The President nodded absentmindedly and crossed the room back to Bannerman. “Well, where the hell is he, Paul? What are those folks in Beijing playing at? First their ambassador asks for an immediate meeting and now he’s late getting here.”
Bannerman looked to Blake for rescue. “Any ideas, Dr. Fowler? After all, you’re the China expert here.”
“I’m sure it’s not an intentional delay, Mr. President,” Blake said, hoping he was right. Too many lives depended on this meeting to contemplate being wrong. “The NSA says the signals traffic between the ambassador and Beijing has been extremely heavy all day. I suspect their embassy staff has had problems keeping up with the high-level decoding required.”
The President stared at him for a moment without speaking and then resumed his pacing.
His phone buzzed softly and he reached across the desk to get it. “Yes? Okay, June, send him right in.” The President hung up and turned to face the others. “The ambassador’s car just pulled up. He’ll be up shortly.”
Shortly was something of an understatement. The Chinese ambassador was ushered into the room two minutes later. And despite his evident hurry, he’d obviously taken great care in dressing. His perfectly pressed charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and red tie made the small, prim man look more like a prosperous Hong Kong banker than the emissary of the world’s most populous communist nation. It also made Blake feel scruffy in comparison.
“Mr. President, I am deeply honored that you have agreed to receive me at this late hour.” The ambassador bowed slightly and straightened. “I hope you will forgive me for this inexcusable delay.”
The President donned his warmest “campaign” smile and stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Ambassador. As always, I’m delighted to see you.”
The two men shook hands and moved to a pair of chairs closer to the fire. South Korea’s ambassador settled himself beside them.
The Chinese ambassador wasted little time with the usual diplomatic pleasantries. He reached into the leather briefcase he’d brought with him and pulled out a sheaf of papers bearing the official seal of the People’s Republic. “I have my government’s response to your request that we aid you in bringing this unfortunate war to an end.”
He handed a copy to both the President and the South Korean ambassador.
As the two men scanned the documents, Blake felt his heart speeding up and pressed a hand hard onto his right knee to keep it from trembling visibly in nervous anticipation. He watched the President’s face closely and felt his hopes sink as he saw the Chief Executive arch an eyebrow. Had the Chinese refused them or set impossible conditions on their help?
At last the President looked up from his reading and stared hard at the ambassador. “Your government’s answer seems” — he searched visibly for the right word — ”somewhat tentative, Mr. Ambassador. Much seems to depend on events over which we have little control.”
He handed the papers to Bannerman and turned to South Korea’s ambassador. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Kang?”
The South Korean nodded somberly.
The Chinese emissary sat farther forward in his chair, an earnest and amiable smile on his lips. “Mr. President, Mr. Ambassador, please. It is true that there are certain, ah, conditional aspects to our reply to your proposal.” He glanced at his watch. “However, I have been personally assured by my Premier that, even as we speak, actions are being taken that will ensure that those conditions are met.”
Bannerman gave the Chinese reply to Blake, who scanned it quickly — astounded by the grand political design it described in such short, simple words. He stared for a moment at the papers, with his mind half a world away as he tried to assess the diplomatic and military pressures now set in motion. Would they be enough?
He felt the President’s eyes on him, looked up to meet them, and nodded. What the Chinese intended just might work. Hell, it had to work. There wasn’t time to try anything else.
The President nodded back. Blake’s unspoken assessment matched his own instinctive reaction. They’d have to hope that the Chinese knew what they were doing. He sat back in his high-backed Georgian chair. “Very well, Mr. Ambassador. We’ll wait with you for these ‘conditions’ to materialize.” He forced a smile. “In the meantime, can we offer your something to drink? Tea, or perhaps something stronger?”
The ambassador smiled back. “Thank you, Mr. President. Tea would be most welcome.”
“Splendid.” The President looked at his watch and frowned. He reached into an inner pocket, pulled out a pen and small notepad, and scribbled a quick note. He motioned to the admiral still standing by the window. “Phil, could you arrange for this to be sent immediately? I don’t want any unfortunate accidents while there’s still hope that this thing can be settled.”
Simpson crossed the room and read the note. It was addressed to Admiral Thomas Aldrige Brown. He nodded abruptly and left the Oval Office at a fast walk. Time was running out in the Yellow Sea.
Brown read the signal from Washington one more time. “You’re sure this has been authenticated, Jim?”
His chief of staff nodded. “It’s genuine, Admiral.”
“Shit.” Brown stared at the Flag Plot’s strategic display. It showed the position of all known Soviet naval and air units in the region. All were closing on his task force. They would be within range in four or five hours at most. He balled his hands into fists and kept them rigid at his sides. The President’s order went against all his instincts to hit before being hit.
Slowly, very slowly, Brown forced his hands to relax. An order was an order. He turned to his chief of staff and said, “Okay, Jim. Signal Washington that we’re complying. And tell CAG to keep his pilots in the ready room. Takeoff time has been postponed for at least three hours.”
Brown turned back to the display as his chief of staff hurried away. He could see it happening again — the same kind of political indecision and drift that had gotten so many good men killed in the air over North Vietnam. The Soviets were going to get within missile range while Washington diddled around. And there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Not a damned thing.
The General Secretary stared slowly around the elegantly furnished room at the other members of the ruling Politburo. Many were his creatures, men he had plucked from lesser positions and promoted to serve his own interests. But if his years in power had taught him anything, it was that loyalty within the Party was a fair-weather commodity. It was there when things went right and gone the instant things went wrong.
And things had been going wrong.
His gaze settled on the defense minister and he scowled. The man sat quiet and unmoving in his chair, his dark brown eyes deeply shadowed and his shoulders slumped. The General Secretary gritted his teeth. The bastard. The foolish bastard.
He rapped gently on the table, ending the low hum of a half-dozen whispered conversations. “Comrades, we face a grave crisis — one with enormous implications for the safety of our motherland.”
Heads around the table nodded. They’d all been briefed on the growing military confrontation between the Soviet Union and the United States. All had been shocked by the speed with which it had developed, and most were unsure of the causes.
The General Secretary continued without pause. “Most of us had assumed that American attack on our surveillance aircraft and submarine was unprovoked. Naturally we felt compelled to respond to this aggression — and to respond with overwhelming force. Hence our preparations for a massive retaliatory strike on the murderous American warships.”