Fagan rolled his eyes. “How do you think a bunch of third world peasants armed with AK-47s are going to stand up to our fleet of B-2 stealth bombers?”
“Women wearing suicide vests beneath their burqas are pretty stealthy, too. So are Toyotas loaded with C-4 on a crowded city street. In a war by civilians against civilians, the burqas trump the bombers.”
Fagan stood. “I’ve got a committee meeting in ten minutes across campus.”
Troy stood and held out his hand. Fagan reluctantly took it. Troy resisted the temptation to crush his moist grip. The other faculty stood as well, chairs scraping against the linoleum.
“Thanks for taking the time to hear me out,” Troy said.
A smile stole across Fagan’s face. “Interesting presentation. Good luck.”
That’s a no vote, Troy knew. Fagan was too much of a coward to say it to his face. “Thanks.”
Fagan left the room. The other faculty members shook his hand and clapped him on the back.
Garth said, “Best thesis defense I’ve heard in twenty years. Don’t worry about him. He’s just mad he didn’t think of your idea first. You’ve got my vote.”
Troy relaxed. Even smiled. “Thank you.”
Pembroke added, “Great job. You can easily turn that third section into a journal article. I know a couple of editors who would eat this up. I’m happy to write a cover letter for you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Garth stroked his graying beard, barely hiding an impish smile. “Just one thing kept bugging me while you were talking today.”
“Shoot.”
“How’d you get that black eye?”
FIFTY-SIX
Will grilled thick steaks on the backyard barbecue and broke out the best whiskey in the house. Troy and his friends danced on the polished hardwood floors and toasted his success. Three of the young women in attendance made plans to sleep with Troy that night. Troy made plans to sleep with just two of them, preferably at the same time.
After feasting on succulent T-bones and corn on the cob slathered in butter, Will finally got Troy off to the side for a quiet moment. He pulled out two Cuban Cohibas, and they lit them up over snifters of Hennessy cognac.
“So, Mr. Chips, what’s next? Staying at Stanford? Or is Yale still a possibility?”
Troy puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. “Neither.”
“What other school do you have in mind?”
“I’m done with academics.”
Will frowned. “I don’t understand. You’ve worked like a dog these last six years. You’re talented. A hundred doors are open to you. Money’s not an issue — you’ll get a free ride wherever you go with your academic record.”
Troy blew out a billowing blue cloud. “I need to get out of the ivory tower. I want to stretch my legs, see the world. Work up a sweat, you know?”
Will’s eyes narrowed. He swirled the cognac in his glass.
Troy was afraid he’d disappointed him. “Not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done, Will. It’s been an amazing ride and, God knows, I’ve learned a helluva lot, in and out of the classroom. And thanks to you, I’m civilized now, or at least some of the sharper edges have been knocked off.”
Will took a sip. “It’s your life, sport. You do what you’ve got to do.”
“You understand, don’t you? I grew up with chain saws and deer rifles in the Rockies, not laptops and lawn mowers in the ’burbs. I don’t know if I’m cut out for the academic life. Especially if I’m not allowed to smash anyone in the mouth.” Troy was still sore about Dr. Fagan’s no vote. A petty, petulant stab in the back by a petty, petulant department chair.
Will chuckled. “I understand on all counts. Believe me. So what are your plans? Working on an Alaska crab boat? Backpacking across Europe? That sort of thing?”
“What I need is a challenge. An adventure. Something physical, but something important. I don’t know exactly.”
Will’s green eyes twinkled. “I’ve been waiting for six years for you to say something like that.”
Troy’s eyes widened, shocked. “Really? I thought you wanted me to be an academic like you.”
“No. All I ever wanted for you was to become truly and fully yourself. You’re a really smart kid, but you’re not exactly cut out for the campus lifestyle.”
“Then what?”
Will laid an arm across Troy’s broad back. Pulled him in close. His breath stank of cigars and sweet liquor. A smile stole beneath the neatly trimmed mustache. He whispered.
“You need to go to the Farm.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
President Sun rose well before dawn to begin a ritual he’d practiced for forty years. After finishing a simple breakfast of Earl Grey tea and two baozi filled with spicy ground pork, he shuffled in his slippers and silk pajamas to his den. For the next thirty minutes, he sat in his chair and played his beloved cello.
His parents were both high-ranking Party members and accomplished musicians who were tragically purged and reeducated during Mao’s Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. That ended their dream for their only child to follow in their artistic footsteps, but Sun never lost the love of music they had instilled in him from an early age. Sun was a gifted musician, a prodigy, really. But musicians and other artists — particularly those favoring Western “bourgeois” forms and instruments like his parents had — were held in some suspicion during Mao’s sadistic reign, so he was guided into a career in chemistry by his grandfather that led, ultimately, to politics. He still worshipped his long-deceased mother and father; the time with his cello was time spent with their memories and the most pleasant moments of his idyllic childhood. It was also an opportunity to process the events of the coming day.
This morning, Sun took up the bow and played from memory the famous Adagio in G minor, improvising the part written for the first violin, his mother’s orchestral seat and preferred instrument. The familiar neo-Baroque composition was a passionate, maudlin affair, but it was his mother’s favorite and thus his. He needed his parents’ encouragement to face the day. Today’s secret meeting with select members of the Standing Committee was fraught with peril — and promise.
They would question his decision to allow Admirals Ji and Deng to embark on this reckless adventure. But he would tell them that even if he were inclined to stop them, an attack on the base or on the fleet once at sea was simply not feasible. Admiral Ji’s popularity within the Party was greater than his own, and the Mao Island campaign was enthusiastically embraced by the officer corps. Besides, nothing would please China’s enemies at home and abroad more than to see the PLA and PLAN turn on themselves.
But Sun understood the Standing Committee’s concerns. By any measure, this truly was a reckless action, but he was of the opinion that Ji would actually pull it off. The United States would avoid war with China at all costs, if for no other reason than the fact that the Americans had been engaged in the Global War on Terrorism for more than a decade and they were exhausted. Even their armed forces were reaching a breaking point, and the budget freeze had slowed American defense spending while China’s increased by double digits every year. But Sun was confident of American appeasement for another reason.