by Larry Bond
Ms. Hu was in her garden. It was as if nothing had happened.
“Sit, please,” she told Jing Yo.
“I have no need to sit. Your man tried to kill me. He has met with a regrettable end.”
“So I understand.”
“I require transportation to complete my mission.”
“Where to?”
“To America, I assume.”
While Sun had told him otherwise, Jing Yo suspected that Ms. Hu had either ordered the killing herself, or at a minimum had passed the order on from his commander or Beijing. He knew that he could not trust her, just as he could not trust anyone now, not on his own side or the enemy’s. Indeed, the enemy was more reliable than his friends, for the enemy’s motives were clear and unchanging. By contrast, those belonging to Colonel Sun and Ms. Hu were much more difficult to fathom.
“You think that I can arrange passage to America,” said Ms. Hu. She had the tone of someone making a statement, not asking a question.
“Whether you personally can do it, I could not say.” Jing Yo stared at her face as he spoke, fighting the urge to turn his eyes downward. “But I know it can be done. And I know that my mission has been ordered from the highest authority.”
Ms. Hu took the tiniest sip of tea from her cup.
“You are very stoic,” she told him after returning the cup to the table. “And brave to trust me.”
“I don’t trust you,” said Jing Yo.
“If I tried to kill you once, why would I not try again?”
“If it is my time to die, so be it. You are not the keeper of my fate.”
“You have surrendered to your religion, Jing Yo,” said Ms. Hu. “Is that wise for a commando? To trust to superstition? Obviously the monks didn’t—if they did, they wouldn’t have trained in kung fu. They would have remained in their monastery, praying, those many centuries ago.”
“There are many forms of prayer,” replied Jing Yo.
“It is useless to debate you.” Ms. Hu smiled for the first time. “The monks have taught you all the answers.”
“No answers. Only questions.”
“Trusting me is a way of testing your faith,” said Ms. Hu pointedly. “If I do not kill you, you will assume that your beliefs are correct. You will think that you are a warrior, following the Way, and that the Way calls you to this mission.”
Jing Yo remained silent.
“So you believe I betrayed you,” said Ms. Hu, “and ordered you killed?”
“It is the most logical conclusion.”
“Have you considered that Mr. Tong betrayed us both?” asked Ms. Hu. “He saw killing the American as a way to advance beyond me. You were in the way.”
“What happened does not matter to me,” said Jing Yo. “Only the present is of interest. I seek only the means to complete my duty.”
“You have done a favor for me, eliminating the viper,” said Ms Hu. “Whether you knew it or not. I will see what I can arrange. Go back to the house where I sent you last night. Be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
~ * ~
4
Washington, D.C.
The encounter between the McCampbell and the Chinese ships was now being seen around the world, thanks to the Chinese news service, which wasted no time presenting high-definition video to every news organization it could think of, as well as posting a variety of snippets on YouTube. In the Chinese version of things, the American had been aggressive and then turned away; and indeed, from the way the video was edited, it did appear that way.
The American version—much longer and unedited—gave a completely different perspective. Not only did it show the destroyer staying straight and true until after the frigate veered off, but it also caught three Chinese sailors basically running for their lives in the moment before the ships came close.
Greene especially liked that. He considered offering to pay for dry cleaning at a press conference to answer the charges, but decided that would seem a little too cheeky, even for him.
Unfortunately, many of the rest of the world’s leaders had a different response to the exchange than Greene did. The French and Italians wondered why the U.S. was provoking China. India was considering recalling its Washington ambassador for “consultations”—a step not even the Chinese had undertaken. The British prime minister was calling for “considered reflection”—clearly the prime minister was taking the Dalai Lama’s recent visit to London a bit too seriously.
The response that most unsettled Greene, however, came from the U.S. Congress. He expected the opposition to raise holy hell, and they did. Greene was being pilloried as a warmonger. His critics accused him of trying to pick a fight with China, possibly to get out of paying back American debts to the country. He wasn’t exactly sure how that was supposed to work, but in any event he wasn’t surprised. Given that during the campaign his opponents had likened him to Mussolini—”not smart enough to be Hitler,” snarked several—he considered the present criticism from that quarter mild.
The screams from his own party were a different matter. The House majority leader was questioning whether the destroyer had been ordered to initiate the conflict. In the Senate, a dozen of Greene’s former allies were lining up behind Senator Grasso of New York, who had already scheduled hearings into the matter.
Those hearings could be a forum for the White House to make its case, if the president could bring Grasso around. But short of adding the senator’s face to Mount Rushmore, that wasn’t likely to happen.
Greene decided he had to at least soften him up a little. So he put in a call. And then a second one.
Grasso called back after the third.
“The Gulf of Tonkin,” said Grasso when Greene picked up the phone.
Greene rolled his eyes, but reminded himself that he would not be baited. “Senator. How are you?”
“George, you’re as transparent as a cheap hooker’s robe,” said Grasso.
“I hope you’re not basing that on personal experience,” said Greene.
“Johnson did the same thing in Vietnam—created an incident so Congress would give him carte blanche over the war. The Gulf of Tonkin. That is not happening here,” said Grasso. “Negative.”
“I assure you, Senator, the destroyer was severely provoked and acted with model restraint. A ridiculous amount of restraint. And it was quite a distance from the Gulf of Tonkin.”
“Cut the Senator crap, George. You and I have been around the block. I know a power play when I see it. Crude as it is. The tail wagging the dog.”
“What will it take for you to see that China is the villain?” said Greene.
“I don’t care if China is the villain. Frankly, I don’t give a crap about them. Or Vietnam. Especially Vietnam.”
“Neither do I,” said Greene.
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Grasso. “Because a lot of people think this is psychological—some sort of payback for the people who protected you in prison.”
“Nobody protected me when I was a prisoner, Phil. They tortured me. There were no secret deals to keep me alive. It’s all been reported. But ask the men I was with if you don’t believe me.”
Grasso was silent for a moment, an unusual state for him. Greene hated to play the POW card, but he wouldn’t avoid it, either, especially when someone was spewing bullshit.
Part of him wouldn’t mind seeing the Vietnamese government—not the people—crushed as payback for what they’d done to him, and more important, to his friends. But as president, his personal feelings were beside the point. And they were, no matter what armchair politico-psychologists said in their blogs.
“You know, I think I can put the entire conflict in the proper perspective when I speak at the UN Friday,” said Greene.
“You’re still pushing for sanctions?”
“I think they’re inadequate, but we have to start somewhere.”
“You don’t have a single vote in the Senate in favor of them.”
Actually, Gree
ne figured he had about three. But why quibble?
“Why don’t you come to the UN with me and listen for yourself?” said Greene. “Have lunch with me. Prime Minister Gray will be there. He’s always good for a few laughs.”
The invitation was supposed to flatter Grasso, who would be able to hobnob with world leaders as if he were one of them. But it seemed to fall flat.
“I have a very busy schedule,” said the senator. “I don’t think I can make it.”
“I think you’ll like what you hear.”
“I doubt it.”
“You have to be in New York anyway,” said Greene. “You’re going to the Governor Smith Dinner, right?”
“Yes.”
“So am I.”
Grasso didn’t respond. Greene guessed that his invitation to New York’s biggest political bash of the year—a charity dinner where all the top politicians and top wannabes attended—-was a surprise and a challenge to Grasso.
He certainly hoped it was. It had taken quite a bit of arm-twisting to get it.
“Come with me to the UN,” Greene urged again. “It will be worth your while, I guarantee.”
“Do I get a copy of your speech beforehand?”
“You don’t have to endorse it.”
“I’d like to read it.”
“It’s not written yet, or I’d have a copy sent right over.”
“You’d better get your staff working. You only have a few days.”
“I’m writing it myself. So—can I count on you?”
“I’ll see if I can fit it on my schedule.” Grasso hung up.
Greene dropped the phone on the hook, wondering if it would not be a good idea to spray it with Lysol.
~ * ~
5
En route to Vandenberg Air Force Base, California
The Air Force crewman was almost comically respectful, hovering over Josh and Mara like a doting uncle caring for a pair of visiting newborns. When Josh got up to go to the restroom, the sergeant nearly leapt from his seat near the rear of the plane. “Is the baby okay?” he asked.
“She’s fine. She’s sleeping,” said Josh.
Mạ had been checked out by a corpsman on the destroyer and by a doctor in Thailand, where they’d landed to meet the Air Force transport. Everyone said she was in great health.
Physically. Given her age and what she had been through, her mental state remained unknown.
“So, can I get you something?” asked the sergeant.
“Just gotta use the head,” said Josh.
“Sir, by all means. Anything you need.”
When Josh came out, the crewman asked if he wanted some more coffee.
“Coffee’s going through me, thanks.”
“We have beers, sir.”
“That’s all right. Beer would put me to sleep.”
“The book okay?”
“I’m good.”
“Say the word. Anything you want.”
The sergeant had scrounged up some reading material from the base in the Philippines where the plane had refueled. The choices were an odd mix but included a classic by Patricia Highsmith, Strangers on a Train. It was an odd and twisted book: two men, thrown together, end up committing a murder for each other—one willingly, almost gleefully; the other as an act of strange desperation.
Thrown together by chance, to discover what they were made of? Or to discover the darkness every man is capable of?
Which was the author’s point?
Josh went back to his seat. Mara was sitting behind him. The small jet, a military version of a Learjet 85, with an extended range, was less opulent than a civilian corporate jet but still had such amenities as plush, fully reclining seats and video screens that rose from the cabin sides. The sergeant had snagged a half dozen movies, but they were all thrillers, and Josh was in no mood to see anything that might remind him of the real thrills he had just escaped.
“We’ll be down in a couple of hours,” said Mara. “You’ll be able to stretch your legs.”
“Then what?”
“Direct flight to Washington. Meet the president.”
Josh nodded.
“You up for it?” she asked.
“I guess. You think Mạ is?”
“She’s a tough kid,” said Mara. “She’ll make it.”
He peered over the seat to where the girl was curled up, sleeping. She was a tough kid. No doubt about that.
“Kerfer’s going to be okay,” Mara said. “I got a text from Bangkok. They heard from the fleet.”
“Good.”
“We couldn’t do anything about Squeaky and Little Joe.”
“I know.”
“The Vietnamese recovered their bodies. They’ll get home.”
“Do you do this stuff all the time?” he asked.
“Which stuff? Rescue scientists and eyewitnesses to massacres? No.”
“Don’t make fun of it.”
She reached her hand out and touched his leg. “I’ve seen death, if that’s what you mean.”
Josh nodded.
“The people who died, the people you shot—they were trying to kill you, Josh,” Mara said. “And her. Her whole family was wiped out. Her village. Everything.”
“I know.”
“That’s why war sucks. That’s why you have to tell the world what happened.”
Josh slumped in his seat. What about the soldiers in the train, he thought. What about them? Should we have killed them?
But he was too tired to ask the question. Way too tired.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Suddenly he felt Mara next to him, over him, her face next to his.
His heart leapt.
She reached to his side as he opened his eyes. He thought she was going to kiss him. He longed for it.
“You have to buckle your seat belt,” she said gently, slipping it together. “Before the sergeant does it for you.”
~ * ~
6
Washington, D.C.
Peter Frost caught President, Greene’s sleeve as he stepped toward the tee. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“I’m a lousy golfer, Peter,” admitted Greene. “You think I should be using a five-iron?”
“I mean Vietnam. The Zeus plan.”
“Oh, and here I thought you were talking about something important.” Greene laughed and walked toward the ball. The laugh was a bit too sharp, he realized, but there was no way of taking it back, and he wouldn’t if he could.
“I’m serious, George,” said Frost.
Greene squatted down, as if inspecting the grass around the ball. He didn’t like golf, but had discovered that the game had various uses, the most important of which was allowing him to get out in the fresh air away from the constant pressure of the White House. It also gave him a way of talking with his aides and confidants—the press called them cronies—in a more relaxed atmosphere.
Golf was one of the benefits of climate change, at least from Greene’s perspective. A few years ago, February golf even in the Washington, D.C., area would have been a chilly affair. Global warming wasn’t all bad.
“Shouldn’t be too hard to hit,” said Greene, rising.
“What you’re doing is borderline legal,” said Frost.
“I don’t think there’s anything borderline about it,” said Greene. “As long as I hit the ball squarely. It goes down the middle of the fairway. No one will complain.”
“After the beating you’ve been taking all day, I’m surprised you’re willing to take the risk.”
“Not much of a beating, all things considered,” said Greene.
“Gulf of Tonkin? A thousand blogs have used the analogy.”
“Senator Grasso said that on the phone. Do you think he got it from them, or the other way around?”
“George—”
“I like the Zeus plan,” said Greene, lining up the head of his club.
The CIA had obtained the missiles from Dubai and sold them, thr
ough a third-party government, to a South African company. The South African company was owned by a man who had once worked for the CIA but was now a private entrepreneur—a term favored over the less generous but better-known “mercenary.” The entrepreneur had hired an ex-Malaysian air force general to ship the weapons to Malaysia via his air freight company. The missiles were at this moment being loaded onto a pair of MiG-21s owned by a private company and leased to the Malaysian air force. There was paperwork indicating that the missiles were being tested as part of a feasibility program to see if the country should buy them, though it was hoped that such paperwork would never have to be reviewed.