by Larry Bond
“I’ll take the Black Label.”
“Neat?”
Since there was no ice, neat would have to do. Perry poured two fingers’ worth into the clear glass and handed it over. Then he poured three fingers’ worth for himself.
Rank had its privileges.
“After the war, an import-export business focusing on liquor,” said Perry, holding up his glass.
“I’m not really sure international trade is my thing,” said Zeus.
“I meant for me.”
Perry smiled and took a slug of the Scotch. Zeus took a small sip.
“You,” said Perry, “I expect will stay in the Army, go on to become a general, and eventually chief of staff. Assuming you don’t get killed on this mission.”
“I’m not planning to, General.”
“None of us do.” Perry took another sip of Scotch. This time he savored the whiskey.
“The submarine base near Sanya on Hainan,” said Perry. “We’re reasonably sure the submarines aren’t there?”
“They’ve used the bay as an overflow area for landing craft. I don’t think they would if the subs were there.”
“Hmmm.”
“The subs would add to their alarm,” said Zeus. “Just make them more nervous.”
“Maybe.”
Zeus fidgeted. He hadn’t been able to get the Navy to give him information on the precise whereabouts of the submarines—it was too closely guarded—but earlier alerts had indicated that the two boomers generally stationed there had put out to sea. Chinese doctrine called for them to be deepwater, within range of their American targets, during times of attack.
On the other hand, the harbor facilities were generally considered capable of hiding up to twenty submarines. There could easily be more there.
“You don’t have to go,” said Perry abruptly.
“I know that.”
“I’m serious. You’re pretty damn valuable—I should have vetoed it. I should have told the president no. It’s not too late,” added Perry. “I’ll take the heat. None of it will come back on you.”
“I think I can do it, General.”
Zeus almost said that he wanted, to do it—that he was dying to do it. His small tastes of action in the aircraft bombing the dam and then later driving the truck behind the lines to help get the SEALs and Josh MacArthur had fired him up. Accepting his promotion to major had meant leaving the Special Forces unit. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until the first few shots had whizzed over his head.
That part he didn’t miss. Escaping them, the exhilaration of beating an enemy—that was the good part. That was the part to live for.
Not that he could say that out loud. Saying it out loud would make him seem like a mindless bozo. It was one thing to be dedicated, and another to be dedicated to the point of recklessness. Perry saw the mission as reckless. Zeus didn’t: he saw it as difficult, not reckless. But recklessness was in the eye of the general.
“Hmmph.” Perry walked to the window. Despite the bombings, the hotel windows had not been broken. In fact, none of the large foreign hotels in the area had been hit. The Chinese seemed to be making at least a token effort to avoid hitting areas where tourists and business-people were concentrated.
“What do you think about taking Win with you?” asked Perry, gazing toward the river. The top of a Vietnamese gunboat, struck a few hours before by Chinese warplanes in broad daylight, was just visible. About three-quarters of the ship was underwater, the hull resting in the shallows where the captain had beached the craft to make recovery operations easier.
“You want me to take Win?” said Zeus.
“Actually I don’t.” The window reflected Perry’s grin. “But the major asked me to ask you. And whether I think it’s a good idea or not, I feel obliged to follow through on the request. Just as I would for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not an order, Zeus.” Perry went over to the couch and sat back down. “I know you and he don’t exactly get along.”
“We don’t have to be friends to do our jobs, sir.”
“It can help, though. Win does have some talents,” added Perry. “He does speak some Chinese.”
Just enough to read off a menu, thought Zeus.
“I expect he was quite a pill at the Point,” said Perry.
“Top in the class,” said Zeus. It was a double entendre—Christian had been both the valedictorian and the biggest jackass.
“He is handicapped,” said Perry gravely. “That ego must make it hard to get in and out of doors.”
Zeus guffawed, utterly surprised by Perry’s remark. Generals never spoke of their underlings so candidly. Or at least this one never had.
“But as you say, you don’t have to like someone to work with him,” continued Perry, going back over to the Scotch. “Sometimes you can influence people the way gravity influences them. Push them in certain directions by exposing them to different things. Sometimes that breaks people. But sometimes, if you have the right person, it can help them overcome their flaws.”
Perry had just given Zeus the reason he had put Christian on his staff. He recognized that the major was headed for the very high ranks, and wanted to help him become a better officer. Maybe it would work— maybe Christian was becoming more human, less of a jerk.
But was he becoming more of a soldier? Soldiers couldn’t go around with sticks up their butt, or complain when a foreign army officer didn’t give a by-the-book salute. Or bitch because the seat in the helicopter had no padding.
“He did good work with the decoys,” said Perry. “That may be useful on the island. And he claims to know a bit about explosives.”
Not nearly as much as I do, thought Zeus.
“Your call,” said Perry.
“He does know some Chinese,” said Zeus. “So maybe he would be useful. If he can swim.”
~ * ~
Christian did know how to swim, though he couldn’t figure out why Zeus was asking.
“Because if we run out of fuel, we’re going to swim to shore,” Zeus told him.
“Running out of fuel is not an option,” said Christian.
“It’s not a planned option, no shit,” said Zeus. “Which is why I’m asking you again, can you swim?”
“Shit yeah.”
“Then you’re in.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t jump up and down.”
“I’m not.”
Be nice to the handicapped, Zeus told himself, even if the handicap is only an irony deficiency.
He laid out the basic game plan, which called for eight Zodiacs to rush across the Gulf of Bac Bo as soon as night fell. They’d have only sixteen Vietnamese soldiers, along with two spies; the rest of the space in the boats would be taken up by the engineered debris. At the same time, a pair of gunboats and the two real submarines that Vietnam had would leave port, trying to attract the attention of the Chinese ships offshore. The diversion would both help the Zodiacs cross and plant the idea that the submarines were responsible for part of the attack.
Once across the gulf, they’d land on Hainan near a fish-farming operation about twenty-five miles southwest of Ledong Lizu. There they would steal a pair of boats and take them around the southern end of the island, arriving at the target area by first light. They’d scout the harbor, find the easiest targets to plant their charges on, then go to work again at nightfall, setting charges and debris to make it look as if the ships had been hit by torpedoes from the minisubs. Charges would be planted in the boats they stole to make them look as if they’d been hit by torpedoes as well. They’d aim to coordinate with a 3 a.m. attack from the missiles on the tenders.
“Then what happens?” asked Christian.
“Then we go home.”
“How?”
“We steal a truck and drive back to the Zodiacs.”
“And if the Zodiacs have been discovered?”
“Then we steal a boat,” said Zeus. “But I’d rather take
the Zodiacs. They’re faster, and the Chinese won’t be patrolling that far north. But we can take another boat from the fish farm area if we have to.”
“I think we ought to land farther north to begin with,” said Christian. “Steal something from up there. Then hit the fisheries on the way back. Once we take something from one place, they’ll be on guard there. If we switch it around a bit, there’ll be less chance of being caught.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, even if it was Christian’s.
“Okay,” said Zeus. “That’s what we’ll do.”
~ * ~
9
New York Thruway, en route to New York City
The president ordered a military jet to fly Josh and Mara to New York. To keep Josh’s existence secret, the aircraft flew to Stewart International Airport, about an hour north of the city. They were met by a pair of U.S. marshals who packed them into a black Jimmy SUV, hopped onto the thruway, and raced toward the city at speeds approaching those the jet had used. Josh fell asleep, but between the bumpy pavement and the speed, Mara was more than wide awake. She shifted nervously in the front passenger seat, trying to tamp down her anxiety, or at least hide it.
When she saw a sign for a rest stop ahead, she told a marshal to stop for some coffee.
“Orders are to go straight, ma’am,” said the driver.
“We’re either stopping or I’m going to pee right here on your seat,” she told him.
The driver took his foot off the gas.
The rest stop was basically a slightly oversized McDonald’s, manned by sleepy-eyed retirees. It was a little past five in the morning, but more than a dozen people were already in line for coffee and breakfast sandwiches, the first wave of the far-suburb rush hour.
Mara had been away from the States for over a year, and while she was not generally a fast-food junkie, the smells stoked her appetite as soon as she walked in the door. She ended up ordering two Sausage McMuffins with Egg, hash browns, and a large coffee.
Then she realized she didn’t have any money.
“Don’t worry, hon,” said the woman behind the counter. “Your husband can pay. Can’t he?”
The marshal standing behind her looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. He ordered a coffee, then paid—reluctantly.
“I better get reimbursed,” he said on the way out.
“Bill the agency,” Mara said.
“Oh yeah, I bet that works.”
Josh was still sleeping in the car. The other agent, slumped behind the wheel, asked why they hadn’t brought him back something.
“Your partner’s a cheapskate,” said Mara. “You can have one of my McMuffins if you want.”
“Got sausage?”
“Of course.”
“Nah, I don’t want take your food. Besides, I’m supposed to stay away from that stuff.” He started to back out of the parking space, then pulled back in. “Maybe I’ll just go grab something.”
Mara tried to make conversation with the other marshal while they were waiting, but he remained in a bad mood. He was middle-aged, the sort of man who by now was more interested in the job’s pension plan than in its possibilities for travel. He answered her questions with as few words as possible. Most of his assignments involved protecting witnesses in federal cases, though he’d never protected anyone more interesting than a low-level mobster. He hadn’t been involved in any interesting busts, either, at least to hear him tell it.
Mara let him drink his coffee in peace. She was still worried about having to go public. Lucas said he was going to take care of it—but would he really? How strongly could he argue against something the president wanted?
Josh didn’t need Mara. She could blend into the background easily enough, even pretend to be part of his bodyguard contingent.
Here was the funny thing: she was prepared to give up her life for her country, but not her career. Going public meant she’d work a desk for the rest of her life.
Maybe not. Technically, it was possible to work in covert operations once you were known. It was highly unlikely, but possible.
No way would that happen. They’d give her some sort of gig as a trainer, pretending it was a reward.
To them, maybe.
Then she’d get some BS assignment that would be, at its heart, an analyst’s job. Visit, drink, report. Not necessarily in that order. Repeat as necessary.
Mara glanced at her watch. Was it too early to call Peter and see if he had fixed things? Would he have gone home after the briefing and gone to bed? Possibly he was still in the session; Greene and his cabinet were known for marathons.
She decided she would try anyway, and reached for her phone—only to realize she didn’t have one. She’s surrendered her gear as soon as the helo landed in Thailand.
“Son of a bitch,” said Mara.
“Problem?” asked the driver.
“Coffee’s hot,” she told him, reaching over to turn on the radio.
~ * ~
Josh leaned against the door of the car somewhere less than fully awake but not quite sleeping, either. He kept seeing the village where the people had been buried. And Mạ, hiding from him in the jungle the next day, at yet another massacre site.
It had taken so much to win her trust.
And now he was just going to let her go?
But he couldn’t take care of her. There were experts. She’d need psychologists and tutors for English.
He felt as if he were letting her down somehow. That he was abandoning her.
She’d be at the UN with him. But how was she going to deal with that? It’d be crazy. She’d think the Vietnamese were after her again.
“She should just be left alone.”
“Problem, Mr. MacArthur?” asked the marshal next to him.
Josh opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d been speaking out loud.
Mara turned around in the seat in front of him. “You okay, Josh?”
“Just a bad dream,” he told her.
~ * ~
10
John F. Kennedy Airport, New York City
“Let’s see the passport.”
Jing Yo hesitated a moment, as if he didn’t understand the words. Then he raised his hand and gave over the small book. The customs officer took it and held it under a light at his station before comparing it to something on his computer screen.
The U.S. and China were not at war, but Jing Yo had been given a Thai passport and an assumed name to travel under nonetheless. He had a false background story and an entire biography memorized; he was a student returning to America to work on his medical degree. He could give any number of details relating to this, from his three previous (but false) addresses to the difficulties he had (supposedly) had finding suitable cadavers to work on.
What he could not do was speak much Thai beyond a few simple phrases. The agent who had given him the passport, some other travel documents, and a supply of cash and credit cards, had told him it wouldn’t be necessary to speak the language; no customs official would waste his or her time with him.
This one certainly seemed interested, however. He moved the passport back to the little light, fanning it gently, as if maybe he thought the ink would flow off.
Jing Yo told himself to be patient.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” asked the officer. “Mr. Sursal.”
“Srisai,” said Jing Yo, correcting the pronunciation in case this was a trick. “I am studying to be a doctor.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“A student. Hearn to be a doctor.”
“You’re going to stay in this country?”
“Only for school,” said Jing Yo.
“I’ll bet.”
The man shoved the passport back at him. Jing Yo took that as a sign that he was cleared to go. He took his bags and moved on, passing through the dimly lit hall with its grimy walls and well-scuffed floor. A set of double doors swung open ahead, activated by a motion detector. He walked through and found himself
going up a ramp into a large hall cluttered with voices and echoing sounds. People were standing at the edge of a velvet rope, looking anxiously for relatives. Drivers held up cardboard signs with names: smith, fenton, bozzone.
srisai.