“Also, Mac,” Jiechi continued. “Though it is an internal matter and one we will be pursuing for some time to come, I wish to inform you that the senior officer who gave the order, General Deng Xiangsui, died this morning when his jet went down in the South China Sea.”
A silence hung in the room as the full meaning of the Chinese president’s words sunk in.
The aide returned and whispered in the secretary of defense’s ear. Adair looked at the president and mouthed, Confirmed.
Macklin set his glasses on the table and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, fighting exhaustion. Lowering his voice, he said, “Xi, I’m going to take you at your word. However, I want to make something very clear: One more attack, or incident, and I will begin systematically dismantling your military forces, all of them. If you launch another missile at one of our cities, or at one of our allies, including Taiwan, or at any of our forces anywhere in the world, I will not hesitate to destroy Beijing.”
“Mac, I assure you that will not happen. We have no desire to be at war with our friend and best trading partner.”
Macklin felt a hint of relief from the stress he had been under for many days. “Xi, for the sake of your people and China’s promising future, I’m very pleased to hear that. We will, of course, be keeping a close watch as your forces stand down and return to their homeports. We wish you well.”
The president punched the line on the phone, hanging up.
“Do you trust him?” Prost asked.
Macklin caught his DNI’s eye before glancing at Austin and Adair, as well as thinking of Chalmers and the other chiefs huddled in the Situation Room, feeling damn lucky to be surrounded by such talent.
Slowly he returned his gaze to his director of national intelligence.
“Hart… in the eternal words of President Ronald Reagan,” Macklin said. “I intend to trust, but verify.”
To any casual observer, the Bay Palmer 114-foot Fantail 1960-era tycoon’s yacht could have been out for a pleasure cruise. A closer look, however, would have shown a number of details that would not be found on a pleasure yacht, starting with the armed marines keeping watch on the men huddled on the forward deck. The yacht had been refitted to operate as a private shuttle boat between Honolulu, Hawaii, and the picturesque Chilean port.
Yuri Sergeyev breathed in, tasting the salty air. He stood on the bow, flanked by Leonod Popov and Anatoli Zhdanov. In the distance, the familiar Chilean coastline, where they had trained for nearly two years, waited.
“Almost home, yes, Cap’n?” Popov said as the vessel’s hull sliced through three-foot waves.
Sergeyev nodded, still unable to believe that they had not only survived their submarine ordeal but also managed to negotiate their freedom — and that the Americans were actually honoring it.
Keeping his eyes on the distant hills, Sergeyev worked hard to suppress the emotions boiling inside of him at the thought of hugging Katrina and the girls again.
He inhaled once more while looking at his men, all clustered on the forward deck by orders of their captors, who remained on the bridge.
The Russian captain looked up at the glass windshield two levels above and saw the still figures of the skipper and his first mate steering them toward their freedom. He waved at the men, but neither returned it.
Turning to face the windy seas, Sergeyev followed the shoreline to a hill just north of the coastal town, but it was the image of Katrina that filled his mind.
Come home to me, Yuri.
“All right, Captain,” Prost said after getting visual confirmation that the Russians had made it safely to shore, per Macklin’s direct orders.
He stared at the images from an orbital asset flying at twenty-four thousand miles per hour over central Chile one last time and said. “We’re done here. Shut it down.”
“Yes, sir,” Blake replied, before relaying his order. It was obvious that the captain wasn’t pleased with the decision to free the people who’d killed so many Americans, destroyed an attack submarine, and wounded Stennis. But in the bigger picture, capturing Omar Al Saud and milking him at that black site in Poland had yielded — and continued to yield — intelligence that would prevent future attacks, and thus save many more lives.
Then the master spy calmly walked outside and down the steps to a waiting black sedan that would take him to Langley.
As he opened the door and climbed in the back seat, he chuckled at the irony of his profession. His clandestine work had saved — and would continue to save — countless lives, yet there would never be any public acknowledgment of him and his team. There would be no medals, nor overt recognition, except maybe for a Cuban cigar the next time he saw the president in an informal setting. He’d already put in the paperwork to ensure that Captain Blake would soon be Major Blake.
And he’d also quietly suggested the two of them might meet for dinner…
EPILOGUE
They buried him at dawn with full military honors on a patch of grass overlooking Lake Southern Sea. A massive statue had already been commissioned from Xu Bing, the world-renown Chinese sculptor, to honor the legendary hero of the Second Taiwan Strait Crisis, responsible for the modernization of all branches of the People’s Liberation Army.
President Xi Jiechi stood by the shores of the lake, flanked by all nine members of the Politburo Standing Committee and selected military leaders.
A military detail solemnly carried the coffin, draped in the red national flag with the yellow stars facing a cloudless morning sky. And overhead, a formation of Su-35S jets shot across the sky trailing bright-red contrails.
“Farewell, Zhǎng zhě,” Jiechi whispered as the man who had raised him was laid to rest less than a kilometer from the Mausoleum of Mao Zedong in Tiananmen Square.
A combined honor guard of the PLA folded the flag before solemnly presenting it to the paramount leader of the People’s Republic of China.
One by one, the PSC members walked by the president, patted him on the back, and whispered the traditional words, “This happened too suddenly. I feel sad for you and for our nation. I hope that you will restrain your grief and adjust to the change,” before walking away.
The military followed, led by the new vice chairman of the Central Military Commission and supreme leader of the PLA, handpicked by Jiechi himself.
But there would be no true solace for the fifty-nine-year-old leader who had had his Zhǎng zhě—his lifelong mentor and friend — killed.
But what choice did I have?
Jiechi could not have allowed the general to get anywhere near those ballistic submarines. If he had managed to get one of his captains to fire three JL-2 missiles without following protocol, the PRC president could not imagine the damage the man could have done if he’d bunkered down at Yulin Naval Base.
Probably Armageddon. Still, at the end of the day… I killed you.
Soon, Jiechi was left alone with the coffin as a light breeze swayed the manicured grass and rippled the surface of the lake. A lone Eurasian blue thrush swept over the water. The bright-blue bird turned its yellow beak toward Jiechi whistling its humanlike dawn song, before winging skyward.
He watched it through his tears.