But Sun’s New Direction created enormous anxieties among the corrupt political elites who stood to lose under his anticorruption reforms, and seething resentments within the military ranks who viewed the impending defense cuts as treasonous. Vice Chairman Feng exploited those same anxieties and resentments to build a powerful coalition he believed would soon push Sun aside and win him the presidency. China was dancing on the knife’s edge, and Feng was planning on picking up the pieces whichever way they fell.
“My colleagues in the Second Artillery Corps are fully prepared to cooperate with our comrades in the navy,” General Chen said. But there was hesitation in his voice.
Feng checked his watch, annoyed. “It’s time.” He motioned to the massive doors of the oversize hangar. The two men began the long walk toward them. “Is there something else that concerns you?”
The general cleared his throat. “This so-called New Direction is naive, and dangerous for the army and the country. I’m a patriot. I support Admiral Ji’s plan to secure the East China Sea and all that that entails. I trust that my support is seen as worthwhile.”
Over the years, Feng found that the only thing his Communist comrades hated more than Western imperialism was personal poverty. The higher their party rank, the greater their greed. Or was it the other way around?
“There is no limit I put on the value of patriotism,” Feng said. “Or loyalty.”
General Chen smiled broadly. “Thank you.”
The massive hangar doors slid open. Eight-wheeled troop carriers slowed to a stop next to a DF-21 missile carrier rig painted in green camouflage. The DF-21 was already in its tube, and the tube was secured flat against the trailer that was somewhat longer than an American eighteen-wheeler, which it resembled slightly. Dozens of sailors dressed in blue digital camouflage leaped out of the troop carriers, greeted by green digital SAC soldiers still securing the missile carrier and its support vehicles.
“You see? Interservice cooperation. The future of China is assured,” Feng said, smiling. “The Wu-14 must be secured in its container for immediate transport.” Once both were located at Ningbo, the Wu-14 warhead would be attached to the DF-21 missile.
“It shall be done immediately.” General Chen shouted orders. SAC officers and troops thundered into the hangar toward the Wu-14.
“And the launch codes?” Feng asked. The last piece of the puzzle. Everything Feng had planned hinged on the launch codes.
“Yes. The codes.”
General Chen reached into his shirt pocket for a thumb drive, but hesitated. The Wu-14 was an object of great power, and in the general’s mind, that should mean great reward. Greater than even what Feng was promising.
But Feng’s narrowing eyes bore into him. General Chen knew of other powerful men who’d crossed Feng and mysteriously disappeared. The vice chairman was a generous friend, but an even more dangerous enemy. And he could well be the next president of China. The old general fished the thumb drive out his pocket and handed it to Feng.
“Thank you, general. Your cooperation is essential to our success and the future of China. Your service won’t be forgotten.”
General Chen nodded. “I’m grateful.”
Both men stared at the missile launcher, the other half of the combat system Feng hoped would never be used.
“You’re certain DF-21 is perfectly reliable?” Feng asked. He’d read all of the reports and seen the test results. But if the missile failed to launch, the Wu-14 was useless. He wanted one last assurance.
The general nodded vigorously. “I’d bet my life on it.”
You already have, you fool, Feng thought.
And the lives of millions more, too.
FOUR
The tee box on the fifteenth hole was a golfer’s dream. Hugging Japan’s rugged Pacific coast along the Izu Peninsula, the Kawana’s Fuji course was long known as the Japanese version of Pebble Beach, but the fifteenth hole held a particular allure for avid, well-heeled golfers. It was postcard perfect in its beauty, perhaps the most picturesque hole of its kind in the world and one of the most treacherous.
The tee box stood high on a hill overlooking the untamed Pacific Ocean crashing into the rocks below on the left. A lush manicured fairway nestled between majestic twisted pines beckoned like the Sirens, while a steep, unforgiving precipice stood a short distance away between the tee and the fairway below.
The course designer, Charles H. Alison, knew his business. The least hesitation or distraction in the tee shot here inevitably led to disaster. The serenity of the surrounding landscape demanded equal poise within. More than any other hole on the course, the fifteenth required both intense concentration and uninhibited flow. Golf was Zen, a game not so much of skill as self-mastery. Many Asians believed that Tiger Woods’s successes were due to his mastery of Buddhism and the lack thereof his undoing. The Japanese who could still afford to play the game on courses like this one — corporate executives, movie stars, yakuza bosses, and senior politicians — were crazy about it.
The titanium driver rang like a gunshot. The white Titleist golf ball lofted high and true toward the cliff edge, then arced effortlessly in a right-hand fade, landing finally in the center of the fairway.
Prime Minister Hiroshi Ito laughed. The gusting Pacific breeze tousled his famously wild silver hair, which complemented his sky-blue shirt and black slacks. He was sixty years old but still rakishly handsome. He was often compared to the Hollywood actor Richard Gere, but his avid passion for golf earned him the nickname the Obama of Japan.
“That kind of drive puts a lot of pressure on me, Margaret. My gender and my nation demand I rise to the occasion.”
Former American president Margaret Myers snatched up her tee with a satisfied smile. She hit from the same tee box as the men. “What pressure? Just don’t think about the wide blue Pacific on your left or the cavernous gully in front of you or the impossibly tall pines and you’ll be fine.”
It was a cool day in the high sixties, no rain. Perfect golf weather save for the coastal winds. Mt. Fuji, a prominent feature of the course, loomed in the distance, but unfortunately it was shrouded in cloud cover today. Myers wore a black Nike long-sleeve polo shirt and a matching golf skort and shoes, very subdued. She still had the toned arms and shapely runner’s legs to carry off the ensemble smartly. She was more than fifty but looked a decade younger. Heads turned when she entered a room — men and women both. Having been a public figure for several years, she was never sure if she drew attention because of her fame or her good looks. Modest to a fault, she always assumed it was the former.
The one thing she didn’t want to do today, however, was draw attention to herself, another reason to wear black. To help keep this meeting secret, Prime Minister Ito’s security team also stayed two holes ahead and behind them, clearing away the other players on the course at all times. President Lane asked Myers to pay her old friend a visit off the record and, as far as she knew, neither the American nor the local press had gotten wind of their private tête-à-tête.
“Seems to me, Hiroshi, that you were always the better… putter.”
Ito laughed.
Myers and Ito first met in Colorado. They discovered a mutual passion for Kentucky bourbon and golf, which her late husband had also shared. The future prime minister was serving as a trade representative at the Japanese consulate in Denver when he helped arrange Myers’s first business deal in Japan, just a year before her husband was killed by a drunk driver. Her husband’s needless death at the hands of a repeat offender thrust Myers into state politics with a personal mission to stiffen the lax DUI laws. But even after she was elected governor, she and Ito played together as often as her schedule allowed until Ito returned to Japan and ran for office himself. They managed to remain in regular contact over the years. Ito airmailed a hundred orchids from his private greenhouse the day after her son’s murder two years ago. Her favorite flower. He remembered.