Left alone by the mountain of dumplings, Song breathed an audible gasp of relief. He had never been one for hero worship, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the sun had gone behind a cloud when Chairman Zhao stepped away to speak with someone else. Junior generals in the People’s Liberation Army did not customarily have chats with the paramount leader of China. Song could not yet comprehend what their little talk meant, but he sensed it was important.
The details were certainly curious.
Song was rescued from his thoughts by the buzzing phone in his pocket. It was his wife.
“Are you coming home?” she asked when he picked up. “Our bright little star has a headache and wants to see her grandfather.”
Worries about presidents and politics slipped from Song’s mind as he pictured his granddaughter’s face. The news that she felt bad made his heart ache, but he’d been known to cry when she skinned her knee. “Little girls should not have headaches. Should we take her to the doctor?”
“She is like you,” his wife said. “She reads too much for her own good. I did not mean to alarm you. You have enough to worry about.”
“Nothing as important as a favorite granddaughter,” Song said. “Tell her I will read to her as soon as I am able to leave this place.”
“I hate those meetings,” she said, outspoken as ever. “You have too many enemies. Please remember to be watchful.”
“Of course,” Song said. “My enemies are in the open here. Their spears are visible.”
He decided not to tell her about his talk with the chairman. The idea of it would rob her of the ability to sleep for a week.
“Spears are bright,” she said. “But political arrows are difficult to see.”
“Tell Niu I will be home soon.”
With his back to the dumpling table, Song ended the call and surveyed the crowd. Some of the most brilliant men in China stood inside this hall. Even so, it was plain to him at this moment why his models predicted China’s eventual loss in a prolonged conflict. Far too many here today were little more than paper tigers, billboards for their placards of medals, each intent on their own rising star or a fat bank account.
Great generals stood out in history because there were so many bad ones.
General Bai stood in the corner, conspiring with Major Chang, probably about this mysterious Operation FIRESHIP. Bai looked up, catching Song’s eye and returning the look with a sneer. Song’s wife was right. Political arrows were hard to see. The only sure way to stop them was to go after the archer.
Gunawan Gumelar, the president of the Republic of Indonesia, had graduated from the University of Sydney and spoke perfect English. Still, protocol dictated Ryan have a translator on the line. Ryan knew the man fairly well, and found him to be a touch on the tentative side for a world leader. That was to say, tentative at the times when he could have been brave. Gugun, as he was called by virtually everyone, including the press, made a point of stomping his foot and banging his fist to take the lead — and the credit — for any policy or program already ratified by groupthink and public opinion. As far as Ryan could tell, the man never made any decision without a committee standing behind him. He led by populist consensus, which, in Ryan’s book, was not leading at all, but mingling with a crowd and voicing the will of the loudest, not necessarily the rightest.
Ryan sat behind his desk, waiting for the White House Communications Office to let him know President Gumelar was on the line. Captain Laura Wyeth, a United States Air Force intelligence officer of Indonesian descent, was immediately to the President’s left. Her black hair was styled into a tightly wrapped bun, accenting the blue of her class-A uniform. She shifted in her seat periodically.
“I understand you’re fluent in six languages, Captain,” Ryan said, in an effort to calm her nerves.
“Only five, Mr. President,” Wyeth said, blushing through a tight-lipped smile.
“Three and a half more than me,” Ryan said, and glanced at Foley, who stood beside the young woman. She rested a hand on Wyeth’s shoulder, providing moral support.
Arnie van Damm and Scott Adler were across the desk. Both men leaned forward in anticipation, pondering, no doubt, all the ways the boss could step in it during such a politically charged call with another world leader.
Ryan didn’t blame them. Gumelar had been dodging his calls all day. Cowardice never set well with Ryan, and there was a real danger he might unload with both barrels when the Indonesian president finally did show his head.
Captain Wyeth suddenly became animated. She said something into her mouthpiece in Indonesian that Ryan took to mean “Please hold for the President of the United States.” Then raised a finger and nodded at Ryan.
“Gugun!” Ryan said. “Thank you for taking my call.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
