The Art of War

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Not a word of the events in Qingdao harbor or the Yellow Sea that January night ever made it into print, the Internet, or broadcast radio or television. It was as if Liaoning were still afloat. Satellite reconnaissance showed that she probably wasn’t.

Three days after the event, the Chinese ambassador, who spoke excellent English, called on the State Department to deliver a note from the Chinese government. He was ushered into the office of the secretary, Owen Lancaster.

“Before you deliver your note, sir, I have something to show you,” Lancaster said. “Then, perhaps, you and I can have a private, off-the-record discussion.”

Lancaster’s limo was waiting. Without a word being said, the driver headed for Joint Base Andrews, the air force side. The limo was waved through toward a hangar surrounded by air force MPs wearing helmets and sidearms and carrying assault rifles. Some of them had dogs on leashes.

A colonel escorted Lancaster and his guest into the hangar, which was empty except for a bomb dolly in the middle of the thing. The colonel let Lancaster and the ambassador proceed alone. Lancaster stopped beside the bomb dolly.

“This, Mr. Ambassador, is a Chinese nuclear weapon. It was recovered from the Norfolk naval base, where it was submerged near the entrance to the harbor.”

“Mr. Secretary, I am unfamiliar with weapons. I have never even seen one. I have no idea what nation produced this one, if it is indeed a weapon.”

“Your government has been less than forthright with you, sir,” Lancaster said. “This weapon was armed and within two hours of detonating when it was found. You were there in Norfolk, sir, and had it exploded, you would now be dead, along with several million Americans.”

“I repeat, sir—”

“Don’t bother,” Lancaster said, holding up his hand. “I feel somewhat certain that you called today at the State Department to lodge a protest about the sabotage of your aircraft carrier, Liaoning, at the Qingdao naval base, several days ago. Rest assured, sir, that the United States government knows no more about that incident than the government of the People’s Republic knows about this weapon you see before you.”

The Chinese ambassador said nothing.

Lancaster continued. “However, it must be said, unofficially and off the record, privately from me to you, that certain people in our government thought it would be fitting and proper for this weapon, made in China, to be returned to China, placed under Liaoning, and detonated.” Lancaster made a gesture. “Although I know nothing about any of this, I assume that since I have not heard about a nuclear detonation in China, and since the weapon is physically right before us, such counsel was wisely rejected.”

“Quite so,” said the ambassador, who felt called upon to wipe his forehead.

“Unless you wish to take a photo or inspect the weapon more closely, I suggest we return to my office, where you can present your note.”

But when they returned to Foggy Bottom, the ambassador decided not to present the note.

A week after the Liaoning incident, the Chinese government made a routine announcement: A new officer had been named head of the PLAN. What had happened to Admiral Wu wasn’t mentioned, but intelligence agencies later learned that he was arrested on the order of the Paramount Leader, shot and quietly buried.

Sarah Houston and I flew home across the big pond. The truth is I was sort of tuckered out from all the vacationing. I have never had all the sex I wanted, but when we boarded the plane in Singapore I was perilously close to having had all I could stand. And I was kinda almost in love with Sarah Houston.

I had been really in love once before with Anna Modin, and I knew the signs. I was having a devil of a time keeping my eyes off Sarah. Just looking at her and hearing her voice delighted me. It wasn’t love yet, but maybe in time it might be. Anna was still a living presence with me, but she was gone … forever. Life is for the living. Somehow I was going to have to get my head around those realities. Someday.

We got off the plane in San Francisco exhausted and jet-lagged to the max, retrieved our luggage, signed out a rental car and set forth upon the highways. Sarah got busy with her cell phone as I drove. After a while she announced, “The president nominated Jake Grafton for director of the CIA. Sent his name to the Senate.”

We rode along silently, each of us thinking about that. We talked about what Grafton might have each of us doing.

Mom seemed to like Sarah. She wanted to know all about Singapore, so we told her some lies. In fact, we hadn’t seen much of it outside the hotel. I didn’t mention the morgue.

“I’ve got a new boyfriend,” Mom announced. “He’ll be here for dinner, in about an hour, to meet you, Tommy, and of course Sarah.”

I tried to be casual. “What happened to the old one, Bertie What’s His Name?”

“We broke up right after you were here the last time, Tommy.”

“Oh,” I managed.

“Then he left a week or so ago, moved away apparently. They haven’t seen him at the country club.” She shrugged. “I hope he wasn’t devastated by the breakup, but these things happen.”

Sarah nodded sagely, and I said “Oh” again.

When I had recovered a bit, I said, as casually as I could, “So tell us about the new guy.”

“You’ll like him,” she assured me. “He is reasonably good-looking, athletic and very talented. Extraordinarily so.”

“Talented at what?”

“He’s a body artist,” Mom told us, as if it were a secret.

A vision of some kinky sex thing flashed before my eyes. After all, I knew my mother. But maybe I was going too fast. “What’s a body artist?” I asked.

“He does tattoos,” Sarah told me with her eyebrows up.

I gave Mom my best lying grin. “I hope it works out for you,” I said. Sarah patted my arm.