Code of Honor

16

General Song Biming sat in one of the plastic chairs at the back of the great hall, as far as possible from the heavier lapels who occupied the foremost rows. In a gathering of this many high-ranking generals, those like Song, who wore only a single star, might well be asked to serve the tea.

There was no assigned seating, but generals of the five theater commands, rocket forces, and other assorted three-stars customarily took the softer seats directly in front of the raised dais along with PLA Navy admirals at the chairman’s feet. The boot-licking sycophant, Lieutenant General Bai, sat among them.

Chairman Zhao did not seem to care who sat where, so long as they attended his mandatory meetings when they were in Beijing. The civilian commander in chief of the Central Military Commission liked to stay in contact with his leaders, looking them directly in the eye, checking their pulses — and their impulses — to see what they were up to. Military leaders could smell weakness, and there were many who would pounce on Zhao at the slightest stumble if he let them. Chairman Zhao understood this, and displayed his power periodically, figuratively cutting off the head of some person who thought himself indispensable. These sacrificial lambs were always a drain on the party, unloved by their peers, but often highly placed with important — but not so important as to make a difference — families. Song was reminded of the story when the emperor challenged Sun Tzu, the great Chinese warrior philosopher, to train the emperor’s concubines to march in formation like soldiers. Sun Tzu had taken up the challenge. The tittering women had shown up on the parade field, spoiled and hungover from drink. Try as he might, the great warrior could not get the concubines to listen to his direction — until he asked which among them was the emperor’s favorite. A sly-eyed woman had slinked forward, only to have Sun Tzu immediately draw his sword and cut off the favorite’s head. The other concubines fell quickly into line, marching in perfect order in no time.

Chairman Zhao was a benevolent dictator, but no one around him was ever completely safe from being turned into a lesson. Even benevolent people had bad days, suffered lapses in judgment, lost their tempers. As chairman of the Central Military Commission, general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party, and paramount leader, there were few aspects of Chinese life where Zhao did not exercise near-absolute control. One bad day affected many careers — many lives. Heavy was the crown, as the saying went, but over the years he’d developed an extremely strong neck while consolidating his presidency.

There were, of course, always reminders that any position at the top was inherently unstable, not the least of which was the bullet hole his predecessor had left in the wall behind the desk when he’d shot himself. Zhao had elected not to repair the hole, covering it with a painting instead, reminding himself and everyone else who knew it was there to be more cautious than his predecessor. Most respected Zhao for the authority he’d brought back to Beijing, to his office, and most especially for what he was doing to raise China’s star on the world stage.

The title Chairman had gradually gone out of style after Mao Zedong, giving over to the friendlier-sounding President. Zhao truly was a friendly human being — most of the time. He did, however prefer his title of guojia zhuxi be translated as State Chairman, believing it sounded more Chinese.

Today, Zhao Zhuxi had spent more than an hour speaking to his military commanders as a group, quizzing them, testing them, keeping them on their toes. Coups were not unheard of in China. Zhao himself had faced a particularly bloody one when his own foreign minister had attempted to usurp control of the country. The American President had helped save the day, which could have made Zhao appear weak. But the foreign minister and his entire family — a wife and teenage son — had been wiped from the face of the earth, if not by Zhao’s order, certainly with his blessing.

Benevolent indeed, until he was crossed.

Such harshness was necessary. A country of 1.3 billion people needed a strong hand to govern it. That strong hand needed generals and admirals and police chiefs whom he could trust.

General Song was old enough to know that he did not know much in the great scheme of the world. But of two things he was sure: He genuinely liked Chairman Zhao — and he was glad he wasn’t him.

As usual, the meeting broke up with the chairman stepping down off the dais to mingle with the attendees. Side tables with food had been set up along the walls, and most people took advantage of Zhao’s hospitality and excellent dumpling chefs. Lieutenant General Bai made a beeline directly for the chairman, intercepting him as he reached the floor. He’d wanted a meeting, but Zhao had been unable, so he was obviously lying in wait. Song drifted that way, curious to hear what fantastical deeds General Bai was claiming responsibility for this time.

Drawing closer, Song was horrified to hear mention of simulations. Computers. That was Song’s area. What could this fool, Bai, be talking about with the president? Bai’s aide had come up from the back of the great hall. He was closer than Song, close enough to hear what was being said with more clarity. Whatever it was made the man blanch. His wooden expression was difficult to read.

Song wove his way through pockets of military leaders, holding his breath as he passed through the clouds of cologne and the earthy fragrance of dumplings fried in sesame oil. General Bai spoke with his hands, a bombastic habit that appeared to make Zhao’s security people very nervous.

Chairs clattered against one another as they were dragged across the carpeted floor to disparate areas of the hall. These were not young men, and many of them preferred to sit and talk in small trusted groups while they ate.

A rear admiral named Tai touched Song’s sleeve as he went by, taking a moment to criticize the PLA Navy’s attrition forecast from Song’s last scenario report. The general took a moment to try and appease him, though they were of equivalent rank. By the time he extricated himself, he looked up to see the chairman with one hand on Bai’s shoulder. He either was impressed or wanted the general to stop waving his arms so much. The look on his face said it was a little of both. General Bai all but gushed, the jowly smile pinching his eyes into tiny lines. Song could hear only snippets of their conversation.

“…turning point… power… computer model… can assure you… winning… game…” Then, more clearly, “Mr. Chairman, this will change the tides…”

An aide stepped forward and whispered something to Zhao, causing him to bow and step away to chat with a waiting politician.

Bai caught Song’s eye, lingered to gloat for a moment, then strode away with his scabby major in tow, obviously satisfied at how the conversation had gone.

The chairman would continue to work the room for at least an hour. That was, after all, the purpose of this meeting. Song was in no mood to be chided for doing his job. He entered the data he was given and lived with the unadulterated results. It was hardly his fault if the United States had more sophisticated aircraft and carriers. Less than ten feet away from the paramount leader of all of China, General Song veered left and melted into the crowd of green uniforms and multicolored ribbons. He could not leave before the chairman did. That would have been noticed — and noted.

Around the great hall, other generals compared war stories from when they were young men. Song preferred to keep his stories — and himself — to himself. He hadn’t eaten, and, though he would sit down to dinner with his wife and granddaughter when he returned home, decided to have a dumpling, if only to give himself something to occupy his time besides staring at people who did not wish to talk with him anyway.

He was standing empty-handed in front of a chafing dish, perusing the seemingly endless variety of pork, mushroom, and bean dumplings, when he felt someone walk up behind him. He stepped aside, apologizing for blocking access to the serving area. Turning as he spoke, he was horrified to see Chairman Zhao, holding his own saucer and a conical dumpling of sticky rice and peanut called zongzi.

“Chi fan le ma?” the chairman asked. Literally, Have you eaten? It was the traditional Chinese greeting, used when an English speaker might say “How are you?” It was doubly appropriate here, since the Office of the Chairman had provided all the food.

General Song bowed deeply. “I have not, Mr. Chairman, sir. But I am about to.”

Zhao smiled graciously and waved at the laden table. “Please do.”

“Mín yĭ shí wéi tiān,” Song said, responding with a proverb, hoping it would come across as a humble compliment. Common people regard food as heaven.

Zhao took a bite of his zongzi and regarded Song as he chewed. “You and General Bai do not get along.”

Chairman Zhao did have a way of getting to the yolk of the egg. It wasn’t a question.

“We have found a way to be professional, Mr. Chairman,” Song said.

Zhao nodded, as if he knew better. “He is watching us from across the room, though he does not believe me clever enough to notice such things.”

Song took the chairman’s word for it, squirming a little at being taken into such confidence regarding the man’s thoughts on General Bai.

Zhao sighed. “I have read the reports of your computer simulations but have not had the opportunity to talk to you in person.”

Song bowed again, bracing himself. “I am at your service, Mr. Chairman.”

“The outcome of your computer modeling is divisive, to say the least. General Bai believes you have omitted vital components.”

There had yet to be a question, so Song offered no response. As his father taught him, there was no wisdom like silence.

“Bai does have some unique ideas,” the chairman continued. “Revolutionary, even. I would be interested to know what you think of them.”

“The general shares with me what I need to know for my duties,” Song said.

“Your duties are with supercomputers, artificial intelligence, gaming simulations, and the like?” Zhao said.

“That is correct, Mr. Chairman.” This was taking an odd turn.

“So,” Zhao continued, “I would like to know more of your honest assessment. What do you think of this Indonesian business… FIRESHIP?”

“FIRESHIP?” Song’s mind raced to figure out what the chairman was talking about. He dared not hazard a guess, but knew better than to answer his superior’s question with a question. There was nothing left but to be honest — Song’s habitual fallback position. “I am not aware of any operation with that name.”

“That is most interesting.” The chairman cocked his head, moving his jaw back and forth in thought. “Your involvement would be logical, considering your area of… It is not important,” he said, in a pensive way that meant it most definitely was extremely important. “I think it best if you do not speak of this Operation FIRESHIP until General Bai brings it up to you.” He smiled serenely. “This conversation should remain between you and me.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Chairman.”

“Continue to do exactly what you are doing, General Song. I need forward-thinking men like Bai who are willing to take risks for the future of our country, but their vision does not diminish the necessity of truth.”

Song dipped his head without thinking. “That means a great deal, Mr. Chairman.”

“Oh, do not be too grateful,” Zhao said. “I have chatted with you so long I may have ended your career. Most of those here will believe… hope… that I have spent this time scolding you. Others will be out of their minds with jealousy that I spoke to you at all. People make up stories to fill the vacuum of what they do not know, and those stories are always subject to their own insecurities. It is human nature to believe the worst in others, because we know the worst about ourselves.”

“I thank you, in any case,” Song said.

Zhao’s aide stepped forward at some unseen signal and ushered him to a group of admirals waiting for their turn to politick.

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. FIRESHIP? General Bai’s “forward-thinking” plan. That imbecile hadn’t had a forward-thinking idea in his stodgy little lifetime.

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.