Sea Strike

16

Rizal Park was the place to be on a warm summer evening in Manila. Young people and families enjoyed the abating of the day’s heat, their laughter and the mixed musics of a myriad of radios and disc players drowning out the sounds of the traffic-crowded streets. In much the same manner, the park’s gardens and the freshening sea breeze held at bay the ranker aromas of a city in the tropics.

With his tie tugged down a couple of comfortable inches and his suit coat slung over his shoulder, Hamson Van Lynden paced slowly along one of the paved footpaths. Since the beginning of the crisis talks, he had taken advantage of the great park adjacent to the Hotel Manila, this postdinner walk becoming something of a ritual for the secretary of state. Not only did it work out accumulated tension, but it also gave him the opportunity to mull over the events of the day’s session and to plan his next day’s strategies.

Absorbed in thought, he didn’t notice the figure cutting across the lawn to intercept him.

“A most pleasant evening, is it not, Mr. Secretary?” The voice was from out of the past, but the face was one that he had been seeing daily. “Not too bad, General. Still a little warm for a man from down east, but I’m getting used to it.”

General Ho Chunwa of the People’s Republic wore civilian clothing dark trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt. Only his soldierly bearing remained to remind one of his rank and position. That, and the small cadre of alert and expressionless Chinese who were dispersing out around the area.

Van Lynden was well acquainted with the phenomenon. His own Secret Service team was maintaining their protective cordon, deployed discreetly beyond easy hearing range. The two groups of agents were now intermingling, studiously ignoring each other and maintaining their watch over their respective charges.

“I have observed you on your walks these past few evenings,” General Ho continued. “I, too, enjoy a breath of fresh air at this time of the day. Perhaps we might walk together.”

There was an intentness to Ho’s expression that belied his bland words. Van Lynden elected to play out the scenario.

“Fine I’d enjoy the company.”

“Very good. Perhaps we can go this way. I have discovered a vista that I think you will find most inspiring.”

General Ho’s vista was a pleasant enough view of Manila Bay as seen from across the sports field at the west end of the park. The bay could best be observed from the base of one of the larger of the park’s many fountains. General Ho seated himself on the eroded concrete bench built into the rim of the fountain’s pool.

“There,” Ho said with satisfaction “Now we may talk.”

“I thought that the old running water gimmick didn’t work anymore,” Van Lynden commented, dropping down beside the Chinese military man. “They can use a computer filter to separate your voice out of the background noise.”

“The secret is to keep the falling water between yourself and the microphones. With the fountain behind us and open ground to our front, I believe we have a degree of privacy.”

“I’ll have to remember that. Now, General, why are we really here?”

“I need your opinions, Mr. Secretary. Not the diplomatic kind but the true ones.”

“About what?”

“The state of these negotiations. Specifically, if there is any potential flexibility within the stands being taken by the Nationalists and the United Democratic Forces. Any aspect they may not have yet revealed in open negotiations?”

“General, you can’t expect me to repeat anything that may have been revealed to me in confidence by any of the other delegates.”

“I understand that, Mr. Secretary. I merely ask if the potential exists.”

“Well, speaking in all honesty, I suppose I can say that what you see on the table is pretty much what you’ve got. All three of the involved parties — yourself, the Nationalists, and the United Democratic Forces — seem to be issuing the same mise en demeure. Your collective bottom line seems to be victory or death.”

“Indeed.”

“The UDFC knows that they’ve rolled the dice and they have to take it all the way. Speaking bluntly, their leadership is aware that they can expect damn little sympathy from Beijing if they fail. As for the Nationalists, they have a few more options open to them. However, they know that this is their one best shot at regaining influence on the mainland. As for your people, I’m sure you are quite aware of what you have to lose.”

“You see no possibilities, then, for a negotiated settlement?”

“There are always possibilities, General. But just now, nobody seems to be giving anyone else any room to maneuver.”

Van Lynden suddenly elected to attempt a maneuver of his own.

“In fact,” he continued, “I’m thinking about pulling out and turning leadership of the U.S. delegation over to our ambassador here. I’ve got some critical work awaiting my attention back in Washington, and I can’t just waste my time spinning my wheels on this.”

That was a flagrant untruth. Van Lynden had instigated these talks because his instincts of statesmanship had screamed that this was the single most critical crisis currently confronting the world community. He had no intention of giving up on them while there was even the faintest chance that they could succeed. However, the Chinese soldier’s question had piqued Van Lynden’s interest and he was fishing for a reaction.

He received one.

“You must not!” Ho’s eyes narrowed and his fist slammed down on the edge of the bench. “It is imperative that you stay, Mr. Secretary.”

“Why, General?” Van Lynden demanded quietly.

“That is something that I may not reveal. However, I can say that the status of these talks may alter radically during the next few days. Should that occur, your presence here may be urgently needed. The hours it would take for you to return could prove critical.”

“Why me, General? What’s so vital about my presence?”

“Because, Mr. Secretary, I may soon be making my first presentation here at this conference. When that storm breaks, there must be someone here who is both distant from the problems that are tearing my nation apart, and yet has influence with both the Nationalists and the United Democratic Forces. There must be someone here who can make them listen!”

“And what about the People’s Republic?”

“It must rest upon the others, Mr. Secretary. They are the ones who must listen, for we will not.”

There was a third group of agents deployed within Rizal Park that evening, suspected possibly, but unknown to either the American Secretary of State or the Communist General. They were a sleeper team, long before recruited from within Manila’s Chinese ethnic community. Activated specifically to monitor the comings and goings of the diplomatic delegations assigned to the crisis talks, they observed the meeting between Van Lynden and Ho. Kept at long range by the guard screen, they overheard nothing that was said. However, they could report to their cell contact that the meeting had taken place. Relayed through a series of security breaks, the report did not reach the suite occupied by the combined Taiwanese/UDFC delegation for several hours. When it did, the recipients were pleased.