Tomahawk (64 page)

Jack Byrne sipped his drink, thinking about the days when “barbarian” emissaries to the Middle Kingdom had been forced to kowtow on these polished floors.

A middle-aged Chinese approached from the direction of the buffet, accompanied by an aide. Byrne recognized the round-faced, aloof-looking officer as Admiral Mi Guozhong and came to a higher level of alertness. Not only was Mi commander of the South Sea Fleet and, as such,
of interest to any naval intelligence officer operating in-country. Not only had his father been on the Long March with Mao and Teng H'saio-ping, but Mi himself was extremely well connected within the oligarchy that administered and profited from the swiftly accelerating industries of South China, the Yangzi valley, and the Guangzhou Delta.

The admiral spoke briefly, and the aide translated in a high monotone: “Did you know that you are standing at the exact center of the earth?”

“I hadn't realized that,” said Byrne.

“An ancient text states: ‘Here earth and sky meet, where the four seasons merge, where wind and rain are gathered in, and where yin and yang exist in harmony.' “ The admiral turned slowly, eyeing the long north-south axis. “Here the Emperor, as Mencius said, ‘stood in the center of the earth, and stabilized the people within the four seas.' “

Byrne knew Mi had more English than he cared to display, just as he himself had more Chinese, but he appreciated the use of the translator. It gave one a few seconds to think and a graceful excuse if something went awry.

“An impressive venue.”

“It is Emperor Yung Lo we have to thank for the complex of the Forbidden City,” said the aide, without Mi actually having said anything.

“A notable name in China's long history.”

“Yung Lo was the first Ming despot, a ruthless usurper and murderer,” said Mi, speaking for himself now in a serviceable though accented English. “Capable, ambitious, and cruel. But effective.”

“If one must be cruel, one should at least be effective.”

“It was Yung Lo who sent out the fleets to the south. Though I understand it is not a well-known event in the West.”

Byrne began to pay attention to what had seemed up to now a fairly innocuous conversation. He took a sip of his drink, knowing his role at this moment was less to
understand or respond than to recall and transmit, word for word, if possible whatever message would shortly be conveyed. “I've heard of it. But perhaps the admiral would like to enlighten me further?”

“Gladly,” said Mi, tapping a cigarette out and bending his head as the aide snapped open an engraved Zippo. The smoke rose toward the hovering dragons like an offering. “In 1405, the Emperor sent out a great expedition under the eunuch Cheng Ho. The first fleet consisted of sixty-two vessels, with twenty-eight thousand men on board. In his seven cruises, Cheng Ho brought under the tutelage of the Middle Kingdom countries from Java all the way to East Africa. Including every state bordering what even you still call the China Sea.”

“I seem to recall, however, that his visits, grand though they must have been, were never repeated.”

“Unfortunately, that is true. The Mongols were growing in power outside the Wall. The Mings had to shift their attention back to the northern steppe. Save for that, Asia might have been spared the interlude of European exploitation and hegemony.”

“And been subject instead to the benevolent attentions of the—how did you put it?—'ruthless' and ‘despotic' Mings.”

The admiral smiled faintly. “Let me ask you a question. Please, answer not in your diplomatic capacity, but as an officer with some influence in the U.S. Navy. As I ask not in an official capacity, but as part of the brotherhood of the sea.”

“I understand. Though my influence, as you call it, is very small.”

“The recent encounter between your aircraft carrier battle group and our forces, west of the Luzon Strait. What is your navy's view of that incident?”

“We regarded it as an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Byrne said carefully. “That's why we didn't make a public statement.”

“I don't see it in that light,” said Mi. “As a matter of fact, the next time a provocation like that occurs so close
to our coast, within waters that are historically Chinese, I believe we should send up our latest aircraft, shoot down your carrier planes, and sweep your very small number of overrated ships from the sea.”

Byrne felt disbelief, then rage at the nakedness of the threat but disguised both reactions with a bland smile. “You mean we are a
zhi laohu,”
he said, using the old Maoist phrase. “A paper tiger.”

The admiral gave a short, harsh laugh, one that the intelligence officer, who had visited many countries and heard many different kinds of laughter, had never encountered before. “We no longer use that expression, Captain,” Mi said. “But there seem to be elements in American military circles who still do not understand the changes that have taken place in China. They seem to think this is still the era when your Asiatic Fleet was permitted even to violate the Long River. It is time they understand those days are past.”

The attaché thanked the admiral for his interest. After a few more remarks, mainly about the Danish ambassador's stately wife, the Chinese excused themselves and strolled away.

Jack Byrne stood alone again, swirling his drink as he contemplated what was obviously a back-channel message from some faction within the Chinese armed services. What precisely did it mean? And to whom should it go? Mi had made it clear he wasn't speaking as a government representative. If Byrne forwarded it through embassy channels, State would simply file it. And the next time the Navy exercised in those waters, the Chinese might very well carry out their threat.

It wasn't the first incident like this. It was part of a pattern; one that spelled danger, and that if continued could end in confrontation and catastrophe for both sides. Someone had to lay down a marker. Draw a line. Make it clear that there was a limit.

Standing beneath the golden dragons, Byrne said to himself,
We're going to have to come to some understanding with these bastards.