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His staff had done their work well, and Tian intended to score some points — provided that the missile test did, in fact, prove to be the subject of this meeting. Despite his preparations, he had no desire to argue this point. Unfortunately, he had no choice — his orders from the Politburo were unmistakable. If the Americans raised the issue of the missile test, he was to give no ground. The words of Premier Xiao had been quite clear on this: Bu huan er san— to part on hard terms—was acceptable. He was not to bend, or even appear to bend on this matter.

Tian shifted in his seat and hoped fervently that he had guessed wrong.

This was an issue on which it was not even remotely wise to anger the Americans. They had become quick to react to anything they perceived as a threat, and these days it was difficult to predict what would fall into that category.

Despite his hopes to the contrary, he had little doubt that the missile test would be the topic of this meeting. He would know in a few seconds.

The Laws of Protocol were about to give him a final clue. He would be able to take a reading on the disposition of the Americans according to who was waiting to meet him at the entrance to the West Wing. If tempers were reasonable, he would be greeted by David Spiros, the National Security Council country officer assigned to China. If the Americans were pleased with China, or if they wanted to ask a favor, they would send Gregory Brenthoven, the national security advisor himself. If they were truly angry, they would send a minor functionary from the NSC, probably someone whom Tian would not recognize.

The limousine pulled out of the rain under the curved overhang of the West Wing portico and stopped opposite the marble steps that led into the White House. The rhythmic whunk-whunk of the wipers swept the windshield uselessly a few times before the driver shut them off. Heart in his mouth and lips pressed tightly together, Tian peered through the steamy window toward the door at the top of the steps. It was guarded by a pair of United States Marines in full dress uniforms. As was the custom, one of the Marines came to attention and honored the Chinese Embassy’s vehicle with a crisp salute. Then the guard dropped his salute and marched down the steps to open the rear door of the limousine.

Able to learn nothing further from his vantage point in the back seat, Tian uttered a sigh and, clutching his leather diplomatic pouch, pulled himself from the automobile. Then, as Tian stood and straightened his suit, the Marine came to attention again, and rendered a second salute.

Tian acknowledged the salute with a nod and started walking up the steps. The damp night air enveloped him like an evil spell; he felt flares of arthritic pain in his knees and hips, echoed dully by an ache of anxiety in his chest. He concentrated on keeping his steps even and his face implacable. One did not show weakness in the face of a potential adversary.

The Marine remaining at the top of the steps opened the door, and Tian caught sight of the person assigned to greet him. It was a youngish woman, and Tian did not recognize her at all.

“Bao tian tian wu,” he said under his breath. Literally a reckless waste of grain, but in this context it meant an ill omen. This was not going to go well. He smiled and extended his hand for the woman to shake.

This was not going to go well at all.

CHAPTER 3

DEUTSCHE MARINE NAVAL ARSENAL
KIEL, GERMANY
MONDAY; 07 MAY
0951 hours (9:51 AM)
TIME ZONE +1 ‘ALPHA’

Dirty-looking clouds scudded across an iron-colored sky. In a few hours, the spring sun would burn away the overcast, but for now, the damp remnants of winter hung over the harbor. The water that lapped up against the rusting steel pilings seemed oily and dark, its froth the color of a dead fish’s belly.

Kapitan Stefan Gröeler leaned against the dock railing and watched the huge yellow ammunition crane lift the last of the torpedoes off the ordnance barge. Suspended from the crane’s heavy cable by a four-way sling, the weapon swung slowly out to hover above the aft deck of Gröeler’s submarine, the U-307. Crewmen in gray coveralls grabbed the dangling weapon’s tag-lines and began to guide it into the proper attitude for lowering through the main hatch. The men worked in near silence, as they should have, with the Team Leader watching closely and issuing brief commands. “Hold fast on the forward line,” or “Bring the nose down farther,” or “Check the crane,” or “Watch your deck clearance!”

Gröeler nodded almost imperceptibly. They were good men — a good crew.

His eyes lingered on the weapon suspended above the deck. It hung nose down and tail high, close to the thirty-seven — degree angle needed to lower it through the weapons hatch.

The Team Leader issued another command, and the nose dropped a few more degrees. Satisfied, he turned, made eye contact with the crane operator, and opened and closed the fingers of his right hand several times like the quacking of a duck: the hand signal for lower slowly.

The polymerized coating of the Ozeankriegsführungtechnologien DMA37 torpedo gave the weapon a shiny green look, as though it were a child’s toy made of plastic. In comparison, the rounded profile of the Type 212B submarine seemed especially menacing: a sleek, dark-skinned predator floating low in the water. It was a false impression; both machines were dangerous. The quietest, most capable diesel submarine ever built, paired with one of the most sophisticated and lethal undersea weapons that modern military science could devise.

The morning sun found its way through a hole in the clouds, and Gröeler squinted slightly. The skin around his eyes was crosshatched with heavy crow’s feet. Not laugh lines, but rather a cumulative network of wrinkles caused by thousands of hours spent peering through periscopes and attack-scopes.

He was a short, solidly built man, with ice-blue eyes that moved quickly and missed very little. Behind his back, the men called him das Armkreuz—the spider. Under another circumstance, the nickname might have been disparaging. But Gröeler knew that his crew considered it a compliment. It signified their respect for his skill as a hunter. He moved quietly, worked meticulously, and killed quickly.

He rummaged in the pocket of his gray Deutsche Marine coveralls for a cigarette. Smoking was forbidden at the ammunition piers, but he was in command here. It was his submarine, they were his torpedoes, and the gray-coveralled crewmen working down on the deck were his to command. He lit the cigarette with a slender butane lighter made of good German steel. He drew a lung full of smoke. It was a stupid rule anyway.

The plasticized-hexite explosive used in the torpedoes was incredibly stable. Without a precisely measured electrical charge from an arming mechanism, it was just so much harmless chemical modeling clay. With the proper initiating charge … well, that was a different matter. But ten cartons of smoldering cigarettes and a hundred butane lighters couldn’t hope to set one of those weapons off.

He took another hit off the cigarette, exhaling fiercely through his nostrils. Still, it was good to have such rules. They gave the men direction: road signs for separating acceptable behavior from unacceptable behavior. And it was good for the men to see their kapitan breaking such rules. They needed to be reminded that his was the final word on all subjects. As commanding officer of the wolfpack, his orders were not subject to question. He, and he alone, would decide when to follow regulations and when to break them.

He looked at his watch. They would finish with the torpedoes shortly, and then they could begin loading the missiles. It was obvious that his crew would finish ahead of schedule. He stepped away from the railing, executed a precise turn to the right, and began walking with a crisp, deliberate stride.

It was time to inspect the other three submarines under his command and check the status of their weapons on loads. No doubt they would also be ahead of schedule, but probably not so far as his own crew. He had, after all, personally selected every one of his men. They were, quite literally, the best that the German Navy had to offer. And after six months of intensive pre-mission training, they meshed like the proverbial well-oiled machine.

As he walked, Gröeler pulled off his officer’s cap and rubbed his fingers briskly through his blond crew cut. There was more than a little gray in his hair now. That too was a good thing. The other wolves in the pack should be reminded that the lead wolf was the oldest and wisest, as well as the strongest.

He pulled his cap back on and straightened it with a practiced gesture: no wasted motion. Let his men see the outward evidence of his self-assurance. Let them note the steadiness of his hands and the easy grace of his movements. They would take confidence from these things, and they were going to need that confidence, along with every scrap of advantage they could get.

The mission was achievable; he was certain of that. It would require exceptional skill and more luck than he cared to think about, but it could be done. He knew the tactics of the American Navy and the capabilities of their hardware. He could bluff the Americans. Avoid them. And if he couldn’t …

It wasn’t failure that worried him. He had made every possible preparation. His men were handpicked and expertly trained. His boats were in superb condition. All of the necessary support mechanisms were in place. The plan could work. He would make it work.

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