles were being tested as part of a feasibility program to see if the country should buy them, though it was hoped that such paperwork would never have to be reviewed.

The Malaysian general was Malaysian, but he was also on the CIA payroll, and had been for several years, pretty much since the beginning of the covert war there. Most of the technicians working on the plane were Americans under contract to the private company that owned the planes — a private company formed by an ex-CIA employee immediately on his “retirement” from the clandestine service. The two “test” pilots who would fly the planes were Australians, though neither could return to Australia without facing a variety of criminal charges.

According to the spec sheets, the MiGs themselves did not have the range to reach the target area, a slam- dunk argument against anyone who came up with a wild theory alleging that they had somehow been involved. What the spec sheets did not indicate was that both MiGs had been fitted with more efficient engines and conformal tanks that increased their fuel capacity.

The conformal tanks were modeled after those in the Stealth Eagle program, helping decrease the MiGs’ radar signature to the point that, with care, they would not be detected by even the American ships in the area, let alone the Chinese. Indeed, the MiGs looked very little like standard MiGs, with angled fins taking the place of the normal tail configuration, and nose extensions that would have made a plastic surgeon drool.

Greene, the former aviator, knew and loved all these details. Frost had passed them along, knowing he’d love them. It was also a way for Frost to cover his behind if the mission blew up in their face. Greene had no doubt that the CIA director would take the sword for him before a congressional committee, but when it came to writing his memoirs in a few years, a lot of blood would be on the floor.

Greene’s blood.

So be it. The way he figured it, he’d be senile by then anyway.

Greene whacked the ball. It flew straight down the fairway — for fifty yards. Then it began shanking hard to the right.

In the direction of the doglegged pin, as luck would have it. It cleared a rough, bounced over a trap — just — and plopped at the edge of the green.

“Better lucky than good,” said the president. Fie turned to the Secret Service detail and aides behind them. “We’ll walk.”

“Now I know you’re crazy,” said Frost. “Walking?”

“Come on, Peter. Do you good.”

The aides shot ahead. The Secret Service detail stayed a respectful, but watchful, distance behind.

“I got all the exercise I need forty years ago,” groused Frost. In actual fact, he was in as good a shape as the president — probably better, since he wasn’t feeding at the trough of so many state dinners.

“We have the finding indicating that American lives are at risk and have to be protected,” said Greene, addressing the legality of the action — such as it was. “I’ll hang my hat on that.”

“That’s a thin nail,” said Frost. “And more than your hat is resting on it.”

“This is nothing more than any president has done. Look at Reagan in South America. He fought a war there for years. Never had congressional support. Never went to them. What does posterity think about that?”

“That was against drug dealers, George. Nobody cares about drug dealers. Besides, it was Reagan. People loved Reagan. They don’t love you.”

“Ah. I have a depression to deal with,” said Greene. “I don’t expect them to be patting me on the back.”

“Stabbing you in the back isn’t a good alternative.”

Greene stopped. “Why so negative today?”

The president searched his old friend’s face. Ironically enough, they’d met back in Vietnam, both of them idealists in the process of being sharply disillusioned.

Greene’s naivete had ended a few weeks later, somewhere around fifteen thousand feet, as he descended from his airplane and realized he was so far over Injun territory that he was going to end up either dead or a POW. He wasn’t exactly sure where Frost’s had run out.

“We always said that if we were running things, we would do what was right,” Greene told him. “No matter how we had to get it done. You know this is right — if we don’t stop China now, there’ll be a world war inside of five years.”

“There may be a world war anyway, no matter what we do.”

“I realize that,” said Greene. “I wish I could get the rest of the country to realize that. At the moment, I’ll settle for UN sanctions. And a congressional vote in favor of them. It’s a start. Where’s your damn ball, anyway?”

7

Edwards Air Force Base, Maryland

The jet’s engines suddenly grew very loud. Josh raised his head, then felt gravity slam it back against the seat. For a moment he felt weightless, and panicky. He’d been sleeping, and all he could