Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (13 page)

“Andy? Are you there?”

Silence.

“Andy?”

His stomach went loose with fear. A chill swept through him. He dug his
night-vision binoculars from his backpack and focused on the Jetta. Andy
sat behind the wheel, motionless as he kept watch on the street ahead.

There was no one else in the small car.

Smith frowned, studying the car and the green night all around. Andy
still did not move. Smith watched him for two more long minutes, an
interminable length of time. But nothing changed. Andy moved not an
inch. Not a muscle. Not the blink of an eye.

Smith heaved a sad sigh. Andy was dead. They had taken him out.

He put away his binoculars and dropped down to the street, sprinted
across into the cluster of smaller neighborhood estates, and tore off
through their grounds. He heard no shouts behind him this time. They
would be too focused on the Jetta, expecting him to connect with Andy.

Furious and weary, he slowed to a lope. He wove along streets and past
gardens, fences, and the walls of gated communities built for the
expatriate businessmen who would flock more and more into the People’s
Republic to live off its billions. Finally he reached a major street.

Dripping with sweat, he hailed a taxi.

Beijing.

The telephone rang in the family room of the main house of Niu
Jianxing’s old-fashioned courtyard complex on the outskirts of the
Xicheng district, one of the older sections of the city. The Owl liked
to think of himself as a man of the people. He had refused to join the
many members of the Central Committee who had built expensive mansions
far out in the Chaoyang district. Instead, although his complex was
large and comfortable, it was far from flashy.

Niu had been watching the tape of an American legal drama with his wife
and son and, consequently, was annoyed by the interruption. Partly
because it was an intrusion on his family time, something he cherished
but could indulge in less and less since his elevation to the Standing
Committee. But perhaps even more because it broke into his fascinated
study of American concepts of crime, law, society, and the individual.

Still, no one would dare call him at this late hour unless the matter
were urgent. He excused himself, went into his private study, and closed
the door, drowning out the television and the happy sounds of his wife
and son.

Niu picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

General Chu Kuairong’s rasping voice wasted no time on preambles. “Our
scientist friend, Dr. Liang, reports that Jon Smith failed to keep the
dinner engagement he arranged. The doctor found a message on his
answering machine from Smith. He went to Smith’s hotel room, hoping to
change his mind. When there was no response, he had the manager open the
door to be sure Smith was well. The room was empty. Smith had not
checked out and not taken his belongings, but he was gone.”

Niu did not like that. “What does Major Pan say about Smith?”

“His surveillance did not see Colonel Smith leave the hotel. Ever.”

Niu knew the chief of state security was enjoying Pan’s embarrassing
failure. Still, that was hardly the point. “Smith must have suspected
Dr. Liang had become suspicious, knew he would be watched, and found a
way to slip out.”

“Clearly.” On the edge of sarcasm.

Niu repressed his irritation. “Has Smith been to Shanghai before?”

“Not that we know.”

“Does he speak Chinese? Have friends or associates here?”

“His military and personnel records give no indication of that.”

“Then how is he functioning?” Niu wondered and answered his own
question: “Someone must be helping him.”

The general had had his fun; now he became serious. “Someone Chinese. An
insider who speaks English or another language Smith knows. He would
have a vehicle and know his way around better than most. We are
particularly puzzled because Smith is totally unknown to us, and yet he
clearly has help in our midst, perhaps from someone recruited years ago
to spy among us.”

Niu contemplated his own private spies. Without them, he would be nearly
blind and deaf in the byzantine world of Chinese national politics.

“Whatever the case, we must now detain this colonel and interrogate him.

Tell Major Pan to do so immediately.”

“Pan has his people searching Shanghai.”

“When they find Smith, notify me. I will speak to him myself.” Niu
scowled as he hung up. He had lost all pleasure in his family time and
the American television program.

Why would the Americans send this sort of agent now, at such a
politically sensitive time, and allow him to operate when he surely knew
he had been discovered? Why would they risk their own treaty?

He fell into his office chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes,
allowing his mind to sink into that quiet place where it seemed as if he
were floating. There was no weight on his body, or on his mind …
Minutes passed. An hour. Patience was necessary. Finally, with a soaring
burst of clarity, he knew the answer: It would happen if a faction in
the American government opposed the treaty, too.

Washington, D.C.

In the big conference room next door to the Oval Office, the air was
heavy with anticipation. The chairs encircling the long table were
filled, as were the chairs lining the walls, where assistants, advisers,
and researchers sat and stood, waiting to hear what decisions would be
made so they were prepared to find answers to their bosses’ questions.

This packed meeting was just a preliminary discussion, but it was for
the all-important, annual multibillion-dollar appropriations package for
military weapons. The new secretary of defense, Henry Stanton, who sat
to the right of the president, had called it.

Stanton was a man of medium height and hot disposition. From his balding
head to his restless hands, he exuded energy and charm. His sharp
features had softened with age, making him look almost avuncular. In his
mid-fifties, he used that reassuring affect to great advantage in press
conferences. But now, out of sight of the media, he was all business.

He continued in his blunt style, “Mr. President, gentlemen, and lady.”

He inclined his head to the only woman at the long table, former Brig.
Gen. Emily Powell-Hill, the president’s National Security Adviser.

“Think of our military as if it were an alcoholic. Like any alcoholic,
if it–and our nation– is to survive, it must make a clean break from
the past.”

The irritation on the other side of the table was visible in the grimly
set jaws and audible in the low rumbles of the military commanders.

Alcoholic? Alcoholic! How dare he! Even President Castilla raised an
eyebrow.

Emily Powell-Hill jumped in to soothe the offended egos. “The secretary
is, of course, asking for input from all of you, as well as from many
experts in the field and our allies.”

“The secretary,” Secretary Stanton snapped, “is asking nothing. He’s
telling you the way it is. It’s a brand-new day and a brand-new world.

As the man said, we’ve got to stop preparing for last year’s war!”

“The secretary’s pronouncements and analogies might make him a great man
in the headlines he appears to crave,” Admiral Stevens Brose, chairman
of the joint chiefs, growled from his seat directly facing the president
and Stanton, “but his armchair views won’t matter a plugged nickel on a
battlefield.” His gray buzz cut seemed to bristle with disgust. He sat
awkwardly, his ankles crossed, his big chin jutting forward.

Secretary Stanton instantly retorted, “I resent the implication,
Admiral, and–”

“That was no implication, Mr. Secretary,” Brose said flatly. “That was a
fact.”

The two matched glares.

Stanton, the new man, gazed down at his notes. Few people had ever
out-stared the implacable chairman of the joint chiefs, and Stanton was
not going to be one of them today.

Still, Stanton did not give an inch. He looked up. “Very well. If you
wish to make this adversarial … ”

The admiral smiled.

Stanton reddened. As a former empire-building CEO of General Electric,
Stanton was a long way from doubting his convictions. “Let’s just say I
got your attention, Admiral. That’s what counts.”

“You’re too late. The world situation already did that,” Brose rumbled.

“Like an anchor between the eyeballs.”

The president raised a hand. “All right, gentlemen. Let’s call a truce.

Harry, enlighten us poor laymen. Tell us specifically what you’re
suggesting.”

Stanton, accustomed to cowing corporate boards that rubber-stamped his
every whim, paused for effect. His analytical gaze perused the assembled
generals and secretaries. “For more than a half century, America’s been
arming to fight a short, highly intense war in Europe or the old Soviet
Union from large, permanent bases that were relatively convenient
distances away. Targets were within striking range of carrier-based
fighters and bombers, plus there were the giant bombers that could fly
out of America. To prevent war, we relied on containment and massive
deterrence. All that must change radically. It must change now.”

Admiral Brose nodded. “I’m in full agreement, if you’re suggesting a
leaner military. It has to be quick to respond, fast to deploy anywhere
at any time, and equipped with lighter, smaller, stealthier, more
expendable weapons. The navy’s already implemented its ‘ fighter’
concept of small carriers, missile ships, and submarines to fight in the
narrow coastal waters we expect we’ll be operating in more and more.”

Air Force General Bruce Kelly was next to Brose. He sat erect, his
patrician face florid, his uniform immaculate, and his eyes clear and
calculating. His enemies complained he was an emotionless machine, while
his supporters bragged he had one of the shrewdest intellects the
military had ever produced. “I assume the secretary isn’t suggesting we
abandon our deterrent capability,” he said in a mild voice. “Our nuclear
weapons–long-range or short-range–are critical.”

“True.” Stanton offered his charming smile, since he and Kelly were in
fundamental agreement. “But we should consider reducing stockpiles and
trimming research for bigger and ” bombs and the giant missiles capable
of carrying them. It’s also probably unwise to build more carriers and
subs beyond what we need to replace what we have.”

Emily Powell-Hill said, “Cut to the bottom line, Henry. This is a
meeting about appropriations. Exactly what are you suggesting we build
and don’t build?” “As I said, Emily, I’m not suggesting anything. I’m
telling you what we must do to keep our military superiority. We must
shift funding from giant carriers, huge tanks, and fighter jets with
overwhelming power to light, small, almost invisible weapons.”

The army chief of staff, It. General Tomas Guerrero, was seated to the
far right of Admiral Brose. His big, square-fingered hands knotted on
the table. “No one’s going to tell me we won’t need tanks, heavy
artillery, and large forces trained to fight big wars. Russia and China
are still out there, Secretary Stanton. You’re forgetting them. They’ve
got massive armies, enormous territories, and nuclear weapons. Then
there’s India, Pakistan, and a united Europe, too. Europe’s already our
economic adversary.”

Stanton was not about to back down. “That’s exactly what I am telling
you, General.”

NSA Powell-Hill chimed in, “I doubt anyone believes–or wants–our
current military power scrapped, Mr. Stanton. As I understand it, your
opinion is that we need to intensify our direction in developing smaller
weapons and capabilities.”

“I–” Stanton began.

Before the defense secretary could continue, Admiral Brose used his
commanding presence and voice to bull his way in. “No one in this room
disagrees with the concept of a leaner, meaner military. Hell, that’s
what we’ve been working on since the Gulf War. We just haven’t made the
complete commitment you’re asking for.”

From the far end of the table, It. General Oda, the marine commandant,
boomed, “I sure don’t disagree. Light and fast, that’s what the marines
want.”

Nods of consensus filled the room. Only President Castilla, who was
usually a full participant in any serious discussion of the military,
remained silent. He appeared to be brooding, waiting for something else
to be said.

Secretary Stanton glanced at him, sensing uncertainty. He moved ahead
boldly. “As far as it goes, I’m glad you agree with my analysis. But I
get the impression you’re talking about beginning tomorrow. That’s not
good enough. We have to start today. Now. At this moment, we have
weapons in various stages of development–the air force’s F-22
short-range fighter jet, the navy’s next generation DD-21 battleship and
aircraft carriers, and the army’s Protector long-range armored artillery
system. They’re too big. Every one of them. They’re elephants when we
need jaguars. They’re going to be completely useless in the kinds of
future engagements we’re most likely to face.”

Before the chorus of outrage could gain steam, Admiral Brose abruptly
raised a hand. As the voices subsided to aggrieved rumbling, he said,
“All right. Let’s deal with them one at a time. Bruce, lay out the case
for the F-22.”

“That won’t take long,” General Kelly said. “The F-16 is getting old.

The F-22 will establish absolute control of the skies over any
battlefield. The new generation provides first-look, first-shot, and
first-kill. They’re faster, more maneuverable, and more powerful, and
their stealth is increased to where the jets are essentially
undetectable.” “Succinctly put, General,” Stanton said approvingly.
“I’ll try to match. No country’s building air capability equal to our
air force. What they are building are relatively cheap, powerful, and
accurate missile systems. The problem is, many of the missile systems
will end up in the hands of terrorists. At the same time, despite its
supercruise capability, the F-22 remains a short-range fighter. That
means it’s got to have bases close to battle. But what happens when the
enemy takes out those bases with missiles? Our new and expensive
fighters will be useless.” “I’ll speak for the navy,” Brose said. “We’re
already rethinking our carriers and other surface vessels. In confined
waters or waters close to a coast, they’ll be sitting ducks for
missiles. If it’s a war deep inside a continent, no ships or short-range
aircraft will be able to get to the battlefield anyway.”