by Larry Bond
The Malaysian general was Malaysian, but he was also on the CIA payroll, and had been for several years, pretty much since the beginning of the covert war there. Most of the technicians working on the plane were Americans under contract to the private company that owned the planes—a private company formed by an ex-CIA employee immediately on his “retirement” from the clandestine service. The two “test” pilots who would fly the planes were Australians, though neither could return to Australia without facing a variety of criminal charges.
According to the spec sheets, the MiGs themselves did not have the range to reach the target area, a slam-dunk argument against anyone who came up with a wild theory alleging that they had somehow been involved. What the spec sheets did not indicate was that both MiGs had been fitted with more efficient engines and conformal tanks that increased their fuel capacity.
The conformal tanks were modeled after those in the Stealth Eagle program, helping decrease the MiGs’ radar signature to the point that, with care, they would not be detected by even the American ships in the area, let alone the Chinese. Indeed, the MiGs looked very little like standard MiGs, with angled fins taking the place of the normal tail configuration, and nose extensions that would have made a plastic surgeon drool.
Greene, the former aviator, knew and loved all these details. Frost had passed them along, knowing he’d love them. It was also a way for Frost to cover his behind if the mission blew up in their face. Greene had no doubt that the CIA director would take the sword for him before a congressional committee, but when it came to writing his memoirs in a few years, a lot of blood would be on the floor.
Greene’s blood.
So be it. The way he figured it, he’d be senile by then anyway.
Greene whacked the ball. It flew straight down the fairway—for fifty yards. Then it began shanking hard to the right.
In the direction of the doglegged pin, as luck would have it. It cleared a rough, bounced over a trap—just—and plopped at the edge of the green.
“Better lucky than good,” said the president. Fie turned to the Secret Service detail and aides behind them. “We’ll walk.”
“Now I know you’re crazy,” said Frost. “Walking?”
“Come on, Peter. Do you good.”
The aides shot ahead. The Secret Service detail stayed a respectful, but watchful, distance behind.
“I got all the exercise I need forty years ago,” groused Frost. In actual fact, he was in as good a shape as the president—probably better, since he wasn’t feeding at the trough of so many state dinners.
“We have the finding indicating that American lives are at risk and have to be protected,” said Greene, addressing the legality of the action—such as it was. “I’ll hang my hat on that.”
“That’s a thin nail,” said Frost. “And more than your hat is resting on it.”
“This is nothing more than any president has done. Look at Reagan in South America. He fought a war there for years. Never had congressional support. Never went to them. What does posterity think about that?”
“That was against drug dealers, George. Nobody cares about drug dealers. Besides, it was Reagan. People loved Reagan. They don’t love you.”
“Ah. I have a depression to deal with,” said Greene. “I don’t expect them to be patting me on the back.”
“Stabbing you in the back isn’t a good alternative.”
Greene stopped. “Why so negative today?”
The president searched his old friend’s face. Ironically enough, they’d met back in Vietnam, both of them idealists in the process of being sharply disillusioned.
Greene’s naïveté had ended a few weeks later, somewhere around fifteen thousand feet, as he descended from his airplane and realized he was so far over Injun territory that he was going to end up either dead or a POW. He wasn’t exactly sure where Frost’s had run out.
“We always said that if we were running things, we would do what was right,” Greene told him. “No matter how we had to get it done. You know this is right—if we don’t stop China now, there’ll be a world war inside of five years.”
“There may be a world war anyway, no matter what we do.”
“I realize that,” said Greene. “I wish I could get the rest of the country to realize that. At the moment, I’ll settle for UN sanctions. And a congressional vote in favor of them. It’s a start. Where’s your damn ball, anyway?”
~ * ~
7
Edwards Air Force Base, Maryland
The jet’s engines suddenly grew very loud. Josh raised his head, then felt gravity slam it back against the seat. For a moment he felt weightless, and panicky. He’d been sleeping, and all he could think of was that they’d been shot down.
But no one was firing at them. They were in the States, safe, at least for now. The war was literally half a world away.
“Have a good dream?” asked Mara.
“Was I dreaming?”
“I guess.” She laughed. “You were mumbling something, and laughing.”
“Laughing?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” Josh couldn’t imagine what he’d been dreaming. All of his thoughts were dark, very, very dark.
“Where’s Mạ?” said Josh, seeing her seat empty.
“Behind you, coloring,” said Mara. “The sergeant had some markers.”
Josh leaned around the seat. Mạ was making pictures on a yellow pad. They looked like black, violent scribbles. She was very intent on what she was doing.
“We’re landing?” Josh asked Mara.
“Landing.”
The jet taxied to the far end of the base. It was night, and a foglike humidity clung to the runway, the lights’ yellow and white beams struggling against the moisture. Out the window, Josh saw a pair of F-22 fighters sitting at the edge of the parking area, their canopies open, security officers standing at attention.
The jet pulled to a stop just beyond a pair of black MH-6 helicopters. The sergeant who’d shepherded them opened the door, unfolding the ladder to the ground.
“Sir, it’s been an honor having you,” he told Josh.
Josh mumbled his thanks.
“Please watch your step, okay? Careful with that little one. Ma’am, a real pleasure. Thank you for your service.”
Mara caught Josh’s elbow from behind as he stepped away from the plane.
“That’s our car,” she told him.
A Lincoln Town Car stood at the edge of the cement apron. The rear door opened. A short, middle-aged man got out. He looked a bit like an accountant, in a dark suit and rumpled white shirt. “Josh?”
“You’re Peter.”
“I told you I’d get you home,” said Lucas. He was beaming, a proud father greeting the prodigal son.
His handshake was a little limp, Josh thought.
“And you must be Mạ,” said Peter, stooping down. “Xin chào. How are you?”
He reeled off some Vietnamese. Mạ pressed closer to Josh.
“We’re going to be great friends,” Lucas said, rising. “I have some nurses and a doctor who will take really good care of you.”
“Child psychologist?” asked Josh.
“The best.” Lucas turned to Mara. “You! How the hell are you?”
They hugged. Mara pecked him on the cheek. It was almost like a family reunion.
“You did good, Mara. Damn good.” Lucas shooed them into the car. “Come on, we have an appointment to keep and we’re a little late.”
“Where are we going?” Mara asked.
“White House. President wants to talk to you right away. As in, now.”
~ * ~
When Josh McArthur was in seventh grade, his school had arranged a visit to Washington, D.C. The highlight of the trip—if one didn’t count the scandalous game of strip spin the bottle after hours at the hotel—was a visit to the White House. Josh wasn’t one of the six or seven kids who’d gotten to shake the president’s hand when they visited the Oval Office
, but the memory of standing around the room was still vivid.
And here he was now, an adult, an important person, waiting in the back of the limo as it whipped up the driveway toward the West Wing.
“Ready?” Lucas asked as the car came to a stop in the circle below the portico entrance to the building. Two limos, with only their drivers inside, were blocking the drive in front of the doorway.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” said Mara.
A uniformed Marine Corps guard opened the door. Josh stepped out, then reached back and helped Mạ. The night was warm, nearly as hot as Vietnam and almost as sticky. A swarm of small flies buzzed nearby.
“Damn gnats,” said Lucas. “Damn things are everywhere.”
Mycetophilidae. One of the indicators of extreme climate change—an increase in fungi in the environment, generally caused by increased dampness, meant there was more food for them. The bugs’ diversity— there were more than three thousand described species—meant that they could rapidly adapt to pesticides.
Josh had been involved in a study examining the genus as an undergrad.
And there was a great deal of mold in the air—he struggled to hold hack a sneeze.
Mạ had no idea what was going on. She held Josh’s hand tightly as they walked. Then she said something to Mara in Vietnamese.
“She’s hungry,” Mara told Lucas.
“We’ll get some food in a minute.”
“Mr. Lucas, good to see you, sir,” said a young man in a black suit. He had a clipboard in his hand. “You’re Mr. MacArthur?”
“Yeah,” said Josh, trying to keep from sneezing.
“Really, really good to meet you, sir. After all you’ve been through.”
“Uh-huh.” Josh turned and sneezed.
“Ms. Duncan?”
“That’s me.”
“Thank you for your service, ma’am. And this is . . . ?”
“Mạ,” said Mara. “We don’t know what her other name is.”
“Follow me, please.”
Josh sneezed a few more times. The aide raised his clipboard and waved them toward the doors. Josh had imagined there would be a crowd of reporters, even though it was night, but the only people he saw were the Marines and uniformed Secret Service agents prowling nearby. He, Mara, Lucas, and Mạ went through a metal detector at the door, then followed the aide up the stairs to a small room used as a waiting area.
“Can I get anyone anything?” asked the aide.
“Can you get something for the kid?” asked Lucas.
“Sure. What would she eat?”
“Peanut butter and jelly?” said Josh.
“I don’t think she knows what that is,” said Mara.
“I don’t know what I can find in the cafeteria this late,” said the aide. “But I’ll look for something. What else?”
“Coffee,” said Mara. “With a little milk. No sugar.”
“Me, too,” said Lucas.
Josh passed.
“Sneezing done?” asked Lucas.
“Probably have another round, adjusting to the AC,” said Josh. “Allergies.”
“Vietnam didn’t help, huh?”
“No.”
Josh felt some of the excitement draining from him. He was tired, jet-lagged; he wished he could go to sleep.
The door opened. A bald man with a round face leaned inside. “Peter, you ready?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” said Lucas, jumping to his feet.
“You’re MacArthur, right?” said the bald man. He stuck out his hand. He was wearing a blue blazer over khaki pants, a blue-striped shirt, and a rep tie. “Glad to meetcha.”
Josh shook his hand. It was a solid, though moist, grip.
“Turner Cole. I’m the assistant to the deputy national security adviser on Asia.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure.”
“Mara Duncan,” said Mara.
“Mara, thanks for coming. This is the little girl, right? Josh? You saved her?”
“She found me. Her people were killed.”
Cole pressed his lips together tightly. The gesture seemed a little too pat to Josh.
“This way, all right?” said Cole.
Cole led them down a short hallway to a rounded hallway. Two Secret Servicemen were standing outside.
This is it, thought Josh. Finally.
~ * ~
As soon as Greene heard the knock at the door, he raised his hand to quiet Frost. The CIA director stopped speaking midsentence.
“Come,” said Greene. He leaned back in his chair, watching as Turner Cole led in Lucas, Mara, Josh, and Mạ. In an instant, Greene sized them up, analyzing how they would come across on television.
Regular people. Kids.
God, they were kids—Josh looked like he was still in high school. But then everybody seemed to look that way to him these days.
The little girl was adorable. She reminded him of his grandkids.
“Mr. President, this is CIA officer Mara Duncan, and scientist Josh MacArthur,” said Cole. “And Ms. Mạ.”
“Mara Duncan, Josh MacArthur,” said Greene, rising and stepping out from behind the desk. “Damn, I’m glad to meet you.”
He grabbed Josh’s hand and pumped it, then stepped over and gave Mara a hug and kiss on the cheek. She was a big girl—nearly as tall he was.
“And who are you?” Greene asked, sliding down on his haunches to look at the little girl.
She turned and buried her face in Josh’s leg. The scientist put his hand on her protectively.
“She doesn’t understand English, Mr. President,” said Mara.
“Have you sent someone to talk to her? A psychologist?”
“We haven’t had the chance.”
“I want someone.” Greene stood. “Turner. A psychologist and a translator. Actually, see if you can find a child psychologist who can speak Vietnamese.”
“We did find one, Mr. President. She’ll be here in the morning.”
“Excellent. Excellent. Well, sit,” he added, turning to Lucas. “Good work, Peter. Again. Good work.”
Greene sat on the edge of his desk. “Josh, I’ve seen the footage,” he said. “Terrible stuff. Tell me in your own words what happened.”
“Well, um, I’d gone to Vietnam to, uh, study the effects of climate change, as I guess you know. I was with a UN team and we were studying the flora and fauna—”
“You might just want to skip to the essential parts,” said Frost.
Greene gave Frost a wink. Josh recounted the night when he had woken and left camp to relieve himself, just escaping the massacre. Then he spoke of the village where he’d gone, the hand he’d found in the dirt. His voice grew stronger as he continued.
Greene liked that. They could use that.
“Do you have the location of that site?” Frost asked.
“I’m not really sure,” said Josh. “I ended up a lot closer to the border than I thought I was.”
“All right,” said the president. “Now how did you find our little princess here?”
~ * ~
Josh felt his nose starting to act up, tickling as if a sneeze was about to follow. He tried to ward it off, but it was difficult while he was talking.
Something about the way that the president’s people were treating Mạ bothered him. They were too—was “unctuous” the right word?
They wanted her as proof of the massacre. But something about it, something about the way they treated her—-she was important only for their political agenda.
Not that he didn’t agree with the agenda. China must be stopped. But still: he felt as if he had to protect Mạ, and bringing her here, contrary to his expectations, seemed to be doing the opposite.