Read an Excerpt
1
The Ryan family home
Overlooking the Chesapeake Bay
Maryland
2011 local time
Jack Ryan ground his teeth as he looked at the carnage inflicted on his Atlantic fleet. If only he could unleash a salvo instead of having to fire one damn shot at a time, then he might have a chance.
So much destruction. So much red . . .
If he didn't get a hit soon, the battle would be lost.
"C8," he said with certitude, looking up from the board at his daughter Katie, who sat opposite him at the dining room table.
She glanced down at her grid. "Miss."
"Seriously?" he said, tilting his head down to look at her over the top of the pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. "Check again."
"I don't need to check again, Dad, it's not rocket science. C8 is definitely a miss," she said with a grin. "My turn . . . J1."
He shoved his glasses back up on his nose and looked down at the gray plastic grid, where his fleet sat arranged in what he'd felt certain to be an unbeatable naval configuration. Boy, how wrong he'd been. He picked up a little red peg, stuck it into the last remaining hole at the stern of the little plastic ship, and said, "You sunk my battleship."
"Woot, woot. USS Missouri heading to the bottom of the sea," she said, pumping her hands in the air overhead. "That makes four down and one to go. The only ship you have left is your submarine."
He narrowed his eyes playfully at her. "A submarine is all I'll need to finish you off. Fear the Blackfish."
"Nuh-uh, no way. My sub is the Washington. I called dibs when we started. You gotta pick a different boat. Yours can be the Indiana."
"Hello? Commander in chief, here," he said, raising his right hand and pointing his index finger at the crown of his head. "Last time I checked, that means I am, literally, in charge of the U.S. fleet. So, if I want to designate my flagship as the Blackfish, then there's nothing you can do about it, Lieutenant Commander."
"Sorry, Dennis," she said, wistfully looking down at her little gray submarine and referencing the real-life XO of the USS Washington. "I got outranked, which means you're the enemy now."
This wasn't the first time he'd heard his daughter mention Dennis Knepper, who she'd met while riding in the elite Virginia-class fast-attack sub during a near-fatal standoff against the rogue Russian submarine Belgorod a few months ago. Jack's Spidey sense told him there might be a budding connection between them, but he'd not heard any mention of them dating. Of course, the Washington had remained on station long after his daughter's return from the crisis in the Atlantic, so at best they'd be working on a long-distance thing. He made a mental note to ask Cathy about it. Katie and her mom were thick as thieves when it came to relationship gossip. But in the event his wife decided to be tight-lipped on the matter, as commander in chief he was privileged to know the USS Washington's location at any given time . . . so keeping tabs on this potential suitor was not going to be a problem.
"What's that conniving look for?" she said, shaking him from his rumination.
"Oh, I was just thinking about how this game is nothing like naval warfare in real life. If only it could be so simple."
"If it was this simple, we wouldn't need any ship captains, or even sailors for that matter. I, for one, am glad that real life isn't controlled by a couple of callous, detached puppet masters sitting behind computer screens in the shadows. The strength of our military has always been rooted in leading from the front. It started with General Washington's tent in the Revolutionary War, and the tradition has carried on ever since."
He stared at her a moment and, feeling an upswelling of great pride, said, "In case I haven't told you lately, Katie, I love you. And I'm very proud of you. You're a fine naval officer, and one hell of an intelligence analyst."
Her cheeks went a little rosy at the comment. "Ahhh, thanks, Dad . . . But if you think flattery is going to save your fleet, then you've grossly misjudged your adversary."
They both chuckled at this and played the rest of the game out. He did manage to dispatch her aircraft carrier, but as expected, she showed him no quarter and soon found and sunk his submarine, ending their epic, father-daughter game of Battleship.
"Two out of three?" she asked as they both went to work pulling the white pegs out of the grid and depositing them in the molded containers on the sides of their iconic gray plastic clamshell game boards.
"Heck yes," he said, and momentarily stopped pulling pegs to refill their wineglasses.
"You know, sometimes I still can't believe you're the President of the United States. It's strange-almost like this is some fantasy we're making up and everyone else in the world is just going along with it. Do you ever feel that way?"
"All the time," he said with a self-deprecating smile.
"How do you make that feeling go away?"
"By trying to ground myself in the institution of the office."
"You mean like when you're sitting at the Resolute desk in the Oval?"
He nodded. "Yes, the physicality helps, but it's more the people running the government and military who I interact with every day who make it real. I see it in their eyes. Hear it in their words. Feel it from their presence. Everybody is looking to me with . . . expectation. Presidential expectation. They're counting on me to lead, and that makes it real. It's not a fantasy for them, I can tell you that."
"I've always wondered what that must feel like. I don't know how you do it, Dad. I would wilt under that kind of pressure."
"No, you wouldn't," he said with a confident shake of his head. "I've seen you under pressure, and wilting is not in your DNA."
"Thanks, but I don't know about that. Let's just say I'm glad that I'm not the Ryan in charge of representing the nation and making decisions that will affect the lives of millions. No thank you. I'll take my little office at ONI and a stack of reports to analyze and leave leading the country to you."
Your time will come, daughter, he thought, but did not say. If there's one thing I've learned in this life, it's that Fate laughs at any man who thinks he has a choice over which battles he'll have to fight.
Thankfully, for the moment, the seas were calm and the sailing smooth. In the months since the Belgorod incident, calamity had taken a sabbatical and the world had been granted a reprieve from global conflict, pandemics, terrorism, and natural disaster. He knew, of course, that this reprieve would be temporary-that the maligned forces of evil and entropy were already conspiring to unleash their next plot to bring chaos and death to the world. But tonight, the Ryan family was safe, and he would savor every second of this opportunity to sip wine and play Battleship with his daughter. Sure, he could be working. His presidential to-do list was a mile long and his inbox flooded with messages and briefs waiting to be read.
But the work could wait until tomorrow.
That was something else he'd learned over the years.
When a moment like this presented itself, sit back and enjoy it. Which was exactly what he intended to do.
2
Xinhuamen Gate
Main entrance to the Zhongnanhai government compound
174 Chang'an Avenue
Beijing, China
0740 local time
Defense Minister Qin Hâiyû crossed his legs in the comfortable leather seat of the black Hongqi H9 luxury sedan, his index finger tapping on the center armrest. It was a bad habit he'd picked up to dissipate nervous energy, all the way back to his junior officer days in the PLA Navy. Even when he'd commanded the Luyang III-class destroyer Guiyang almost a decade ago, his left index finger would tap out its little cadence on the armrest of his captain's chair in the bridge. Back then, he'd thought the burden of commanding a warship was the pinnacle of pressure.
Oh, what I wouldn't give to return to those simpler days . . .
As a ship captain, the pitfalls of command were clear and identifiable. Running aground, collision at sea, personnel problems, failing to achieve or execute mission parameters . . . and so on. In those days, he'd spent his time worrying about the people beneath him. Negligence, lapses in judgment, or mistakes borne from inexperience or poor communication-these were the problems that plagued commanding officers. Such things ended careers-but rarely lives. But this job, with its secret agendas and knives behind backs, was a viper's game and filled him with anxiety the likes of which he'd never thought possible.
Not anxiety . . . paranoia.
"A few more moments, Minister Qin," the driver said, looking at him in the rearview, interpreting his tension as concern for being late. "The traffic around the complex is heavier than usual."
"Thank you, Da," he said.
His thoughts went to Cheng Kai and the dubious fate of the minister of foreign affairs.
I warned him that his arrogance would be his downfall . . . but did he listen? No, he did not.
The last time Qin had visited privately with his friend, Cheng's family had been on vacation in Singapore, which had given the two men a rare opportunity to speak frankly and unencumbered. Cheng, who only drank in private, had imbibed heavily that night. As the two men got drunk, the conversation had shifted to President Li's growing desire to "reintegrate" Taiwan into China. Plumbed by alcohol, Cheng had let his true feelings be known on the matter:
"Li is a fool if he thinks the Americans will do nothing. General Su thought that a few years ago. President Ryan crushed those plans.
"We risk everything to gain little. Ten years ago, it made sense. But today, there is nothing that little island can do that we cannot. This is about Li's ego. Nothing more."
Unfortunately, the recent reelection of the troublemaking president of Taiwan had provided a megaphone for independence rhetoric on the global stage. And predictably, it had only amplified the almost manic obsession President Li harbored to reintegrate the island, even if that reintegration required military force. Devising a comprehensive military plan for reunification of the belligerent island had been Qin's professional charter since day one of his appointment as commander of the PLA Navy. Cheng believed it was Qin's plan that had prompted Li to select Qin as the replacement for Defense Minister Zhao Fu. Zhao Fu's "retirement" had been swift and sudden and taken almost everyone by surprise.
But not Cheng.
"Zhao agreed with me. Now is not the time for reunification," Cheng had said. "We were working behind the scenes to build a coalition so we would have strength in numbers when confronting Li about the danger and hubris of his plan, but now Zhao is gone . . . "
In the aftermath, the inner circle understood-although never discussed-that Zhao had been eliminated. Qin did not have history with his predecessor like he did with Cheng. Zhao had been Qin's boss, on paper, since Qin had been the head of the PLA Navy at the time, but Qin had personally interacted with him very little. And, frankly, Qin had not wanted to. Zhao had been a pompous ass. His disappearance, and later his announced retirement, had opened the position that Qin now filled.
Qin had been elated at the time.
If only I knew then what I know now . . .
Qin glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to make the meeting in Conference Room Number One in Zhongnanhai North. The very fact that such a meeting had been called on short notice, and at such an early hour, was cause enough for concern. Perhaps he would learn something of Cheng Kai's disappearance. Maybe the foreign minister had been the victim of some foreign plot and it had not been his reckless mouth that had led to his disappearance.
And then I would have much less to fear myself.
It was known that he and Cheng were friends and socialized often.
Could this connection be enough to spark Qin's own fall from favor?
For Qin, what had happened to Cheng felt like déjà vu. Just like Zhao, Cheng had been disappeared by President Li Jian Jun's secret police. Otherwise, there would have been immediate and frank discussions about the foreign minister's supposed corruption and infidelity. There would have been arguments about his fate and whether damage control was necessary. But none of that had happened. They'd had two cabinet meetings since Cheng's disappearance, and no mention of him had occurred, not even with the glaring diplomatic fallout at the East Asia Summit.
No, there was no mistake. Cheng Kai was gone.
Qin had warned him not to voice opposition to Li's designs on Taiwan, and now he was gone.
"You worry too much, Hâiyû. I am a respected man whose voice matters . . ."
Qin chased away the memory from their last evening together and glanced out the window. As Da circled the black sedan around Taiye Lake, Qin saw the Hanyuan Temple, situated on the Yingtai Island in the "Southern Sea," the southern part of the ancient, man-made lake. That lake, and the one to the north, separated by a sliver of land now the site of the rebuilt Qínzhèng Diàn Hall, had been constructed in 1421 from the basic outline of the complex emerging during the Ming dynasty. It had been the de facto center of government since the Empress Dowager Cixi and, later, Prince Regent Chun had built residences there instead of inside the Forbidden City. Zhongnanhai had been the center of government ever since, first as the Republic of China under Yuan Shikai as the Beiyang government and later as the People's Republic under Mao Tse-tung. Most of the "real" government business occurred on the north side of the complex, on the lake known as the Northern Sea, where the Party chair and other government complexes now sat. The southern area was for show and entertaining visitors more than anything.
So much history.
Da maneuvered right, around the shore of the Northern Sea, slowing at an additional checkpoint, where they were quickly waved through, the uniformed guard snapping a sharp salute to the darkened windows, behind which Qin sat, tapping his left index finger on the armrest.
