matter with him?” she asked Ming.
“The meeting this morning did not go well. Fang is concerned with the war.”
“But isn’t it going well? Isn’t that what they say on TV?”
“It seems there have been some setbacks. This morning they argued about how serious they were. Qian was especially exercised about it, because the American attacked our rail bridges in Harbin and Bei’an.”
“Ah.” Chai shoveled some rice into her mouth with her chopsticks. “How is Fang taking it?”
“He seems very tense. Perhaps he will need some comfort this evening.”
“Oh? Well, I can take care of him. I need a new office chair anyway,” she added with a giggle.
Lunch dragged on longer than usual. Clearly their minister didn’t need any of them for the moment, and Ming took the time to walk about on the street to gauge the mood of the people there. The feeling was strangely neutral. She was out just long enough to trigger her computer’s downtime activation, and though the screen was blank, in the auto-sleep mode, the hard drive started turning, and silently activated the onboard modem.
Mary Pat Foley was in her office, though it was past midnight, and she was logging onto her mail account every fifteen minutes, hoping for something new from SORGE.
“You’ve got mail!” the mechanical voice told her.
“Yes!” she said back to it, downloading the document at once. Then she lifted the phone. “Get Sears up here.”
With that done, Mrs. Foley looked at the time entry on the e-mail. It had gone out in the early afternoon in Beijing ... what might that mean? she wondered, afraid that any irregularity could spell the death of SONGBIRD, and the loss of the SORGE documents.
“Working late?” Sears asked on entering.
“Who isn’t?” MP responded. She held out the latest printout. “Read.”
“Politburo meeting, in the morning for a change,” Sears said, scanning the first page. “Looks a little raucous. This Qian guy is raising a little hell—oh, okay, he chatted with Fang after it and expressed serious concerns ... agreed to meet later in the day and—oh, shit!”
“What’s that?”
“They discussed increasing the readiness of their ICBM force ... let’s see ... nothing firm was decided for technical reasons, they weren’t sure how long they could keep the missiles fueled, but they were shook by our takeout of their missile submarine ...”
“Write that up. I’m going to hang a CRITIC on it,” the DDO announced.
CRITIC—shorthand for “critical”—is the highest priority in the United States government for message traffic. A CRITIC-FLAGGED document must be in the President’s hands no less than fifteen minutes after being generated. That meant that Joshua Sears had to get it drafted just as quickly as he could type in his keyboard, and that made for errors in translation.
Ryan had been asleep for maybe forty minutes when the phone next to his bed went off.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. President,” some faceless voice announced in the White House Office of Signals, “we have CRITIC traffic for you.”
“All right. Bring it up.” Jack swung his body across the bed and planted his feet on the rug. As a normal human being living in his home, he wasn’t a bathrobe person. Ordinarily he’d just pad around his house barefoot in his underwear, but that wasn’t allowed anymore, and he always kept a long blue robe handy now. It was a gift from long ago, when he’d taught history at the Naval Academy—a gift from the students there—and bore on the sleeves the one wide and four narrow stripes of a Fleet Admiral. So dressed, and wearing leather slippers that also came with the new job, he walked out into the upstairs corridor. The Secret Service night team was already up and moving. Joe Hilton came to him first.
“We heard, sir. It’s on the way up now.”
Ryan, who’d been existing on less than five hours of sleep per night for the past week, had an urgent need to lash out and rip the face off someone—anyone—but, of course, he couldn’t do that to men who were just doing their job, with miserable hours of their own.
Special Agent Charlie Malone was at the elevator. He took the folder from the messenger and trotted over to Ryan.
“Hmm.” Ryan rubbed his hand over his face as he flipped the folder open. The first three lines jumped into his consciousness. “Oh, shit.”
“Anything wrong?” Hilton asked.
“Phone,” Ryan said.
“This way, sir.” Hilton led him to the Secret Service upstairs cubbyhole office.
Ryan lifted the phone and said, “Mary Pat at Langley.” It didn’t take long. “MP, Jack here. What