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DoD is not in our mission statement. We’re a civilian organization under the direction of the FBI, with a little National Guard in the mix.”
    “Yes, sir, but the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is involved with this. The man is used to getting his way.”
    It wasn’t the most subtle threat Thorn had ever heard. He felt an immediate, almost reflexive, pulse of anger.
    “Well, I appreciate the heads-up, and General Hadden certainly has the clout to make us dance. It wouldn’t be a good idea for him to thump us too hard with it, though. Unhappy workers don’t always do the best job.”
    “No, sir.” Howard paused again, but not quite as long this time. “Commander,” he said, “I think it would be a good idea if we met. There are some things I know that you need to know—material I would rather talk about face-to-face.”
    Thorn felt a sudden chill. That didn’t sound good.
    “Okay. What’s good for you?”
    “I can be there in an hour.”
    “That fast?”
    “Yes, sir. Some grains, the military grinds slow and fine. Some, they chop quick and coarse. Bread is about to be baked, and in your oven.”
    “Come on in, General. And, John?”
    “Commander?”
    “Thanks again. I appreciate it.”
    Howard discommed and Thorn sat back in his chair, staring at the blank screen. He didn’t like the sound of this at all. Maybe he had time to step down the hall to the gym and do a little épée work before the general arrived. Never hurt to be relaxed when problems arrived, and he had a feeling one was about to do just that. . . .

People’s Army Base HQ Annex
Macao, China
    Comrade General Wu stood in his office, staring out the window. From here you could see the lights of the casinos. Tonight’s rain turned them into blurry, distant smears of neon and glare.
    A pretty sight, but Wu hated them.
    Billions of dollars ran through those buildings each year. Like it or not, capitalism was here to stay. Even many of the hard-liners had agreed when the concept of property rights had been put into the Chinese constitution a decade ago. Wu shook his head. Only a fool could still pretend that Communism was going to win out in the end, and whatever else Comrade General Wu might be, he was not a fool.
    His secretary buzzed him on the intercom.
    “Comrade General, Comrade Shing is here.”
    “Send him in.”
    Wu went back to his chair and sat, keeping his back straight, his posture that of a soldier. Shing was a civilian, and while he was Wu’s man for a number of reasons, not the least of which was money, civilians were unpredictable. Wu needed him, no question, but he didn’t have to like the man. Shing represented much that Wu detested.
    Not that Wu would ever let even a hint of his feeling about this shine through.
    “Comrade General,” Shing said, offering a cursory military bow.
    “Comrade Shing,” Wu said, staying in his seat and returning the nod with just a hair less angle. “Please, have a seat.”
    Shing sat. The chair facing the desk was comfortable, excessively so. Wu knew men of the old school who thought a hard wooden chair or even a backless bench was better for visitors, to keep them on edge, but Wu was not of that mind. A man who was comfortable and relaxed was more apt to reveal his true nature.
    One did not have real power without access to truth.
    Shing was a computer expert, in his twenties, educated at MIT in the United States, and as sharp as a master butcher’s favorite boning knife. Shing had gone to America young, learned the language, the culture, and, more importantly, as much about the computer business as anybody. Wu did not trust him as far as he could spit against a cyclone, but he needed good tools, and Shing at least was Chinese, of a good family, and somewhat loyal to the homeland. He was also a genius in the ways of modern electronica, and that was a prime consideration.
    Wu hated computers and the cultures that had spawned them. The West was corrupt in so many ways a man could spend