Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (537 page)

“Twelve of them, according to CIA, and we can turn their country into a parking lot if we have to, just it’ll take twenty-four hours instead of forty minutes,” Ryan told his guests, managing not to get a chill when he said it. The possibility was too remote to make him nervous. “And they know that, and who wants to be the king of a parking lot? They are that rational, Scott, aren’t they?”

“I think so. They rattle their saber at Taiwan, but not even much of that lately, not when we have Seventh Fleet there all the time.” Which, however, burned up a lot of fuel oil for the Navy.

“Anyway, this cash problem won’t actually cripple their economy?” Jack asked.

“I don’t think so, unless they’re pretty damned dumb.”

“Scott, are they dumb?” Ryan asked State Department.

“Not that dumb—at least I don’t think so,” State told the President.

“Good, then I can go upstairs and have another drink.” Ryan rose, and his guests did the same.

T
his is lunacy!” Qian Kun growled at Fang half a world away, discussing what turned out to be the same set of issues.

“I will not disagree with you, Qian, but we must make our case to the rest of our colleagues.”

“Fang, this could mean ruin for us. With what shall we buy wheat and oil?”

“What are our reserves?”

The Finance Minister had to sit back and think about that one. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the numbers on which he got briefed the first Monday of every month. The eyes opened. “The harvest from last year was better than average. We have food for about a year—assuming an average harvest this year, or even a slightly short one. The immediate problem is oil. We’ve been using a lot of that lately, with the PLA’s constant exercises up north and on the coast. In oil, we have perhaps four months in reserve, and the money to purchase another two months. After that, we will have to cut back our uses. Now, we are self-sufficient in coal, and so we’ll have all the electricity we need. The lights will burn. The trains will run, but the PLA will be crippled.”
Not that this is an entirely bad thing,
he didn’t add. Both men acknowledged the value of the People’s Liberation Army, but today it was really more of a domestic security service, like a large and well-armed police force, than a real guarantor of their national security, which had, really, no external threats to deal with.

“The army won’t like that,” Fang warned.

“I am not overly concerned with their likes and dislikes, Fang,” the Finance Minister countered. “We have a country to bring out of the nineteenth century. We have industries to grow, and people to feed and employ. The ideology of our youth has not been as successful in bringing this about as we were educated to expect.”

“Do you say that ... ?”

Qian shifted in his chair. “Remember what Deng said? It doesn’t matter if the cat is black or white as long as it catches mice. And Mao exiled him soon thereafter, and so today we have two hundred million more mouths to feed, but the only additional funds with which we do it came to us from the black cat, not the white one. We live in a practical world, Fang. I, too, have my copy of
The Little Red Book,
but I’ve never tried to eat it.”

This former railroad engineer had been captured by his bureaucracy and his job, just like the last one had been—he’d died at the relatively young age of seventy-eight, before he could be expelled from his Politburo chair. Qian, a youthful sixty-six, would have to learn to watch his words, and his thoughts, more carefully. He was about to say so when Qian started speaking again.

“Fang, people like you and me, we must be able to speak freely to one another. We are not college students full of revolutionary zeal. We are men of years and knowledge, and we
must
have the ability to discuss issues frankly. We waste too much time in our meetings kneeling before Mao’s cadaver. The man is
dead,
Fang. Yes, he was a great man, yes, he was a great leader for our people, but
no,
he
wasn’t
the Lord Buddha, or Jesus, or whatever. He was only a man, and he had ideas, and most of them were right, but some of them were wrong, some of them don’t work. The Great Leap Forward accomplished nothing, and the Cultural Revolution, in addition to killing off undesirable intellectuals and troublemakers, also starved millions of our people to death, and that is not desirable, is it?”

“That is true, my young friend, but it is important how you present your ideas,” Fang warned his junior, non-voting member of the Politburo.
Present them stupidly, and you’ll find yourself counting rice bags on a collective farm.
He was a little old to go barefoot into the paddies, even as punishment for ideological apostasy.

“Will you support me?” Qian asked.

“I will try,” was the halfhearted answer. He had to plead Ren He-Ping’s case as well this day, and it wouldn’t be easy.

T
hey’d counted on the funds transfer at Qian’s ministry. They had contracts to pay for. The tanker had long since been scheduled, because they were booked well in advance, and this carrier was just now coming alongside the loading pier off the coast of Iran. She’d load four hundred and fifty-six thousand tons of crude oil over a period of less than a day, then steam back out of the Persian Gulf, turn southeast for the passage around India, then transit the crowded Malacca Strait past Singapore and north to the huge and newly built oil terminal at Shanghai, where she’d spend thirty or forty hours offloading the cargo, then retrace her journey back to the Gulf for yet another load in an endless procession.

Except that the procession wasn’t quite endless. It would end when the money stopped, because the sailors had to be paid, the debt on the tanker serviced, and most of all, the oil had to be bought. And it wasn’t just one tanker. There were quite a few of them on the China run. A satellite focused on just that one segment of the world’s oil trade would have seen them from a distance, looking like cars on a highway going to and from the same two points continuously. And like cars, they didn’t have to go merely between those two places. There were other ports at which to load oil, and others at which to offload it, and to the crews of the tankers, the places of origin and destination didn’t really matter very much, because almost all of their time was spent at sea, and the sea was always the same. Nor did it matter to the owners of the tankers, or the agents who did the chartering. What mattered was that they got paid for their time.

For this charter, the money had been wire-transferred from one account to another, and so the crew stood at their posts watching the loading process—monitoring it mainly by watching various dials and gauges; you couldn’t see the oil going through the pipes, after all. Various crew members were on the beach to see to the victualing of their ship, and to visit the chandlers to get books and magazines to read, videocassette movies, and drink to go with the food, plus whatever consumable supplies had been used up on the inbound trip. A few crewmen looked for women whose charms might be rented, but that was an iffy business in Iran. None of them knew or thought very much about who paid for their services. Their job was to operate the ship safely and efficiently. The ship’s officers mainly had their wives along, for whom the voyages were extended, if rather boring, pleasure cruises: Every modern tanker had a swimming pool and a deck for tanning, plus satellite TV for news and entertainment. And none of them particularly cared where the ship went, because for the women shopping was shopping, and any new port had its special charms.

This particular tanker, the World Progress, was chartered out of London, and had five more Shanghai runs scheduled until the charter ran out. The charter was paid, however, on a per-voyage basis, and the funds for this trip had been wired only seven days before. That was hardly a matter of concern for the owners or the ship’s agent. After all, they were dealing with a nation-state, whose credit tended to be good. In due course, the loading was completed. A computerized system told the ship’s first officer that the ship’s trim was correct, and he so notified the master, who then told the chief engineer to wind up the ship’s gas-turbine engines. This engine type made things easy, and in less than five minutes, the ship’s power plant was fully ready for sea. Twenty minutes after that, powerful harbor tugs eased the ship away from the loading dock. This evolution is the most demanding for a tanker’s crew, because only in confined waters is the risk of collision and serious damage quite so real. But within two hours, the tanker was under way under her own power, heading for the narrows at Bandar Abbas, and then the open sea.

Y
es, Qian,” Premier Xu said tiredly. ”Proceed.”

“Comrades, at our last meeting I warned you of a potential problem of no small proportions. That problem is with us now, and it is growing larger.”

“Are we running out of money, Qian?” Zhang Han San asked, with a barely concealed smirk. The answer amused him even more.

“Yes, Zhang, we are.”

“How can a nation run out of money?” the senior Politburo member demanded.

“The same way a factory worker can, by spending more than he has. Another way is to offend his boss and lose his job. We have done both,” Qian replied evenly.

“What ‘boss’ do we have?” Zhang inquired, with a disarming and eerie gentleness.

“Comrades, that is what we call trade. We sell our goods to others in return for money, and we use that money to purchase goods from those others. Since we are not peasants from ancient times bartering a pig for a sheep, we must use money, which is the means of international exchange. Our trade with America has generated an annual surplus on the order of seventy billion American dollars.”

“Generous of the foreign devils,” Premier Xu observed to Zhang
sotto voce.

“Which we have almost entirely spent for various items, largely for our colleagues in the People’s Liberation Army of late. Most of these are long-term purchase items for which advance payment was necessary, as is normal in the international arms business. To this, we must add oil and wheat. There are other things which are important to our economy, but we will concentrate on these for the moment.” Qian looked around the table for approval. He got it, though Marshal Luo Cong, Defense Minister, and commander-in-chief of the People’s Liberation Army—
and
lord of the PLA’s sizable industrial empire—was now looking on with a gimlet eye. The expenditures of his personal empire had been singled out, and that was not calculated to please him.

“Comrades,” Qian continued, “we now face the loss of much, perhaps most, of that trade surplus with America, and other foreign countries as well. You see these?” He held up a fistful of telexes and e-mail printouts. “These are cancellations of commercial business orders and funds transfers. Let me clarify.
These
are
billions
of lost dollars, money which in some cases we have already spent—but money we will never have because we have angered those with whom we do business.”

“Do you tell me that they have such power over us? Rubbish!” another member observed.

“Comrade, they have the power to buy our trade goods for cash, or
not
buy them for cash. If they choose
not
to buy them, we do
not
get the money we need to spend for Marshal Luo’s expensive toys.” He used that word deliberately. It was time to explain the facts of life to these people, and a slap across the face was sure to get their attention. “Now, let us consider wheat. We use wheat to make bread and noodles. If you have no wheat, you have no noodles.

“Our country does not grow enough wheat to feed our people. We know this. We have too many mouths to feed. In a few months, the great producing countries, America, Canada, Australia, Argentina, and so forth, they will all have wheat to sell—but with what shall we buy it? Marshal Luo, your army needs oil to refine into diesel fuel and jet fuel, does it not? We need the same things for our diesel trains, and our airlines. But we cannot produce all the oil we need for our domestic needs, and so we must buy it from the Persian Gulf and elsewhere—again, with what shall we buy it?”

“So, sell our trade goods to someone else?” a member asked,
with rather surprising innocence,
Qian thought.

“Who else might there be, comrade? There is only one America. We have also offended all of Europe. Whom does that leave? Australia? They are allied to Europe and America. Japan? They also sell to America, and
they
will move to replace our lost markets, not to buy from us. South America, perhaps? Those are all Christian countries, and we just killed a senior Christian churchman, didn’t we? Moreover, in
their
ethical world, he died heroically. We have not just killed. We have created a holy martyr to their faith!

“Comrades, we have deliberately structured our industry base to sell to the American market. To sell elsewhere, we would first have to determine what they need that we can make, and then enter the market. You don’t just show up with a boatload of products and exchange it for cash on the dock! It takes time and patience to become a force in such a market. Comrades, we have cast away the work of
decades.
The money we are losing will not come back for years, and until then, we must learn to live our national life differently.”

“What are you saying?” Zhang shot back.

“I am saying that the People’s Republic faces economic ruin because two of our policemen killed those two meddling churchmen.”

“That is not possible!”

“It is not possible, Zhang? If you offend the man who gives you money, then he will give you no more. Can you understand that? We’ve gone far out of our way to offend America, and then we offended all of Europe as well. We have made ourselves outcasts—they call
us
barbarians because of that unhappy incident at the hospital. I do not defend them, but I must tell you what
they
say and think. And as long as they say those things and think those things, it is we who will pay for the error.”