Power and Empire

5

Jack Ryan awoke at four fifty-one a.m., a full thirty-nine minutes before he got up on a normal day — but then, as President of the United States, normal was a subjective term.

Cathy was out of town with the kids, performing cataract surgeries in Nepal. School wasn’t exactly in full swing, but it had already started for the year, and Ryan wasn’t too happy about Katie and Kyle missing the first few weeks. Katie had pointed out that while she fully agreed that school was important, a deep understanding of world culture was also crucial. Travel to Nepal, she reasoned, would add to that understanding in a way no classroom could. “China canceled travel visas for people that wanted to go there, just to keep the Tibetans from sneaking into India, Dad! Don’t you want me to visit someplace the ChiComs say is off-limits?” Ryan’s wife bristled at the use of “ChiComs,” and he’d had to remind Katie it wasn’t especially diplomatic for the President’s daughter to use the word in reference to the communist Chinese — no matter what she might overhear him saying in the White House.

His daughter’s logic was sound and emotional — leaving Ryan to live in mortal fear that she would decide to be an attorney. So the kids went with Cathy to Nepal — and Jack Ryan found himself alone.

He arched his back, ticking through the myriad old injuries that stitched his body. He had more than a few, and some woke up slower than others. Sitting up against his pillow, he glanced at the bedside table and the five-by-seven photograph of his wife and him on the docks at Annapolis. They were standing with his old friend and mentor, the late Admiral James Greer. The photo customarily occupied a place of honor on top of his cherrywood dresser, but it was Ryan’s favorite picture of Cathy, so he moved it to the side table whenever she went out of town.

Ryan reached for his glasses and stood, wincing when his feet hit the carpet. He cast another glance at the photograph, getting a clearer view now. Jeez, his hair was so dark back then. “That’s just like you, Cathy,” he mumbled, “going off to restore poor people’s vision when I need you here to rub my aching foot.”

With his wife performing medical miracles and no opportunity to engage in what the Secret Service euphemistically referred to as “discussing the situation in Belgrade,” Ryan was up and seated on the rowing machine in the residence gym by 5:05. An hour later found him showered and dressed in a pair of gray wool slacks and a white French-cuffed shirt that had been laid out for him while he was in the gym. He left the blood-red power tie on the bed, preferring to wait until he finished breakfast before he consigned himself to the noose.

The Navy steward, a young petty officer named Martinez, followed Ryan’s location in the residence by watching a lighted panel that indicated POTUS’s whereabouts as he moved across the pressure-sensitive pads under the carpet of the bedroom, gym, shower, and back to the bedroom. Accustomed to the President’s schedule, the steward had breakfast ready on a side table in his study by the time he was dressed.

The First Lady had given strict instructions to the White House chef that her husband’s breakfasts should consist of oatmeal, skim milk, and raisins during her absence. Ryan quickly countermanded that order, offering a presidential pardon to whatever punishments his wife might dole out if she ever discovered he was eating a buttered croissant and two poached eggs.

Ryan spread the front page of The Wall Street Journal beside his plate on the white linen tablecloth. He’d heard it said that when it came to food, the eye ate first — but he’d always preferred to let his eyes work independently of his plate. He read and hardly looked at his food but to plot the correct aim with his fork. Twenty minutes later, he carried the unfinished pages of the Journal, along with the Post and The New York Times, to a more comfortable chair. He could have gone into the office, but when he went in, others thought they had to come in, and he saw no reason to get everyone else spun up just because his wife was in Nepal.

Ahead of schedule, he allowed himself to linger a little over the papers and sip his coffee while he enjoyed some thinking time in the quiet of morning. In no time, things would speed up to their usual breakneck pace and he would have to start making decisions, “wielding his cosmic power for good,” his chief of staff would say. Ryan laughed at the thought. As a boy, growing up in the house with his policeman father, power had smelled like Hoppes No. 9 gun oil and strong coffee. Here in the White House it smelled like freshly pressed linen… and strong coffee.

Ryan glanced at his watch, then rationalized away six more minutes to limber his analytical mind on half the Wall Street Journal’s crossword before digging into the Presidential Daily Brief.

The PDB was a collection of highly classified executive summaries that the Office of the Director of National Intelligence deemed worthy of his review. It contained everything from hard intelligence to rumors that, while patently false, were likely to incite unrest or instability in parts of the world where the United States had strategic or humanitarian interests. Charged with the deconfliction and information sharing between the seventeen U.S. intelligence agencies, it was the responsibility of the ODNI to have a finger on the pulse of important world events — and to boil them down into the PDB.

Ryan preferred a BLUF report — Bottom Line Up Front. He wanted a simple executive summary of straight facts — even when those facts were about rumors — and would drill down on the specifics in face-to-face national security briefings. He’d cut his teeth in the intelligence community as an analyst, playing what-if games with world events, and could spend hours delving into the nuances of a single issue — and enjoying the hell out of it. But he wasn’t in the rank and file of the IC anymore. The problems facing the office of President came at near lightning speed from all points of the compass and at all hours of the day. Ryan was forced into the role of a generalist, relying on subject-matter experts to work through the in-depth analysis and strategy.

Theoretically, the PDB allowed him to stay a move or two ahead and decide where to put his pieces on the board. This morning’s brief was straightforward, with the same parts of the world devolving into their continued spiral toward chaos, while other parts — admittedly fewer than he wished for — continued to emerge into newer, more robust economies. According to the briefing folder in front of him, the world was just as safe — or every bit as dangerous — as it had been the day before.

At seven-forty a.m., Ryan snugged his red tie into a semiuniform single Windsor and stuffed the PDB into the same leather briefcase he’d been carrying for years. He downed the last of his delicious Navy coffee — a phrase that did not come easily to the mind of a former Marine — and walked out of the West Sitting Hall to meet an earnest young Secret Service agent who was posted there.

“Good morning, Tina,” he said.

Special Agent Tina Jordan gave him an exuberant smile, though she was coming to the end of her shift just as he was beginning his.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” Then, quietly, she raised her sleeve to her lips and whispered, “SWORDSMAN is on the elevator.”

She stepped into a small alcove and pushed the button on the elevator that would take them down to the ground floor, where they hung a right to begin on Ryan’s three-minute walking commute to the office.

Ryan entered the Oval from the Rose Garden, the door opened by the agent who knew how to overcome the security device in the handle. He found his daily calendar printed on a single sheet of paper that was centered perfectly on the middle of his desk where his lead secretary had placed it shortly after she’d arrived at seven-thirty.

Ryan pressed the intercom button on his phone. She already knew he was there, because she too had a light board indicating his location.

“Good morning, Betty.”

“Good morning, Mr. President,” his secretary said. “What can I do for you?”

“Director Foley and Secretary Adler should be here in a few minutes. Go ahead and send them in when they arrive.”

“DNI Foley is here now, sir,” Betty said.

A moment later, the director of national intelligence entered from the secretarial suite outside the Oval. Ryan had known Mary Pat and her husband, Ed, since their days at CIA together. They’d dodged innumerable crises, weathered the ones that were unavoidable, and together walked barefoot over the broken glass of some of the most tragic events in recent history. She was more than a member of his inner circle, she was a friend — and in Washington, friends were as rare as genuine statesmen.

They saw each other at least four times a week, but Ryan still stood when she entered. He winced when he put weight on his foot, tried to hide it — and failed. Mary Pat gave him a narrow look. She opened her mouth to say something, but Scott Adler, the secretary of state, came in, followed by Jay Canfield, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Arnie van Damm, Ryan’s chief of staff, entered from the adjoining door to his own office — the only person in the White House able to enter the Oval unseen and unimpeded. Arnie had served as chief of staff to three presidents. Ryan was the polar opposite of a politician, leaving Arnie to handle the annoying — and, frankly, unfathomable — part of the job that allowed him to get elected so he could make the decisions the country needed him to make. Jack picked his clubs and hit the ball, but Arnie told him the lay of the course.

Ryan made his way to his favorite chair in front of the fireplace and waved the others to sit on either of the two off-white couches in the middle of the Oval Office. His advisers had all staked out their customary spots for these meetings long ago — and he felt sorry for anyone new to the cabinet who happened to take the wrong seat. The thought of it brought a smile to his face and a question to his mind.

“Not national security — related,” he said, “but you guys have your ears to the ground out there more than I do. What do you hear about Dehart’s nomination?”

Ryan had recently put Mark Dehart, senior congressman from Pennsylvania, forward as his pick for secretary of homeland security, an office recently vacated by the resignation of Andrew Zilko.

Van Damm gave a slight shrug, the way he did when something was a nonissue. “That guy squeaks he’s so clean,” he said. “Confirmation sounds like a foregone conclusion.”

The door opened again and Bob Burgess, secretary of defense, stepped in. He scanned the seated group, checked his watch, and then shook his head. “I apologize for being only five minutes early, Mr. President.”

Ryan smiled, nodding to the Navy steward with the service cart rolling in behind Burgess. “You beat the coffee,” he said. “That’s something, I guess. We’re just getting started.”

Ryan thanked the steward — who was already his coconspirator in the less-healthy breakfast scandal — and, as was his custom, poured everyone’s coffee himself. Rather than standing, he simply held the cups out for his advisers to get up and take. No one appeared to mind.

The meeting breezed along, hitting the high points about Russia, the Ukraine, immigration, and, on the home front, the possibility that the Fed was going to raise interest rates.

“And that brings us to the latest FONOP,” van Damm said. As CoS, it was his job to keep the momentum going on the meeting, but always with an eye on his boss. FONOP was the acronym for Freedom of Navigation Operation. With China continuing to make what much of the world felt were absurd maritime claims in the South China Sea, the United States in general, and Ryan in particular, felt it important to show that not everyone agreed with those claims. To that end, several times each month, U.S. Navy vessels, typically destroyers or littoral combat ships, innocently sailed within the twelve-mile line surrounding several of the disputed islands and reefs — without asking permission. The movements themselves had become almost commonplace. Within the last month, harassment by Chinese vessels and planes had reached new and alarming proportions.

“Sounds like the PRC got their feelings especially hurt on this one,” Ryan mused, perusing his written brief.

The SecDef nodded. “That would be a correct assessment, Mr. President. LCS San Antonio sailed eleven miles off Woody Island in the Paracels on her way to Phuket, Thailand. As you know, the ChiComs have surface-to-air missiles on Woody, so the island is of particular interest to us. Two J-10 fighters off the Woody airstrip buzzed the LCS a half a dozen times. Commander Roger Reese, skipper of the San Antonio, reported encounters with multiple Chinese vessels, including a PLA Navy guided missile frigate that stayed on their tail all the way to the mouth of Patong Bay. Reese followed international protocols, utilizing the Code for Unplanned Encounters at Sea and hailed the ships to declare intentions and avoid miscommunications. Three large fish processors attempted a blockade, without a doubt at the behest of the PLA Navy. Commander Reese apparently plays a better game of chicken and they eventually got out of the way.”

Ryan nodded. “Good for Commander Reese.”

Burgess said, “ChiComs accused him of ‘illegal and dangerously provocative’ actions, as usual.”

“I’m a little concerned about the optics on these FONOPs,” SecState Adler said.

Burgess suppressed a scoff, but just barely. “The optics here are perfect, Scott. These patrols make it absolutely clear to the new Chinese president what the administration thinks of the Great Wall of Sand he’s continuing to dredge up.”

Ryan looked at the secretary of state and shrugged. “Bob’s got a point,” he said.

Adler took a sip of his coffee and shook his head. “Don’t misunderstand me, sir. I’m referring to the optics presented to the Chinese public, not President Zhao and the party mandarins.”

“Pun intended,” Ryan said, arms crossed, chin on his fist.

“Absolutely, Mr. President.” Adler grinned. He too had been with Ryan since the beginning — and his opinion was invaluable, even when Ryan didn’t agree with it, often for that very reason.

“But in all seriousness,” Adler said, “it’s a brave new world out there. Everyone with a smartphone is an on-the-scene reporter. The Communist Party of China has worked very hard to gain back the hearts of the population after President Wei lost control and killed himself before he could be arrested. They’re doing that by whipping up a nationalist fervor. Xinhua is running multiple stories this morning about the ‘illegal encroachment’ of American warships into their waters over which China has ‘indisputable sovereignty’—complete with photographs of the San Antonio that were presumably taken from the Chinese guided missile frigate.”

Mary Pat raised her pen and conceded the secretary of state’s point. “Weibo is abuzz with nationalist fervor.”

Ryan mulled that over but said nothing. State controlled, Xinhua News ran nothing that was not filtered and approved by the Communist Party. Weibo was the microblogging site that was the Chinese answer to Twitter.

DCIA Jay Canfield added, “There are more than a few folks in the micro-blogosphere calling our actions nothing less than an act of war.”

“That’s not unusual,” Burgess said. “Ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent of those buzzing voices are, no doubt, spewing forth from columns of Terra Byta warriors marching in lockstep in some information warfare battalion or 50 Cent Army in a Beijing warehouse — or working directly for the Ministry of State Security. In any case, this nationalism is likely voiced by the same government propaganda machine that submits stories to Xinhua. As you just pointed out, it wasn’t too long ago that a large part of the PRC’s population was so fed up with the Communist Party that they threatened to storm the Zhongnanhai and drag their bastard leaders to the guillotine.”

Mary Pat raised an eyebrow. “The guillotine?”

Burgess shrugged but held his ground. “The sword, the firing squad… You know what I mean.”

Ryan sighed. “President Zhao’s relatively new, but my read is that he’s made of much tougher stuff than Wei ever was. He’s a princeling — and with that comes a certain amount of old-guard support among the Central Committee. He appears to be using that support to gobble up power like Pac-Man, all while he sees to the rebuilding of national pride along with the thousands of acres of new islands in the SCS. People can be fed up with the party and still have a hell of a lot of contempt for us.”

“True enough,” the secretary of state said. “I’m just saying that it’s one thing for the party to know you mean business, but the broad media coverage of our warship sailing through what the average Chinese citizen views as their waters could force President Zhao to respond. He can’t afford to appear to be letting his power slip. As Bob says, Zhongnanhai leadership knows all too well what happens if the masses smell blood in the water. I’m in no way suggesting that Freedom of Navigation exercises are a bad thing. But the optics are something to be aware of.”

“Interesting stuff,” Ryan said. “But nothing here is surprising. Maybe this FONOP will be nothing more than a little bump under the tires of our week.”

Mary Pat scoffed. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but did I ever tell you about the tiny little tick bite that put me in the hospital for a week when I was ten years old?” She pulled back the collar of her silk blouse to reveal a dime-sized scar on her neck. “Sometimes it’s the little things that scare me the most.”

“There’s that old Chinese curse,” Burgess said. “May you live in interesting times.”

Ryan sat back in his chair. “I think Bobby Kennedy just made that one up.”

Burgess started to add something, but Ryan said, “Optics noted.” He was ready to move on. “Scott, put together the usual statement reiterating our position that the U.S. Navy and U.S. merchant ships have been operating freely in the South China Sea for many decades — and we don’t intend to leave anytime soon. Note that LCS San Antonio was on an innocent and routine mission to visit our friends in Thailand. And have someone leak informally to the Chinese ambassador that I’m pretty pissed about the way they hid behind a bunch of innocent fishermen and put them in danger.”

Adler made a note in his folio. “Yes, Mr. President.”

Ryan looked at the DNI. Her lips were pursed in thought, eyes twinkling and narrow. They’d worked together long enough that he knew when she was chewing on something that might interest him.

He prodded. “What is it, Mary Pat?”

She gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if still working through a thought.

“A game of chicken only works if neither party knows when the other will flinch,” she said. “It wasn’t too many months ago that you demonstrated to China that you are willing to — excuse me, but there’s no other way to say it — bomb the shit out of them. It was only a building that time, but you’ve made your resolve crystal clear. An increase in hostilities, even to bolster nationalism, is incredibly dangerous. All due respect, Mr. President, but playing chicken with you is akin to driving into a brick wall. Stupid men do not become the paramount leader of the People’s Republic of China. President Zhao has to know that you will not get out of the way.”

Adler looked up from his notes. “Are you saying Zhao is knowingly trying to foment an actual shooting war?”

The DNI shook her head. “I’m saying there’s something strange going on in the PRC. I can’t put my finger on it. But it is strange.”

Ryan paused for a moment, eyes fixed on the Remington bronze beyond his desk. The others in the room knew when he was thinking, and they gave him the space to do so by looking down at the folios in their laps and keeping quiet. Mary Pat was right. He’d never been much of a yielder when it came to games of chicken. Now, though, he played the game with other people’s kids. It didn’t necessarily mean he was more likely to flinch. It did, however, make him careful never to start such a game himself.

“Scott,” he said, “get on the horn with your counterparts in and around Southeast Asia over the next few days. You can start with Australia and Japan. They certainly have big dogs in this fight over the SCS. Let them know we appreciate what they are doing, but it wouldn’t hurt our feelings if they ramped up their own movements in these waters. They don’t have to go out of their way to piss off the Chinese, but they shouldn’t be tippytoeing around to avoid them, either.”

“A unified front,” Secretary Burgess said. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Yes, it would,” the President said. “And I’ll do my part by bringing up the issue during bilateral meetings while we’re in Tokyo.” He eyed van Damm over his glasses. “I do have meetings with both the Japanese and Australian PMs, right?”

“You do,” the CoS said.

Ryan looked forward to the G20 Summit. It was supposed to be about the economy. What wasn’t, after all? But world leaders, being who they were, discussed whatever they damn well pleased when they got together. Ryan enjoyed the face-to-face meetings. Statesmanship between leaders with competing agendas was often sorely lacking, even in his own country — hell, especially in his own country.

Van Damm flipped through several pages in his folder. “The final advance team is in Tokyo now. Last-minute changes will be doable, of course, especially if you and State need any follow-on talks with Australia and Japan — but the Secret Service won’t be too keen on it. I’m pretty sure they’d just as soon drive you around Tokyo in an Abrams tank.”

The White House Advance Office went out at least three times before any presidential travel such as to the G20. The first trip, five months prior to the event, was called the survey. The second, known as a pre-advance, occurred a month or so before the actual event. A final advance took place three weeks later, a week prior to the President’s arrival. By pre-advance time, the big hurdles such as where they would park the nineteen aircraft and hundreds of vehicles had all been roughed out, allowing the advance team to drill down on the inevitable crisis issues that always came up.

“And don’t forget the PRC,” Ryan said, nodding. “I want to sit down face-to-face with President Zhao at least once. Maybe keep this game of chicken from progressing any further. It would be nice if I could point out our unified front with—”

Betty’s voice came over the intercom, cutting him off.

“Mr. President,” she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but Commander Forrestal is here. He says it’s urgent.”

Interruptions like this were not uncommon. When not in the Oval Office, every person in the room was tied to a government-issue BlackBerry or iPhone — the “intelligence umbilicus,” Mary Pat called it. But each of them left their smartphone in a basket at the secretary’s desk just outside before entering the Oval. There were secure phones in compartments inside the Oval Office furniture if anyone needed to make a call pursuant to a meeting.

Betty had a copy of the President’s calendar. She knew how long his appointments were scheduled to last — and her ability to ascertain if some issue just absolutely could not wait bordered on a superpower.