2034: A Novel of the Next World War(59)
The two gazed out at the next hole. The oblong fairway extended in front of them for almost two hundred yards. Then it cut sharply to the left, running between a copse of trees and a water obstacle. After reading the ground, Lin Bao concluded that if he hit too short, he’d wind up in the trees—which was recoverable. However, if he hit too long, he’d wind up in the water—which was not.
Zhao Leji stepped to the tee with a 3-wood.
Lin Bao stood behind him with a 2-iron.
As Zhao Leji sunk his tee into the green, he commented on Lin Bao’s club selection, noting that a 2-iron wouldn’t give him enough range. “It seems we’ve looked at the same problem and reached a different set of solutions,” he said.
Lin Bao averted his eyes to avoid any outward disagreement with Zhao Leji. But if he thought to exchange his 2-iron for a 3-wood, something within Lin Bao wouldn’t allow it; perhaps it was his pride, or dignity, or willfulness. Whatever it was, the defiance he felt when confronted by someone more powerful was familiar. He’d felt it as a naval cadet when older boys had teased him about his American heritage, or when he’d first been passed over for command of the Zheng He in favor of Ma Qiang, and now, staring at his 2-iron, he even felt that defiance when questioned by a man who with a single word could have a dark-suited thug put a bullet in his head. And so, Lin Bao explained, “A 3-wood is going to give you too much range. If you overplay, you’re going to wind up in the water. There’s no recovery then. If you underplay and wind up in the trees, at least you’ll be in a better position for your next shot instead of all the way back here on the tee. When the range falls between two clubs, it’s a better strategy to select the less ambitious choice.”
The old man nodded once, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and, with his 3-wood gripped tightly, reached into his backswing. His ball exploded off its tee, the sound alone signaling a perfect connection, which arced ever higher. When its trajectory reached its apex, it became apparent that Lin Bao was right. The 3-wood was too powerful of a club.
Zhao Leji’s ball sailed into the water with a plunk.
He bent over, picked up his tee, and then faced Lin Bao, who searched for any expression of disapproval or even disappointment in the old man. There was none; he simply made way for Lin Bao, who sunk his tee into the stubby grass. The thought did occur to him that he could angle his shot into the rough. He imagined that someone more obsequious—someone like Minister Chiang—might throw his game in favor of a senior official like Zhao Leji. But Lin Bao had only risen as far as he had because he’d never indulged the weaknesses of a superior, even when that superior could harm his career or—as was the case with Zhao Leji—end his life.
His 2-iron connected with the ball.
Its trajectory was low and fast, rocketing toward the bend in the fairway. His shot was gaining altitude, but it wasn’t certain that it would be enough to clear the trees. It was like watching an overburdened aircraft attempt to climb above a particularly treacherous mountain face. Lin Bao found himself gesturing with his hands, up, up, up. And then he noticed that Zhao Leji was doing the same; it was as if the old man wanted to be proven wrong. When the ball clipped the top of the trees, it kept going, landing on the fairway right as a few agitated birds took flight from the topmost branches.
“Looks like I’m one stroke behind,” said Zhao Leji through a broad smile. Then the old man stepped over to his golf bag and replaced his 3-wood with a 2-iron.
They spent the better part of the afternoon on the course. That would be the only hole Lin Bao won against Zhao Leji. Though Lin Bao played his best, the old man was a far superior golfer, and it soon became obvious how remarkable it was that Lin Bao had outfoxed him on even a single hole. While they made their circuit around the course, the conversation turned to Lin Bao’s duties and “their natural evolution,” as Zhao Leji put it. He would no longer report directly to Minister Chiang. The disaster at Zhanjiang had forced the Politburo Standing Committee to “reorganize the military command structure,” a statement that Lin Bao recognized for the disciplinary euphemism it was. Zhao Leji then reminded Lin Bao that the People’s Republic was “on death ground,” in an echo of the language used by Minister Chiang, while not attributing that language to him or his subsequent conclusion: “We must fight.” When it came to the details of that fight, Zhao Leji was prepared only to say, “We must take commensurate action to the Americans’ strike at Zhanjiang.”
Lin Bao had felt tempted to remind Zhao Leji of the lesson from only moments ago: when selecting between two nearly equal courses of action it was always best to choose the least ambitious, lest you overplay. But correcting the secretary of the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection on his golf game was one matter; correcting him on affairs of state was quite another. Lin Bao possessed enough gumption for the former but not yet the latter.
If he didn’t speak up against a potential nuclear strike on the United States, he nearly spoke up when Zhao Leji explained what he had planned next for him.
“Some people within the party hold you responsible along with Minister Chiang for Zhanjiang. I wasn’t sure myself until today. My belief is that you advised him as best you could. Perhaps, if he’d kept you closer, we might have avoided that tragedy—provided he would’ve listened to you, which I also doubt. From this point forward, I have taken on his responsibilities in the Defense Ministry. And I will need sound advice . . . a caddy, as it were.” And he smiled at Lin Bao. “Someone to provide an alternate viewpoint. So, you won’t be returning to your carrier. You’ll return to Beijing instead, to serve as my deputy within the ministry.”