Текст книги "Strike Zone"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Colonel Bastian had emphasized that they were not in enemy territory, and that their weapons were to be used only if their lives were threatened, and then only as a last resort. Did this situation qualify for deadly force?

Probably not.

Definitely not.

But Boston swore to himself that he’d upend the bastard and give him a good kick in the head when he caught him.

Just as he started to gain on the thief, the bike turned off a trail to his right. Boston skidded on the uneven surface, nearly losing the vehicle out from under him as he took the turn. He revved up the trail, came to a rise and found himself airborne; when he landed, the bike went one way and he went the other.

By the time he got back to his feet, the thief was so far away Boston could barely hear the engine of the bike he’d taken.

BY THE TIMEStoner got outside, the only one in the lot was a scrawny ninety-pounder, shaking like he was a puppy caught peeing on a rug. The kid looked to be about fourteen; whether he was Thai or Cambodian, Stoner couldn’t tell.

“What’s your story?” demanded Stoner. He repeated the question in Mandarin and then Cantonese Chinese, finally switching to standard Thai, a language he knew so little of that he could only ask what the man’s name was and whether he could speak English.

The man said nothing in response to any of his questions, clearly frightened and probably believing he was going to die.

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One of the motorbikes revved in the distance, returning. The CIA officer held on to the thief until he was sure that it was Boston on the bike, then threw the man down and told him, in English, to run. The man blinked at him.

“Jàu hòi!” Stoner said in Chinese. Get away. Go.

Finally the kid began crawling backward toward the jungle.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Stoner told Boston, climbing on the back of the bike.

“He a guerrilla?”

“I don’t know. Probably just a thief. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“You done inside?”

“For now. Go. Go!”

HISTORICALLY,THAILAND SATat the crossroads of southeast Asia. The land had played host to various migrations for many thousands of years. This history had left a rich culture, but it had also greatly complicated the language situation. Thai was spoken by more than half of the country’s population, but its various dialects and local accents made it difficult for a foreigner to understand, even when that foreigner was communicating with the help of a language expert who could listen in with the help of a small but powerful mike setup.

“I think what he’s telling you is it’s dangerous,” said the Thai-Kadai language expert back in Dreamland as he tried to decipher the words Dog was repeating through his sat phone.

“Well, I kind of figured that,” said Dog.

The man had arrived on bicycle after they’d been on the ground a half hour. He seemed to be a maintenance worker or caretaker; he had explained in heavily accented Thai that the administrator and staff had left some time before—though whether “some time” meant earlier in the day or weeks ago wasn’t entirely clear.

“Why don’t I let you talk to him directly?” Dog asked his translator.

“Sounds okay to me,” said the man.

Dog had to coax the Thai worker into taking the phone. But he was soon chattering away, and Colonel Bastian thought he’d have a hard time getting the phone back.

“He says he hasn’t been around too long,” the translator told Dog. “He comes every day. The only other aircraft have been army helicopters. The Cambodian guerrillas hide when they come, but there are at least a few dozen armed insurgents nearby, and it sounds like they control the area. Most of the people who live in the jungle there are refugees, or were refugees and have just kind of squatted.”

“Did he say anything about the factory?” Dog asked.

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“Didn’t know anything about it. Hard to tell how sincere he’s being, Colonel. He may be scared of you and be telling you what he thinks you want to hear. Or he might be a guerrilla and be lying outright. Or he might just be telling the truth.”

Dog looked at the middle-aged man. It seemed to him unlikely that the man was a guerrilla, but of course there was no way of knowing. The Thai government did not actively condone the guerrilla movement against the Cambodian government, but it didn’t entirely discourage it either. The guerrillas were occasionally harassed, but the Thai government did not consider them a big enough threat to kick them out of the country. Historically, there had been plenty of animosity between Thailand and Cambodia, and if it weren’t for the refugees who crowded their borders, the official line toward the guerrillas might have been openly encouraging.

“He offered to take you to his house for something to eat,” added the Dreamland translator. “Pretty high honor.”

“How do I say thanks but no thanks?” asked Dog. “We have to hit the road soon. Stoner should be just about wrapping up.”

AS THEY PASSEDthe point where the thief had turned off, Boston saw something flash in the jungle on the opposite side of the road. He hunkered toward the handlebars, pushing the throttle for more speed though he already had the engine red-lined.

Stoner shifted on the bike behind him. Boston yelled at him to stop moving; he was afraid of losing his balance. But the CIA officer was oblivious, and Boston nearly lost the bike as the trail clambered across the side of a ravine before flattening out.

Someone was shooting at them.

Bullets flew on both sides of the road, dirt exploding in small wavelets.

And then there was a loud boom behind him.

Somehow, Boston managed to keep the bike upright. The small village near the airstrip lay just ahead.

STONER THUMBED THEtape off another flash-bang as they sped down the hill toward the village.

The grenade he’d tossed off had temporarily slowed their pursuers, but he knew that it was just a matter of time before they closed in again. They had a jeep or something like a jeep as well as the other motorbike.

A group of children playing in the road ahead scattered as the bike approached. Stoner saw someone crouching near a building and realized he had a gun. Before he could do anything, he found himself flying through the air.

He realized he’d lost the M-84 stun grenade a half second before it exploded.

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BOSTON HIT THEdirt so hard his teeth slammed into his tongue. The pain made him scream; he jumped to his feet, head spinning in the dust. Someone grabbed him from behind, and he shoved his elbow hard into his side, fishing for his ruck and the submachine gun.

“Come on, come on,” yelled the man who’d grabbed him. “The airport. Come on.”

Stoner.

As Boston started to run, the bark of a heavy machine gun resonated off the nearby walls.

AS SOON ASDog heard the gunfire and explosions in the distance, he turned and ran back toward the airplane and Bison, who was standing guard near the wing.

“I’ll get the engines going and turn around so we can take off,” said Dog. “Get them aboard.”

He didn’t wait to hear an answer. He clambered into the cockpit, just barely patient enough to bring both engines on line before spinning the aircraft around. As he did, he caught sight of two figures running across the open field behind the blockhouse. Bison ran toward them, firing at something in the distance.

“Come on, damn it,” Dog yelled.

The plane stuttered, its brakes barely holding it down.

“Move! Move!”

BOSTON TURNED ANDsaw a jeep bouncing across the edge of the road behind him. A machine gun had been mounted in the rear.

He leveled his MP-5 in the bastard’s direction and emptied the clip. The front of the truck exploded and the vehicle flipped over, the gunner jumping out.

“In! Go!” Stoner yelled, pulling him toward the borrowed King Air.

Bison jumped up into the open rear doorway. Stoner yelled something, then threw himself inside the plane.

Boston took a look back. Two men were moving at the far end of the runway.

One was dragging a small sewer pipe with him.

No—he had a shoulder-launched missile.

The Whiplash trooper stopped, slapping a new magazine into his gun. By the time he had it ready to fire—no more than a few seconds later—the two men had disappeared.

There was a block building near the end of the runway.

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The plane began moving behind him, but Boston couldn’t worry about it now—he couldn’t let the bastards shoot his people down. He heard the engines revving as he started toward the building.

Where’d the bastards go?

Ordinarily, he would have taken the corner slowly—ordinarily, he would have had a squad with him, flanked the SOBs, maybe used grenades and machine guns and every piece of ordnance known to modern man.

But there wasn’t time for finesse.

Boston ran to the side of the building, finger edged against the trigger of his gun.

He saw them, the oversized blowpipe on the shoulder of the taller man.

Boston fired his MP-5 as the missile launcher exploded. For a moment, he saw everything stop; for a split second, he was part of the museum tableau, a display in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.

And then everything turned red. Then black.

DOG HAD ALREADYstarted down the runway when Bison yelled that Boston had gone back. He had too much momentum to stop; instead, he took the plane off the end of the runway, winging back quickly to land.

As he legged around, he saw smoke rise in a misshapen cloud, covering the building near the end of the runway.

He steeled himself for the worst as he touched down.

It took forever for Bison and Stoner to get out of the plane. When he saw they were out, Dog took off the brakes and trundled around once more, heart pounding—not because he worried that more guerrillas or whoever they were would appear, but because he dreaded having lost another man.

It was his fault. He could have worked with the Thai government. He should have.

He’d chosen not to because it would have involved politics and bullshit and delay.

His impatience had cost him a man.

Where the hell were the others?

“Go!” yelled Stoner finally, rushing into the forward cabin. “Go!”

“Boston?”

“Go!”

Bison appeared behind the CIA officer. “He’s okay. He just can’t hear. The SA-7 flew into the side of Page 132

the building and exploded. He shot the bastard just as he fired, and the missile went off course.”

Dog punched off the brakes and slammed the engines to full power.

Brunei

1800

“AFTER YOU GETa little more experience under your belt,” Mack told Starship, “you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t know, Major.”

“Call me Mack, kid.”

Mack smiled at the young pilot. Even though the kid had the bad luck to be working for Zen, Starship was all right. Balls-out Eagle jock, just like Mack.

Well, not quite as good a pilot. But who was?

“Single-malt Scotch,” said Mack, raising his shot glass as he continued the young man’s education. They were sitting in a reception room that was part of Prince bin Awg’s lavish home. A butler had shown them here, and then vanished. “This is what real drinking is about.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” said Starship, downing his glass.

“Sip. Sip,” said Mack. “Like you’re going to be doing it for a while.”

“You sure we’re allowed to be drinking his Scotch?”

“Why do you think they parked us in this room?” said Mack, refilling the glasses. “You don’t understand Eastern hospitality, kid. It’s subtle, but it’s immense.”

“Immense and subtle at the same time?”

“Drink up.”

“There you are, Mack,” said the sultan’s nephew, entering the room. “And you’ve brought Lieutenant Andrews.”

The prince ignored Mack’s gesture toward the Scotch—he himself was an abstainer.

“The sultan wants you to attend dinner tonight,” said bin Awg. “He has been thinking over things.”

“Always up for dinner with the big guy. Right, Starship?”

“Um, I really have to get back.”

“No, no, Lieutenant, you come along as well,” said the prince. “Major Smith, His Majesty has a special surprise for you.”

“What’s that?” asked Mack.

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“He’s going to ask you to take charge of the air force.”

“Which air force?” said Mack.

“Our kingdom’s. We wish to modernize, and with a man of your stature, this could be easily accomplished.”

Mack began to protest that he was happy as a member of the U.S. Air Force.

“But I’m sure we could make you happier,” said the prince. “The sultan will be able to work things out with your government, of course. We would merely borrow you. I believe a somewhat similar arrangement was made with General MacArthur and the Philippines, prior to the World War. That might be the model.”

MacArthur?

Head of the Brunei air force?

Why not?

“Well, it’s an interesting idea,” said Mack.

“Of course, you would be free to choose your own staff,” said bin Awg.

“Starship can be chief of staff,” said Mack.

“Um,” said Starship.

“Please, there’s much time to work on the arrangements directly,” said the prince. “Your secretary of defense is an old friend of the sultan’s. I’m sure he could arrange—what would you call it? A furlough?”

“I don’t know,” said Starship.

“And the arrangements would be quite generous,” said bin Awg.

“Maybe I oughta talk to Colonel Bastian,” said Starship.

“By all means. Mack?”

“Sign me up,” said Mack, thinking of how many babes he might be able to get on staff.

Taipei, Taiwan

1900

HEADS TURNED ASChen Lee walked slowly into the large reception hall. He smiled and nodded at the government dignitaries and businessmen, making his way slowly through the crowd.

His granddaughter’s silk dress rustled against his leg as they walked. He did not actually need Kuan’s support, but her presence was always a balm to him, making more palatable the false smiles and lies that he found it necessary to countenance. The fidelity of his family strengthened and comforted him; a mortal Page 134

man could hope for no greater achievement than the unqualified love of his offspring, and the girl’s willing presence at his side signified how truly rich he was.

“They are bowing to you, Grandfather,” whispered Kuan. “They know you are a great man.”

Chen Lee did not answer. He would not trouble the girl with the harsh reality that most of these men would be glad to see him pass on. They were appeasers, willing to sell their souls to the devil communists. For what? A few pennies and false promises. They were fools, and none so hardy as the president, who was holding court at the far end of the room, behind a phalanx of sycophants and bodyguards. Chen Lee waded in the other direction—let the president come to him, he decided.

Chen Lee had not heard from his grandson Chen Lo Fann, but he knew the young man’s mission had failed. The Chinese had lost three aircraft—Fann’s doing, no doubt—but aside from their usual hotheaded rhetoric, there had been no move against the United States, and no action to prevent the coming summit.

Chen Lee could not believe it. Had the generations that followed him become so weak, so puerile, that they did not recognize an act of war when they saw one? Did men wear dresses as well as false smiles now?

“Mr. Chen Lee, it is a great honor that you are here,” said the British cultural attaché. The reception was ostensibly being held to commemorate the arrival of a British acting troupe in the capital, though of course it had many other purposes.

“You are too kind,” Chen said humbly.

The attaché introduced him to another British citizen, Colonel Greene, who smiled benignly. Chen Lee turned and began to survey the crowd. Greene attempted to start a conversation by saying that the politics in the country had entered a difficult stage.

“Yes,” said Chen Lee. It was necessary to be polite, but he did not want to encourage the foreigner.

“A shame so many people do not realize the danger of the situation,” said Greene.

Chen Lee turned and looked at the colonel. He was dressed in civilian clothes, so it was impossible to tell if the title was honorary or not. The British seemed to be so overrun with retired colonels that they were exporting them to Asia by the planeload.

“Even the Americans seem blinded by the talk of peace,” said Greene.

“The Americans have been allies for a long time,” said Kuan. She had accompanied her grandfather to enough occasions such as this that she knew he wanted the foreigner drawn out.

“The Americans are endorsing the meeting in Beijing, and doing everything to keep it on schedule,” said Greene.

“And how is that?” asked Kuan.

“They’ve told the communist pigs they were not responsible for the shooting down of the rescue aircraft in the South China Sea. They claim to be investigating and will present evidence that it was someone else.

There are various rumors.”

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Kuan glanced at her grandfather. He did nothing—which she knew was a signal to continue.

“What sort of rumors?” she asked.

“The initial crash was an accident, yes,” said Greene. “But the other plane—it seems doubtful.”

“Who would have been involved?”

“Not Taiwan, I would think.”

“We are not aggressors.”

“Of course not.”

“You are very well informed, Colonel Greene,” Chen Lee said.

The colonel smiled. It was obvious now that he was part of British intelligence, though Chen Lee had never heard of him before.

“I am not so well informed as I would hope,” said Greene. “But one hears rumors and has questions.

And I for one would never trust the communists.”

“Perhaps the British shot down the aircraft to disrupt the meeting in Beijing,” said Chen Lee, staring into the colonel’s eyes.

“Her Majesty’s government is in favor of the meeting. Unfortunately.”

Chen Lee smiled.

“So who would want to disrupt it?”

“It’s not so much a question of whom,” said the colonel, “but how. The Americans were the only ones in the area, from what I’ve heard.”

“Then perhaps the Americans are better allies than I’ve been led to believe,” said the old man.

Dreamland Command Trailer, Brunei

2100

“THE MATERIAL COULDhave been a byproduct from any chip manufacturing process,” Rubeo told Stoner over the secure video link as the others looked on in the trailer. “You will need more proof.”

“I have people working on running down the ownership and digging through contracts,” said Stoner.

“What’s important is that they could have made advanced chips there. These weren’t for VCRs.”

“Gallium arsenide is not wasted on entertainment applications.”

“A company owned by a man named Chen Lee was apparently behind the factory when it was set up,”

said Stoner. “I’m looking into it right now, but I don’t know what if anything we can run down. Chen is one of the most common names in Taiwan.”

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“Taiwan?” asked Rubeo.

“Yeah.”

“Chen Lee is a prominent businessman—he hates the communists.”

“They all do,” said Stoner.

“Yes.” The scientist scowled. “There’s a Taiwanese scientist who’s done considerable work on the mirroring system I believe was used in the intercepted transmissions. And he has a connection to Chen Lee, whom any Internet search will show is one of the most ardent anticommunists in Taiwan and a very rich, rich man.”

“Is the clone the scientist’s?”

“You’re the investigator, not me, Mr. Stoner. Doing your legwork is getting a little tiresome.”

“I’m sure it’s appreciated,” said Colonel Bastian.

“What’s the scientist’s name?” asked Stoner.

“Ai Hira Bai,” said Rubeo. “He has not taught anywhere, or shown up at a conference, or published a paper, in at least eighteen months, perhaps more.”

“Can you upload enough information for me to track him down?” said Stoner.

“Gladly.”

“Bottom line here, Doc,” said Colonel Bastian. “Could this Chen Lee guy build a Flighthawk?”

“It’s not a Flighthawk,” said Rubeo with pronounced disdain.

“Could Bai build something like we found?” asked Stoner.

“It depends entirely on his motivation and financing.”

“What about the government?” asked Zen.

“No. If it was a government thing, I’d know about it,” said Stoner. “Believe me. We’ve really checked into it. We’re plugged into the Taiwanese military.”

“I don’t see a private company, or a couple of individuals doing this,” said Alou. “What? Try to start a war between China and us? No way. Not without government backing.”

“Some things are easier without the government involved,” said Rubeo. “Much easier.”

Dog glanced at his watch as Stoner and the scientist traded a few more barbs as well as ideas on where the UAV might have been built. The Taiwan connection was the overwhelming favorite, so much so that Dog knew he had to tell Jed what was going on. The others, meanwhile, seemed as if they were ready to pack it in for the night.

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“All right, I’ll tell you what,” said Dog, interrupting them, “let’s call it a day on this side. I’ll talk to the NSC and tell them what we think. Ray, you and your people keep working on the data. Stoner—”

“There’s a hundred people sifting the tea leaves back at Langley for us, Colonel,” said the officer, referring to CIA headquarters. “We’ll see if the NSA can come up with anything for us as well.”

“Good,” said Dog. “All right, let’s—”

“Colonel, I’d like a word in private,” said Rubeo before Dog could shut down the line.

“Well I’m out of here,” laughed Zen. The others followed him from the trailer.

“Just you and me now, Doc,” Dog said when they were gone. “What’s up?”

“Jennifer Gleason has submitted her resignation,” said Rubeo.

“She can’t do that,” said Dog.

“Well, she has a different opinion about that than you do.”

“She can’t leave,” insisted Dog.

“Her contract—” started Rubeo.

“I understand she’s not in uniform,” said Dog. “I mean, she can’t leave. We need her. And she’ll screw herself, her career, I mean—”

“None of those things seem to be considerations,” said Rubeo. “As I was starting to tell you, her contract states that she may return to teaching at any time with sixty days’ notice, and she’s submitted papers indicating that she wants to do that. It’s not a formal resignation, but it’s what she has to do to be in position to submit a formal resignation.”

“Damn it Ray. God damn it.”

Rubeo blinked at him. “Yes, Colonel. Damn it. Damn it all to hell.”

Washington, D.C.

0915

(Brunei, 2115)

JEDBARCLAY SLIDinto the backseat of the car when the secure satellite phone he carried rang.

“Barclay,” he said, swinging up the antenna so sharply that it cracked against the bulletproof glass of the limo.

“Jed, this Colonel Bastian. Can you talk?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“We think the ghost clone may have been made by Taiwan, possibly by a private company. We’re Page 138

looking into it now.”

“Taiwan?” Jed leaned back against the seat. “Taiwan?”

“That’s what it looks like. We’re not positive yet, though.”

“I’m going to talk to the President about Taiwan,” said Jed. “There’s a high-level conference between the premier of Mainland China and the president of Taiwan next week. We’re thinking of sending the vice president.”

“I don’t think that has anything to do with this,” said Bastian. “This is just one little airplane.”

“I don’t think the President’s going to agree,” said Jed.

FORTIFIED BY ANTIBIOTICSand a shelf’s worth of vitamins, Jed’s boss walked shakily into the paneled conference room in the basement of the West Wing. Jed hovered nearby, ready to lend his arm or shoulder in case Philip Freeman suddenly ran out of energy.

Freeman’s presence made Jed feel considerably more relaxed than he had been over the past few days; there’d be no need to speak, except to his boss. While Colonel Bastian’s assessment that the Taiwanese were involved was bound to shock most of those at the meeting, Freeman would bear the brunt of the questions.

The President and most of the invited Cabinet members had already arrived, along with half of the service chiefs. They were already discussing the summit between China and Taiwan.

“We have to encourage the meeting, and the best way to do so is by sending the vice president,” said Hartman, the secretary of state. “He’s already in Japan. It won’t take anything for him to go to Beijing.”

“Too much too soon,” said Chastain. “Especially since the Chinese are still blaming us for shooting their aircraft.”

“The official protest has been withdrawn,” said the secretary of state. “The rest is just for internal consumption. It’s posturing.”

“I’d like to show them posturing,” said Balboa. He looked at Jed as he said it and winked.

“If we’re not there, we run the risk of being left on the sidelines,” said the secretary of state. “The vice president can say that he’s going to Beijing to discuss the unfortunate crash of the Chinese aircraft in the South China Sea.”

“Let’s not do that,” said Martindale. “If we go, we go. No baloney playing. Have we figured out what happened yet?”

All eyes turned to him.

“The Dreamland team has come up with a theory,” said Jed. “But we need more information.”

Jed could feel his face turning red as the others waited for him to continue. Jed glanced at his boss, who Page 139

nodded. He’d already told Freeman in the car on the way over.

“It looks like Taiwan. Or actually, a private company working without the knowledge of the government,” said Jed.

“Taiwan?” said Hartman.

“We just got the information on the way over,” said Jed. “Colonel Bastian and the Dreamland team are looking for permission to enter the country to do more research.”

“Taiwan? Not Mainland China?” asked Martindale.

“Taiwan does make sense,” said Freeman, his voice raspy. “If it’s one of the old hard-liners, not the new government.”

“But a private company?” asked Martindale. “How? Who?”

“We’re still trying to gather data,” said Jed, “but the CIA expert working with Dreamland believes the plane was developed by a businessman who’s at odds with the present government. The companies that seem to be responsible are owned by a man named Chen Lee. He’s pretty old—he fought in Chiang Kai-shek’s army. The embassy says he’s one of a handful of hard-liners against the summit next week.

Like I say, we’re still gathering information. This is really new, as of a few hours ago.”

“You sure this isn’t something Bastian cooked up to make himself look good, young Jed?” asked Balboa.

“I don’t think so, Admiral.”

“Colonel Bastian’s not like that,” said Freeman.

“What’s the status of the investigation into Dreamland?” asked Chastain.

“Unofficial investigation,” said Jed.

“Yes?”

Jed looked to his boss and then the President before giving the unofficial findings of the AFOSI. “They can’t rule it out, but everything points to no penetration.”

“A weapon such as the Flighthawk in the hands of the Taiwanese—whether it’s the government or not, makes no difference—is going to anger the Mainland-ers,” said Hartman. “It will make the situation extremely volatile.”

“If they have it, how come we haven’t figured it out until now?” asked Martindale.

Jed—one of the people responsible for figuring such things out—looked down toward the table before speaking.

“It may be that it’s been developed entirely outside of the ordinary military channels,” he said. “As a matter of fact, that seems most likely. Because otherwise, we’d have had indications. The Taiwan connection took the CIA totally by surprise.”

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“It takes the Air Force by surprise as well,” said the defense secretary. It seemed to be a jab at the service chief, who hadn’t offered anything in the discussion—a sound political move, in Jed’s opinion.

“This is all very interesting, but it’s not going to contribute anything to our decision on what to do about the summit,” said Hartman.

The secretary of state got the discussion back on track, arguing for an American presence in the capital during the meeting. Chastain responded by pointing out that many of Taiwan’s neighbors were taking a very cautious approach. Japan in particular had yet to weigh in on its opinion of the meeting, a clear sign that it viewed it with suspicion at best. There was also the danger that high-level U.S. presence in Beijing at the time of the meeting would raise expectations beyond a reasonable level.

As the debate continued, Jed watched President Martindale. His face gave no hint of which argument he agreed with. Jed knew from experience that he liked to gather as much information as possible before delivering a pronouncement. This often made for a fairly long fact-finding period, though once the President decided, he never wavered or second-guessed himself. Jed admired that; he himself often worried after he made a decision, and even something as simple as picking a tie might be revisited three or four times.

“The real question is whether rapprochement is in our interests or not,” said Freeman. “At this point, I frankly feel the answer is not.”

“Long term it is,” said the secretary of state.

“I agree with the national security advisor,” said Balboa.

Jed thought he ought to pull out his pocket calendar and record the date—the admiral and his boss rarely agreed on what to have for dinner, let alone anything substantive.

“I don’t think we can actively discourage peace,” said Chastain. “But I do argue for caution.”

The President raised his hand.

“I think we have to encourage peace in Asia,” said Martindale. “At this point, we want the dialogue to go ahead. Obviously, we want to monitor events there very, very closely. And we don’t want any developments that would derail it.”

There was more debate, but Jed could tell the President had already made up his mind. Martindale let everyone take one more shot at having his say, then ended the discussion for good.

“The vice president will arrange his schedule to visit Beijing on the first day of the conference,” he said.

“But he will not attend it, or offer any comment on it. He will visit the Chinese premier and the president of Taiwan privately. That is absolutely as far as we can go.”

“It’s pretty far,” said Chastain.

“Anything else, gentlemen?” said the President, rising.

There was, of course, nothing else.

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“Feeling better?” he asked the national security advisor as Freeman and Jed started to leave.

“Getting there,” said Freeman. “No cigars for a while.”

“Your wife must be glad of that,” laughed Martindale. He turned to Jed. But instead of joking, his voice was once more dead serious. “I want you to tell Dreamland to nail this down.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“I don’t like buts, Jed.”

“Um, they’re going to want to go in-country and look around,” said Jed. “Colonel Bastian already suggested it.”