He understood the importance of what they were doing out here, of the necessity for fighters and fighter pilots and for strong military forces. In the interest of their national security, America had to be able to be the biggest kid on the block. And it wasn’t that he was afraid of doing his part. He’d volunteered, hadn’t he?
It was just that he thought there ought to be another way — that there had to be another way — of resolving conflicts. You go out and beat somebody up, they’re going to wait until they’re strong enough to beat you up. Not a question of being afraid, not that at all. No, it was a question of choice.
The last time I’ll fly. So I better do a damned good job of it.
Just then, two bits of sea return merged, stabilized and turned into a target. “Your dot, Bird Dog,” Music said. “Definitely your dot.”
Tomcat 209
2311 local (GMT +8)
“I got a visual on him,” Fastball announced. “Looks like it’s going to be a wasted trip, Rat.”
Rat gritted her teeth. Fastball would always rub it in, wouldn’t he? She knew how the story would be replayed on the carrier when they got back.
“See, he’s already got a missile on him,” Fastball said. “I don’t know why I ever listen to you, Rat. You’re such a—”
The surface of the ocean exploded into a fireball. A hot wave of expanding gases rushed over them, buffeting the Tomcat violently. Fastball swore as he fought for control, then finally pulled the Tomcat out into level flight.
“What the hell??!!” he shouted, adrenaline pumping through his system.
Rat stared down at the ocean, numb. “Suicide mission. Like the one that nailed the USS Cole,” she said. “That was no normal explosion — man, that thing had to be packed with explosives.”
“Bird Dog — where is he?”
Rat stared down at her radar screen, searching for the contact that the system would label as a friendly Tomcat. Static stared back at her, the superheated air along the surface of the ocean wreaking havoc with waveforms and transmission paths. “No joy,” she said softly.
“He’s gotta be down there somewhere!” Fastball insisted. “That was Bird Dog!”
Over tactical, a chatter of reports streamed in as the carrier insisted on asking what the hell was going on while the air boss vectored helos into the area. The explosion had flung shrapnel toward the carrier, and several pieces of metal traveling at supersonic speeds had skewered both aircraft and personnel in the hangar bay and on the flight deck. Damage control teams were fighting one small fire and the yellow gear was moving in to shove the burning aircraft over the side, the only way to control a Class Delta metal fire.
“Somebody want to come get me?” a familiar voice said irritably over the air distress frequency.
“Bird Dog!” Fastball shouted. “He’s alive!”
“I’m over on the starboard side, just after your wake, Big Boy. Call it four hundred feet and opening,” Bird Dog’s voice continued. “Let’s make it snappy, okay? And get me another aircraft ready.”
“How’d you get over there?” the air boss asked, after he’d relayed vectors to the SAR helo.
“I figured it out right before I took the shot, so I did a bunny hop over the carrier. Timed it so the bulk of the carrier would shield us from most of the blast, but we ended up in the drink anyway,” Bird Dog said, his voice seriously aggrieved. “I almost had it, but there was a hell of a lot more explosives on it than I figured.”
“And he had time to punch out,” Fastball said, awed at the speed at which Bird Dog had deciphered the situation and gotten himself clear. “Time to figure out when to shoot, kick in afterburner and clear the carrier, then get back down low enough to be shielded. The blast must have nailed him through the open hangar bay. And then, on top of that, he manages to roll enough to avoid punching out into the carrier and time it so that they stay clear of the stern.”
Evidently the air boss made the same conclusions, because when he spoke again, his voice was filled with gruff respect. “Roger, Bird Dog, we’re on our way.”
“Medical for my RIO,” Bird Dog said, his voice starting to mirror the strain now. “I think he’s hurt bad. I want to…”
As Bird Dog’s voice trailed off, the circuit was filled with a flurry of orders. Within the next fifteen seconds, the rescue helo had a swimmer in the water holding the pilot and RIO’s faces out of the water as a rescue basket was lowered to them. Bird Dog regained consciousness just long enough to insist that Music take the first ride up.
Bird Dog watched Music being hoisted up to the helo, then turned his attention to staying alive. The large waves were alternately lifting him to their peaks and then tossing him into the valleys, and the spray was so heavy that it was hard to draw a deep breath. The life jacket was doing a good job of keeping him afloat, but it was up to him to keep his head out of the water and time his breaths so he wouldn’t take in a lungful of water.
Finally, it was his turn. The rescue carry basket descended, and he swam over to it, cursing when it swung out of reach. Finally, he managed to hook one hand around the bottom of it and pulled it toward him. He pulled himself inside, strapped in, and raised a thumbs-up at the hoist operator. With a hard jerk, the rescue basket began its ascent.
As it came level with the side hatch of the helo, Bird Dog was already struggling with the strap, trying to undo it even before he was inside. “Stop that!” a crew member snapped, and swung the basket inside the helo. He motioned to the other man to shut the hatch, and then glared at Bird Dog. “What do you think you’re trying to do, you idiot?” He grabbed for a hand hold as the helo banked sharply away from the area and back toward the carrier. “I go to all the trouble to pull you out of the water, and you’re trying to get thrown back in. If you fall out, I’m leaving you there.”
“How is he?” Bird Dog asked, letting them undo the straps. Music was stretched out on his back, pale and only semi-conscious. A corpsman was already ripping apart the flight suit to take a look at the wound.
“He’ll live,” the corpsman said. “Didn’t even break the bone. Once it heals up, there’s no reason he can’t be back in a flight status after some physical therapy.”
At that, Music groaned and opened his eyes. “No more flying. That’s it for me.”
Bird Dog stared at him, disbelief in his eyes. “What do you mean, no more flying? Come on, Music, I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.”
Music shook his head weakly. “It’s not for me, Bird Dog. It’s just not. As soon as we get back on deck, I’m turning in my wings.”
“Back to the fight?” Rat said, and then she noticed that the Tomcat was already ascending again.
“Back to the fight,” Fastball said grimly. “Watch my ass, Rat. We’re going to kill us some Fencers.”
Fifteen minutes later, it was all over. Fastball hadn’t gotten six kills, but he sounded fairly content with the three he’d managed to rack up. The last had been a real son of a bitch, stitching a line of bullets down his vertical control surfaces before finally wandering into Fastball’s own guns.
As the American forces headed for the tanker, then lined up for a shot at the deck, the few remaining Chinese aircraft were already facing the consequences of failure as they landed.
Marshall P’eng
Captain Chang was seated in his stateroom, his back to the door. He heard his second in command announce Major Ho, but, as they’d planned, he did not answer.
The door opened and hesitant footsteps sounded on the spotless white tile. Still Chang did not turn. This was the first test.
Five minutes passed, and there was no sound behind him. Not an impatient throat clearing, not a scuffle, not even a sniff. Finally, Chang wheeled around to stare directly at the top of Ho’s head. The younger man’s bow was as deep as Chang had ever seen, and Ho was waiting to be acknowledged with a patience and submissiveness that Chang would not have expected from him.
Good. He understands that much about respect. P
erhaps there is hope.
“Sit,” Chang said flatly. “Sit, and listen.”
Ho unbent and slipped into the chair in front of Chang’s desk. He perched on the very edge of it, his back straight, his eyes staring at the floor. At that moment, Chang’s plan changed.
“There is no need to review your conduct and your decisions,” Chang began. “By now, you have understood what you did wrong, correct? And how your own pride and ego led to mistakes that almost cost men’s lives. There is no shame in misunderstanding another culture — there is shame in failing to admit to your misunderstanding. As a rule, you must assume that others are honorable until they prove otherwise. You did not allow the Americans that opportunity. Is this a correct summary of your understanding?”
“Yes, Captain.” Ho’s gaze was still fixed on the deck.
Chang leaned back in his chair and studied the man. Certainly he had the family connections and the education to go far in the military — indeed, he could walk the line between the ancient sources of power and authority in Taiwan and the emerging technocracy that was so at odds with tradition. If he were of the right character, Ho could play a key leadership role in Taiwan’s future.
But is he? Has he learned from this, or will it simply sour him, instill in him a desire for revenge? I have the power to ruin him right now. Ruin him, or save him. Which will it be?
“Look at me,” Chang ordered. Hesitantly, Ho raised his head and met Chang’s gaze.
The windows to the soul — and what do I see there? Remorse. Sorrow. Deep shame. Yes, he understands. And if he understands, there is hope.
“Wisdom comes from experience,” Chang said finally. “My report will contain the recommendation that you be ordered to a shore station in the United States for further liaison duties. Perhaps with their army this time.” Chang leaned forward, his voice intense. “Our country’s future will depend on knowing and understanding the United States. You have seen yourself how deadly mistakes can be. Some day, I will retire. It would be of some comfort to me if I knew that there were men such as you, men of pride and honor with the willingness to look beyond the surface to find other men of honor in other cultures. Can I count on you? Are you one of those men?”
Ho shook his head. “Not yet, sir. But I will do my best to follow your example.”
Chang nodded once. “Then go. Return to the ship, make your apologies and prove that my confidence is not mistaken. I shall be watching, Major. I wish to be proud.”
With that, he dismissed the army officer and turned back to the never-ending pile of paperwork on his desk.
The United Nations
Sarah Wexler had never seen the ambassador from China looking quite so — well — what? Embarrassed, perhaps? Chagrined? Or even apologetic? She doubted that anyone who didn’t know him as well as she did wouldn’t even notice it, but there was definitely an undercurrent beneath the smooth, diplomatic facade he always presented to the world.
He stood in her doorway, motionless, his head inclined slightly. How long has he been standing there? Not long, she figured, judging by how Brad, standing directly behind the ambassador, was impatiently shifting his weight.
“Yes?” she said, not really asking a question as much as acknowledging his presence.
T’ing deepened his bow, then said, “May I speak to you privately?”
A request, not an order. That’s a good start. Aloud, she said, “Regarding?” She shot a glance at Brad and continued with, “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of my staff.”
Now that didn’t go down well with Brad, did it? I doubt he likes being considered just part of the staff.
“Very well.” T’ing’s gaze told her he was not pleased. “China is withdrawing her petition requesting sanctions against America.” He turned abruptly to leave and bumped into Brad.
“Will there be an apology forthcoming?” Wexler asked, her voice still cold.
“No.” He turned back to face her. “You cannot reasonably expect that, can you? Your government will have to be content with what is offered.”
That brought her to her feet. “Oh, really? Is that how you see things?”
He gazed at her for a long moment then said quietly, “I would like to speak to you privately. Please.”
Please, is it? She nodded. “It’s okay, Brad.”
Once they were alone, T’ing slipped into the chair in front of her desk and some of the stiffness in his posture slid away. “I have delivered the message from my government. I cannot elaborate on their position, you know. My orders were quite clear. But privately, I wish to assure you that I have been — perhaps not as well advised as I would like.” He spread his hands out, palms up. “It is no secret that I have many sources of intelligence. And in this instance, they were sufficiently at odds that I was forced to make a choice. Perhaps I made the wrong one. Had I known the truth of the matter, perhaps things might have gone differently.”
So they don’t tell you everything either, do they, my friend? She regarded him for a moment, seeing the similarities in how they’d each been forced to operate. “They want all of our skills, don’t they? But in the end, we represent our governments, and must advocate their positions. Even when we know better.”
His face relaxed. “So you understand, yes?”
“Yes.”
T’ing took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “But we’re more than just hired guns, you and I. We do make a difference. For instance, there was some talk of demanding restitution for the attack on our amphibious group. I would like to think that it would have been rejected without my input, but I certainly argued strongly against it.”
“Well, then. Where do we stand now?”
“With Japan and Russia arguing over the position of the Kuriles, I suppose. It will come back to this forum eventually, but for now we can safely ignore it.”
“For now.”
There was a long silence, not an uncompanionable one. Finally, he stood to leave. “Dinner tomorrow?”
She walked him to the door. “Pacini’s, eight o’clock.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Advanced Solutions
Washington, D.C.
Monday, September 30
0800 local (GMT –5)
Tombstone fingered the brown official government envelope, knowing what was inside and not wanting to touch it. Somehow, this made his loss seem continually fresh. The monthly arrival of Tomboy’s paychecks, because her military pay continued as long as she was listed as missing and not declared killed, was a constant reminder of his loss.
Looks like I’m not the only one who can’t believe she’s gone. Tombstone stuck the envelope in his top desk drawer, along with the last three he’d received. Someday soon he’d have to decide what to do with them, but ignoring them for now seemed like the most attractive option he had.
“Mister Magruder?” a voice said hesitantly over the speaker on his telephone. “Someone is here to see you.”
“Who?” he said, slightly befuddled. No one came to see him here who didn’t already have the security codes to all the doors. And if they didn’t have the codes, they had no business being here.
“He won’t give his name. But he said to tell you it’s about going west.”
The phrase reverberated in his mind. Go west — the last words his father had etched on the walls of a Vietnamese POW camp. Tombstone shot out of his chair and headed for the front office. His uncle was only slightly behind him.
A small, wiry man was seated in the reception area. He was well-dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit and highly polished shoes. He stood, offered his hand, and said, “Thank you for seeing me.”
“I’m not sure we’re to that stage yet,” Tombstone said. “Want to tell me your name, just for starters?”
The man shook his head. “I could give you a name, but it would mean nothing.”
“Then how about telling me what that phrase means to you?” Tombstone shot back, every nerve on edge. He had thought he had fi
nally resolved his father’s fate in the cold woods of Ukraine, but to hear those words again… was there something he’d missed? Had the grave he’d been assured was his father’s been someone else’s?
“The more important question is what those words mean to you. I think,” and Tombstone now noted a slight foreign accent to the man’s voice, “that they will mean hope. Is this room secure?”
Tombstone glanced at his uncle, who shrugged. “The conference room would be better.” His uncle led the way past the receptionist and into a utilitarian conference room furnished with a sturdy if decidedly plain table and chairs.
“This is secure enough for anything that concerns those words,” Tombstone said when they were inside it and the door shut behind them. “Now start talking.”
“A picture is worth a thousand words,” the man said. He opened the large brown envelope he was carrying and withdrew a photo. Without words and with a faint expression of pity, he passed it over to Tombstone.
Tombstone drew in a sharp breath. His world reeled around him, and for a moment he had the crazy idea that he just might pass out. His uncle moved closer and peered over his shoulder, then swore quietly.
Tomboy’s face, bloody and grim, stared back at them. The picture captured her from the waist up, and it was clear from her posture that her hands were tied behind her. Tombstone saw her iron will etched into every line of her face, and knew by the hard set of her eyes and the tightness in her muscles that she was an unwilling participant in this photo shoot.
A hand intruded into the picture right at about chest level. It held a newspaper — Tombstone held the photo closer, and made out the words NEW YORK TIMES. The date was almost too blurred to read.
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