“It’s so cold,” the second man said. “I hope my camera lens doesn’t shatter. I’d hate to have trekked all the way up to this cursed place and have nothing to show for it.”
Jimmy’s fingers clenched into a fist. He forced his tone to an even level. “The warming shack is nestled among that group of black pines. Why don’t you all go on in? We’ve got a bit of a wait before the eclipse.”
“Thank God,” the woman said. She leaned into the man who had first complained. “Let’s hurry, Reggie.”
Now it was Jimmy’s turn to follow. The English trio raced toward the scraggled copse of pines protected in a hollow. As he marched, Nanook joined him, nosing his hand for a scratch behind the ear.
“Good boy, Nanook,” he mumbled. Ahead, Jimmy’s gaze caught on the trail of smoke in the blue sky. At least his son had completed his chores and set the coals this morning before leaving for the mainland, off to celebrate the coming eclipse with friends.
For the oddest moment, a melancholy wave washed over Jimmy at the thought of his only son. He couldn’t identify why this sudden mood overwhelmed him. He shook his head. This place had that effect on him. There always seemed a presence here. Maybe the gods of my forefathers, he thought, only half jokingly.
Jimmy continued his way toward the warmth of the shack, suddenly wanting to escape the cold as much as the tourists had. His eyes followed the smoke trail up to the sun near the eastern horizon. An eclipse. What his ancestors described as a whale eating the sun. It was due to occur in the next few hours.
At his side, Nanook suddenly growled, a deep-throated rumble. Jimmy glanced to his dog. The malamute stared out toward the south. Frowning, he followed the line of his dog’s gaze.
The cliffs were empty, except for the wooden totem. It was a mock-up for the tourists, tooled by machines somewhere in Indonesia and shipped here. Not even the wood was native to these parts.
Nanook continued his deep-chested growl.
Jimmy did not know what had spooked his dog. “Quiet, boy.”
Always obedient, Nanook settled onto his haunches, but he still trembled.
Squinting, Jimmy stared out at the empty sea. As he stood, an old prayer came to his lips, taught to him by his grandfather. He was surprised he even remembered the words, and could not voice why he felt the need to speak them now. In Alaska, to survive, one learned to respect nature and one’s own instincts—and Jimmy trusted his own now.
It was as if his grandfather stood at his shoulder, two generations watching the sea. His grandfather had a phrase for moments like now. “The wind smells of storms.”
4:05 P.M. PST (10:05 A.M. Local Time)
Hagatna, Territory of Guam
On the morning of the eclipse, Jeffrey Hessmire cursed his bad luck as he hurried through the corridors of the governor’s mansion. The first session of the summit had broken for an early brunch. The dignitaries from the United States and the People’s Republic of China would not reconvene until after the scheduled viewing of the eclipse.
During the break, Jeffrey, as the junior aide, had been assigned to type and photocopy the Secretary of State’s notes from the morning’s session, then distribute them among the American delegation. So while the other aides enjoyed the pre-eclipse buffet in the garden atrium and networked with the members of the presidential senior staff, he would be playing stenographer.
He cursed his bad luck again. What were they all doing out here in the middle of the Pacific anyway? Hell would freeze over before any nuclear pact would ever be settled between the two Pacific powers. Neither country was willing to bend, especially on two critical points. The President had refused to halt the extension of the country’s new state-of-the-art Missile Defense System to include the protection of Taiwan, and the Chinese Premier had squashed any attempt to limit the proliferation of its own intercontinental nuclear warheads. The entire week’s summit had succeeded only in managing to escalate tensions.
The single bright spot was on the first day, when President Bishop had accepted a gift from the Chinese Premier: a life-size jade sculpture of an ancient Chinese warrior atop a war horse, an exact replica of one of their famed terra-cotta statues from the city of Xi’an. The press had a field day taking pictures of the two heads of state beside the striking figure. It had been a day full of promise that, so far, had not borne fruit.
As Jeffrey passed into the suite of offices assigned to their delegation, he flashed his security clearance at the guard, who nodded coldly. Reaching his desk, he collapsed into the leather seat. Though he resented such a menial task, he would do his best.
Carefully stacking the handwritten notes by his computer, he set to work. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he translated Secretary Elliot’s notes into clean, crisp type. As he worked, his frustration fell away. He became intrigued by this peek at the behind-doors politics of the summit. It seemed the President was actually willing to bend on Taiwan, but he was haggling for the best price from the Chinese government, insisting on a moratorium on any future nuclear proliferation and Chinese participation in the Missile Technology Control Regime, which limited the export of missile knowledge. Elliot seemed to think this was attainable if they played their cards right. The Chinese did not want a war over Taiwan. All would suffer.
Jeffrey was so caught up in the Secretary’s notes that he failed to hear someone approach until a small cough from behind startled him. He swiveled his chair around and saw the tall, silver-haired man. He was dressed casually in shirt and tie, with a suit jacket hung over one arm. “So what do you think, Mr. Hessmire?”
Jeffrey stood up so fast that his chair skittered backward across the floor, bumping into a neighbor’s vacant desk. “M-Mister President.”
“At ease, Mr. Hessmire.” The President of the United States, Daniel R. Bishop, leaned over Jeffrey’s desk and read the partial transcription of the Secretary’s notes. “What do you think of Tom’s thoughts?”
“The Secretary? Mr. Elliot?”
The President straightened, giving Jeffrey a tired smile. “Yes. You’re studying international law at Georgetown, aren’t you?”
Jeffrey blinked. He had not thought President Bishop knew him from the hundreds of other aides and interns who labored in the belly of the White House. “Yes, Mr. President. I graduate next year.”
“Top of the class and specializing in Asia, I hear. So what is your take on the summit? Do you think we can wrangle the Chinese into an agreement?”