“It seems clear to me, Mr. President, that the United States has no wish for war with China. Neither do we,” Ito said. He sat up straighter in his chair. “But we are determined to defend our national interests and our national honor. If the Chinese dispatch the Liaoning into Japanese territorial waters, I will instruct the JSDF to respond.”
“Then you’ll be at war with China, a war you cannot win,” Lane said.
Tanaka nodded. “If one is forced to choose between honor and life, it is always best to choose honor.”
The room went silent. Myers kept her eyes on Ito. He was clearly lost in thought. She’d always known him to be a rational, affable, intelligent man. But he was also a proud Japanese. Back in Denver, whenever she talked about American exceptionalism, he was quick to point out his own sense of Japanese exceptionalism. She couldn’t blame him. Japan was an ancient and remarkable culture, one of the world’s oldest and greatest civilizations. She knew the rational part of Ito’s brain understood Lane’s position, but his Japanese sense of duty, kinship, and honor inclined him toward Tanaka.
“It sounds like you’re saying that you would abandon your friends in a time of war,” Ito said.
“I didn’t say that. But if Japan launches a preemptive strike against Chinese forces, then you limit our options and put all of us at risk. I’m asking you to trust us and refrain from any actions that might give the Chinese any reason to act against you. But you have my assurance that the United States is completely committed to the defense of Japan, no matter what happens.”
Tanaka shook his head in disbelief.
“There is, of course, the matter of the North Koreans to consider,” Ito said. “They’ve moved their MIRV to its launch pad at their test facility at Musudan-ri.”
“The North Koreans are China’s lackeys,” Tanaka said.
Lane nodded grimly. “They aren’t making things any easier, that’s for sure.”
“It’s a strange time to test an intercontinental ballistic missile,” Davis said.
“It might not be a test,” Lane said.
“Then what could it be? A message?” the ambassador asked.
“They may be trying to send a message,” Myers said. She took a deep breath.
“Or they just might be preparing for World War Three.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Pearce!”
The African-American jail guard glowered at Troy through the cell door. Standing six-foot-seven and carrying three hundred pounds of sculpted muscle on his wide frame, he was as intimidating as he was large.
Troy looked up at the sound of his name. He was seated on a steel bench in the overnight tank for drunks, johns, and other less dangerous miscreants. He had no shirt, only athletic shorts, jailhouse slippers, and a black eye.
Keys rattled in the lock and a massive black hand guided Troy by the arm, cuffed and shuffling toward outtake processing.
Will was at the front desk signing papers. A paper bag by his elbow.
The guard unlocked Troy’s cuffs. “Don’t come back, kid.”
“Thanks,” Troy said.
Will nodded his thanks to the desk officer and tossed the paper bag at Troy. He opened it. A hooded Stanford sweatshirt.
“We gotta roll,” Will said, turning for the exit. Troy followed suit, yanking on the hoodie.
The drab downtown jail facility was an unremarkable building on the outside. The kaleidoscope of broken people inside provided the color.
Will pushed open the glass door and dashed for the parking lot, Troy on his heels.
“What’s the hurry?” Troy asked.
“You kidding me?”
“Oh, shit.”
“‘Oh, shit’ is right. Your thesis defense is in an hour. It’ll take an hour and twenty to get to Encina Hall.”
Will unlocked the doors to his Porsche 911 and they both fell in.
“I can’t go like this. I need to change, take a shower.”
The Porsche engine roared to life and Will turned around to back out. “I’ve got your slacks and sport coat under the hood, along with a shirt, tie, and shoes. No point in looking like a complete slob.”
Troy smelled his underarm. His nose crunched. “Don’t suppose you have a shower under there?”
“There’s a bottle of Old Spice under your seat. Go ahead and slap some on now, use plenty of it. It’s gonna be a long ride.”
Will gunned the Porsche down the I-880 on the east side of the bay to avoid the traffic in San Francisco.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Will asked. “I thought you gave that shit up.”
“I told you I’d quit fighting when I had enough cash. Can’t exactly make serious money flipping burgers at Carl’s Jr.” Troy had been cage-fighting in the underground circuit since his sophomore year at Stanford. The infamous Chinese triad Wo Hop ran the illegal gambling enterprise throughout the state, especially in the Bay Area.
“You almost threw everything you’ve worked for out the window last night.” The warehouse where Troy was fighting had been raided by the Oakland PD’s gang unit.
“Still have bills to pay.”
“Your dad’s debts were his, not yours.”
“My dad was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a bum.”
“That’s what bankruptcy laws are for.”
“He couldn’t do it.”
Troy leaned back his seat to close his eyes. He hadn’t slept all night in the holding tank. The stink of stale urine and vomit was stronger than his fatigue. They drove along in silence for a few minutes. Will finally calmed down. Couldn’t stay angry with the kid. He risked his life in the no-holds-barred cage fights to earn money to pay off his old man’s debts. It was stupid, but honorable.
“So you won.”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I used to be a spook, remember?” Started to tell Troy that he was the one who had tipped the Oakland PD to the location, but the boy was already sound asleep, the unopened bottle of Old Spice still clutched in his hand.
FIFTY-FIVE
The three faculty members sat on one side of the conference desk and Troy on the other. The air reeked of too much Old Spice but no one said anything. Troy was better dressed in his sport coat and tie than the faculty who wore Levi’s, collared shirts, and loafers.
Troy’s master’s thesis was brilliant but controversial. He applied a quantitative game-theory approach to the qualitative work of William S. Lind and others on fourth-generation warfare. He proved the hypothesis that 4GW was the future of conventional warfare in the third world because it was superior to the current forms of warfare deployed by the West. The Black Hawk Down incident in Somalia a few years earlier wasn’t just a tragic error, he argued; it was a portent of things to come.
Troy’s thesis defense for his master’s degree today was a technicality, but it was also a chance for the department chair, Dr. Fagan, to get even with him. Troy had embarrassed him publicly on a number of occasions in seminars and colloquia, successfully challenging the professor’s indefensible positions on security issues and his slavish devotion to political correctness.