“Okay,” Baker said calmly, “what’s our plan for winning this thing once the Chinese are fully committed?”
Cotler stood and straightened his green jacket. Rows of ribbons adorned his chest. Every soldier in Washington below the rank of colonel wore combat boots and battle dress. Will the day come, Baker wondered, when even senior officers switch to camouflage?
Three large pockets of green appeared on the map in Tennessee: secret staging areas for the Second, Third, and Fifth Corps. Baker had toured the depots the month before. Tremendous quantities of war stocks were piled high under camouflage netting that ran sometimes half a mile in length.
“Once the Chinese land six army groups,” Cotler said, “about two million combat troops and a million service and support personnel, we’ll counterattack with three armored corps straight at their port.” On the map, three arrows stabbed at the Gulf like daggers. If the counterattack failed to stagger the Chinese — to “rock them back on their heels,” as Cotler had once put it — the most promising hope that had been expressed to Baker was, “Maybe they’ll get overextended.” That hope had been shared by every country from Vietnam to Turkey before the last resistence had collapsed. Baker took a deep breath, forcing his chest to break the invisible bands that now seemed to bind it tightly.
“And in four months,” Secretary Moore added in an optimistic tone — meant for Baker—“we’ve got three arsenal ships, and we go back to work at sea.”
If we last that long, Baker thought as the briefing continued. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead in the chilly room. He fought the panic that threatened his composure, and his mind again wandered. How did it ever come to this?he raged… in silence and in vain.
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” a paranoid aide said before closing Bill’s black JCS briefing book. The glossy hardcovers with vivid maps and photos were prepared for each NSC meeting with only hours-old intelligence. It was information warfare at Internet speeds. It multiplied the force of America’s manpower, but unfortunately not by enough. Bill noticed that the wall-mounted screens now all glowed solid blue. Bill clenched his jaw in anger when he saw that Hamilton Asher was surrounded by a small cadre of military men. The director of the FBI was not formally a member of the National Security Council, and Bill had no desire to hear his opinions. The door opened, and as a civilian was led in, Bill turned to his chief of staff, who immediately duckwalked to Bill’s side from his seat along the wall.
“Asher wasn’t invited to this meeting,” the keen-eyed Frank Adams supplied his boss without even being prompted. “He fuckin’ thinks he’s some kinda guardian of democracy now that Tom Leffler’s National Secrecy Act gives him carte blanche police power.”
Baker’s secretary of state — Arthur Dodd — rose from his place at the table and said, “I’d like to introduce the new head of our China Desk, Dr. Clarissa Leffler.”
Bill was shocked. He turned to see Tom Leffler’s daughter taking a seat at the table, nodding in acknowledgment of greetings. Bill caught himself almost rising from his chair, an aborted act of manners that drew several glances. Bill knew Clarissa only socially, mainly from a distance. His chief of staff squatted at his side. “I just found out about this,” Adams said, reflexively defensive. “But there’s no way her getting the China Desk is a coincidence. My bet is Dodd’s tryin’ to take some of the heat off himself the next time he gets hauled up to the Hill for testimony before Leffler’s committee by hiring the son of a bitch’s daughter. The conservatives have been on his ass ever since he paid that social call on the Chinese minister of trade two years ago in Geneva.” Bill waved his chief of staff away like he was a waiter trying to pour an unwanted cup of coffee.
Art Dodd was reviewing Clarissa’s background, and Bill listened with interest. From her credentials, it was clear that old Tom Leffler had a respect for the education that he never got growing up in rural Georgia. But his daughter probably never even lived in Georgia, Bill thought. She only campaigned with him there. Leffler had been in Congress for over forty years. Clarissa had been raised in DC by her mother. Bill knew little about the daughter, but he had known her mother well. Beth Leffler was the most gracious person he had ever met. She had lived life without a trace of guile or unkindness, which was unheard of in Washington society. Bill had cried when she had died just before his inauguration, and it was sad how her death had devastated old Tom.
Tom Leffler had long anchored the Republican party’s right wing, which had swollen with popular support. The vast majority had turned hawkish years before the Chinese War as if they had sensed the predator’s approach. The fiery Speaker of the House had ridden the conservative crest. Although both Bill and Tom were pro-defense Republicans, they had a history of political clashes. The most dramatic confrontation had been over the National Secrecy Act, which had been authored by the speaker but vetoed by Bill. It was a gross infringement on the right to privacy and violated the principle of the separation of powers among the three branches of federal government. But the opinion polls had backed Leffler, and Congress had overridden Bill’s veto when conservative Republicans had outvoted the moderates in both parties.
Over the years, Bill had seen Clarissa from a distance at fund-raisers and once in a receiving line. At the latter function, Bill greeted an endless stream of dignitaries but had noticed Clarissa’s approach from some distance. He had noticed, actually, her bare, slim shoulders, but as she drew nearer he realized that her voice rose and fell and glided in the distinctive patterns of fluent Chinese. She had been having a polite conversation with the ambassador from Beijing. Unfortunately, Bill hadn’t stayed long enough to greet her. By prearrangement he was called away to be seated for dinner, snubbing the ambassador, who was next in line. After Bill took a parting glance back over his shoulder, the ever watchful Frank Adams had said, “Did you see his fucking face?” Bill laughed, but in truth he had seen only Clarissa, who looked beautiful in the strapless velvet gown.
“Dr. Leffler has a doctorate in political science from Harvard,” Secretary Dodd reported to the NSC. “She studied for years in Beijing and published several very interesting articles on Chinese politics that I sent to you, Mr. President.” Bill nodded behind folded, church-spire hands, but he had no idea what articles Art was talking about. Only once before had he seen Clarissa with those academic-looking eyeglasses that she now wore. It was at her mother’s funeral. He remembered because it was so rare to see people wearing glasses these days and because when he hugged her he had accidentally knocked her glasses askew.
When Secretary Dodd closed Clarissa’s folder, everyone looked not at Clarissa, but at the President of the United States. Bill considered speaking words of welcome but took his cue from Clarissa, who stared back from behind an expressionless mask. She’s probably fighting the battle of all children of important parents, Bill thought, and trying for a purely professional demeanor. He simply nodded for Clarissa to proceed.