Power and Empire

The commander of the 1st Squadron of the 1st Group of the Central Safeguard Regiment — sometimes referred to as Regiment 61889—stood to the right of the polished mahogany doorway inside the paramount leader’s spacious office. His senses were raw, as if they’d been rubbed with coarse sandpaper. Huang was tall and trim, with thick black hair long enough to part yet short enough that the gray around his temples was difficult to notice. His face was serene as stone, a very sharp and dangerous stone, but a stone nonetheless.

Those charged with the protection of others were often described as willing to take a bullet for their principal. Like the American Secret Service, rather than seek cover during times of attack, they were trained to make themselves larger targets. That was indeed something Colonel Huang had vowed to do, but there was much more to protection than simply absorbing bullets intended for one’s protectee. His primary duty was one of vicarious concern; he worried over the many dangers that lurked both without and within, so the paramount leader did not have to think of such things.

Though officially a member of an army regiment, Huang wore a white shirt and dark suit nearly identical to the white shirts and dark suits worn by three of the other five men in the inner office. Everyone else in the room ranked exponentially higher than Colonel Huang, but under his dark suit jacket was a Taurus PT 709 nine-millimeter pistol. None of the other men were armed, and, as Chairman Mao had so rightly pointed out, political power “grows from the barrel of a gun.”

Some twenty feet from Colonel Huang, beyond the seated guests, the paramount leader sat behind his expansive desk. Zhao Chengzhi was at once the general secretary of the Communist Party, president of China, and chairman of the Central Military Commission. Thick black hair, normally combed up in the front, hung down over a pallid forehead. It was late evening, and his long workday was beginning to take its toll.

Zhao’s mahogany desk was cluttered with file folders. There was a white telephone for general calls and a monstrous red phone with twin handsets that he used to contact ranking ministers of government as well as any one of several dozen state-run businesses. A photo of the general secretary’s wife sat to his immediate right, though this and the unruly stack of files had been removed when Zhao had given his New Year’s address to the nation.

Huang could not help but notice that the general secretary, normally a quiet and serene man, shifted a great deal in his seat, as if he were uncomfortably warm.

General Ma, the vice chairman of the Central Military Commission, and Admiral Qian, commander of the PLA Navy, each wore the uniform of their respective office, festooned with enough medals as to form protective breast plates for the two men. The general and the admiral were both possessed of the heavy jowls and swollen bellies that seemed to go with high command, attributes Huang swore he would never possess.

At forty-two, Huang Ju was a working colonel, still striving to be out in front of his team instead of slumped behind a desk preparing schedules and checking pay books. It was his responsibility to guard the life of the most powerful man in China. That meant he could not afford the frequent banquets and trappings of office life that other men of his station might enjoy. The general secretary kept long hours, and so did those who protected him. Huang led by example, and he made certain every close-protection officer under his command was given the opportunity to exercise and practice weekly to stay proficient in both firearms and defensive tactics.

This meeting had been going on for an hour. President Zhao shifted often in his seat but listened intently while his advisers offered up their counsel.

In addition to the two military men, State Premier Cao and Foreign Minister Li were also present. Huang did not trust any of the men, but he trusted no one beyond himself when it came to the safety and security of his charge. His job was to suspect — and he came by it naturally.

The general secretary leaned forward, elbows on the table. There was a trace of sweat on the man’s brow, though the air-conditioning kept the office relatively cool compared to the humid outside temperatures. For the past hour, the topic of discussion had been about nothing but the sinking of Orion. Colonel Huang, of course, was not consulted, but present only to make certain none of the other men did anything to harm Zhao — and to put a bullet in their head if they tried.

“The idea makes no sense,” the general secretary said. “Does anyone truly believe the Americans are stupid enough to sink a Chinese ship off their own coast — and then prove themselves magnanimous enough to rescue our personnel?”