Power and Empire

General Ma gave a sullen nod. “It would be a mistake to put anything past the American CIA. I would not be surprised if they were behind the bombing of the subway construction site.”

The foreign minister interjected. “We are referring to that as a gas explosion, are we not?”

“Of course, of course,” Ma said. “But we in this room are all aware Uyghur separatists were behind it — financed by the Americans, no doubt.”

The general secretary raised an eyebrow. “The bombing of the new subway tunnel was obviously a terrorist act. This matter of Orion, however… Is it not more likely that some bureaucrat cut corners during safety inspections? Perhaps someone accepted bribes to line his own pockets and those overlooked violations caused the explosion and eventual sinking of our container ship.”

Zhao’s anticorruption initiative had already seen top executives from six state-run companies and several prominent party leaders, including a PLA general, thrown into prison. Three of the executives had been convicted of crimes stemming from the shoddy workmanship of an apartment building in Shanghai that collapsed, killing forty-nine. The men were given the death penalty but received the customary two-year probationary period whereby they might, with good behavior, have their sentences commuted. Zhao made it clear that he was not pleased with that loophole in the law. He was more than passionate about the topic.

Admiral Qian spoke next. “The sea is over a hundred fathoms deep where Orion was lost, so there it will be impossible to look at any physical evidence. And we all know that the Americans will cover up any relevant facts.”

“Can any of the twenty-two survivors fill in the missing pieces?” Zhao asked.

“Perhaps,” General Ma said. “But that leads to a question. What if the United States is behind this?”

“We will cross that river if we come to it,” the general secretary said.

Premier Cao spoke next. “That the American trespass into our territorial waters is bad enough. Now we must kowtow to the Ryan regime and thank him for rescuing men on a ship they likely sank.”

Zhao scoffed at that. “Do you imply that allowing our seamen to be saved will be seen as a weakness?”

The admiral, general, and premier nodded in unison. Foreign Minister Li sat and smiled, taking no position, which was, Colonel Huang thought, in and of itself a position.

“More than a few have taken to Weibo to show their displeasure at American meddling,” Premier Cao said.

“More than a few?”

“Thousands,” Cao said.

“A dog barks at something,” Zhao said, quoting a proverb. “And the other dogs bark at him.”

“But they all bark,” General Ma said. “There is danger enough in that.”

“This is true,” Zhao said, “but I tend to give the people of China more credit. In any case, what would you have had me do? Call the President of the United States and tell him to let our sailors drown? That is flawed thinking, gentlemen. I have no love lost for the Americans or Jack Ryan, but I will not presume to give the man so much power over our country as to dictate who we will and will not allow to be rescued.”

The premier gave a solemn tip of his head. He was, after all, appointed by Zhao.

“And what of the USS San Antonio?” the admiral asked. “I urge you to allow an increase in opposition to these criminal acts of incursion.”

The general secretary took a deep breath through his nose but said nothing.

“Zhao Zhuxi,” Admiral Qian said, using the title that had meant “chairman” in Mao’s day but was now usually translated as “president” by the media. It was a matter of semantics that amounted to little consequence; the sentiment in the Chinese mind had changed little. “I know you have kept a hands-off policy, but I do not see how we can help but concern ourselves with this escalation. Jack Ryan is exactly what he accuses us to be — a hegemon. He presumes to dictate Chinese national policy from halfway around the globe.”

General Ma gave a somber nod, as did Premier Cao. Again, Foreign Minister Li did not outwardly agree with the admiral. It was not lost on Colonel Huang, however, that neither did he offer support to President Zhao. He merely sat in his padded chair and smiled a benign smile that Huang suspected was as cancerous as any politician’s in all of China. But Zhao considered Minister Li a friend, so the colonel simply watched and said nothing. Politicians of any stripe made him feel as though he’d downed a mouthful of spoiled milk. He preferred black-and-white realities to the intrigue of party politics — though the duties of protecting the paramount leader put the colonel and his men afoul of politicians on a daily, if not an hourly, basis.