by Larry Bond
Worse, as Zeus finished sketching out the basic layout of the Chinese ships, trying to figure what their easiest target would be, Christian began beefing that technically, he, rather than Zeus, should be in command of the mission. Zeus gave him a dirty look, then went on with his work.
“Seriously, Zeus. You think you’re better than me. I graduated at the top of the class. Not you.”
Fortunately, they were alone. Zeus continued to ignore him.
The most vulnerable parts of the force were located at the two extremes of the secondary harbor, away from a pair of gunboats that sat at its mouth. Striking some of the landing craft there would not be terribly difficult, and if they blew up the gunboat at roughly the same time, the effect would be dramatic.
“So why does Perry like you better?” insisted Christian.
“Maybe because I don’t whine about the smell of paint,” said Zeus. “Or brag about the grades I got in kindergarten.”
“You’re calling the Point kindergarten?”
“Want some coffee?” Zeus asked, putting his pencil down on the chart table where he’d been working.
“You’re not going to answer?” Christian said. “It’s a serious question.”
“I’m sure it is. Coffee or not?”
Christian frowned. He was serious. He didn’t get it at all.
“Stop acting like a jerk,” said Zeus.
“I don’t think I am.”
“You are.”
“I just don’t get it.”
Well maybe that was the first step toward recovery, Zeus thought: the admission of ignorance.
“We’ll discuss it another time,” said Zeus. “Coffee or not?”
* * *
If there was coffee in the galley, Zeus couldn’t find it. There was plenty of tea, though, and he settled for that. Solt came down while he was waiting for the water to boil.
“Mr. Quach wants you,” she told him. “Ship nearby.”
Zeus turned off the kettle and went up to the bridge. A Chinese destroyer, possibly the one they had seen earlier, had appeared on the horizon to the west.
“They’re hailing us?” Zeus asked Quach.
“We haven’t heard. But we don’t know whether to trust the radio.”
“Let’s pretend we’re busy. Take us over to the fishing boats,” Zeus told the helmsman.
The destroyer kept coming. The marines, dressed in sailor uniforms, made a show of boarding the fishing boat. Meanwhile, Christian and the marine captain manned the forward and rear gun turrets, ready to rake the larger ship if necessary.
It would be a desperation move. Even though old, the destroyer was much larger than the patrol craft, and while they could shoot up the bridge easily enough, disabling all of the destroyer’s guns would be virtually impossible. Meanwhile, even if the destroyer’s complement had been reduced proportionately as the gunboat’s had, they would still be outnumbered four or five to one.
Quach played with the radio, scanning the frequencies and trying to conquer the squelch, desperately trying to hear if they were being hailed. Finally, with the destroyer closing to fifty yards, he heard it hailing them.
“This is patrol vessel 2328,” he said in Chinese. “We are conducting our patrol.”
“Do you require assistance, 2328?” asked the radioman aboard the destroyer.
“Negative. The fishermen are stupid and ignorant, but present no problems.”
“Why didn’t you answer earlier?” asked a different voice, deeper and more scolding. Zeus gathered that it belonged to the destroyer’s first mate or captain.
“The captain has ordered the mate to re-inspect the radio,” said Quach.
“Your mast has been damaged?”
“We have been due for repair for three weeks,” said Quach. “Since our accident. Our captain has low priority with the fleet.”
“Be more alert next time,” scolded the radioman.
The destroyer passed so close to one of the fishing boats that from Zeus’s angle it looked as if it were going to collide.
“Did they buy it?” Zeus asked Quach as it cleared.
“For now. It’s not rare for maintenance to go a long time, especially if the vessel’s captain is held in low esteem.”
Zeus watched the destroyer turn off, making a wide wake as it headed back to the southwest. It was funny—in the computer simulations, he tended to think of the destroyers as relatively small assets, of little use. Here it loomed huge.
“You are a good gambler,” Quach told Zeus after the destroyer disappeared behind them. “You would make an excellent spy.”
“Gambling’s easy when you’re desperate,” said Zeus. “Problem is, sooner or later the odds nail you right between the eyes.”
* * *
Around three in the afternoon, Zeus began planning where to set demolition charges on the patrol boat to make it look as if it had been hit by a torpedo. The marine captain, realizing what he was doing, began arguing that they shouldn’t blow it up at all.
The patrol boat represented a large prize—if it was brought back to Vietnam, it would be a substantial addition to the fleet. He also thought it would make getting back much easier—the Chinese wouldn’t stop one of their own ships. By they time they realized it was missing, the raiding party would be in Hai Phong.
“Our job isn’t to steal their ships,” Zeus told him. “We have to make them believe they’re vulnerable to attack. If they think the patrol boat was blown up by submarines, they’ll believe every one of those landing craft over there, and the troopships around them, are vulnerable. Even better, they’ll worry about their aircraft carriers. They’ll hesitate. They may even call off the invasion. That’s our goal. That’s why we’re here.”
The captain began pressing his case with Quach in Vietnamese. The spy listened a little more intently than Zeus would have liked.
“The fishing vessels are a better way to escape,” Zeus told them. “They’ll be looking for military ships. Even the Zodiacs. They’ll have every asset out. You don’t think they’ll notice a patrol boat that’s not where it belongs?”
“They have not stopped us so far,” said the captain.
“That’s because they see us patrolling. We just came pretty damn close. Eventually, we’ll miss something and they’ll come over to see what the hell is going on. We may have missed it already. We’re pressing our luck, believe me. Mr. Quach, tell him.”
“The ship would be a big prize,” said Quach.
“What good will it be against a Chinese aircraft carrier?”
That logic seemed to settle it, though the marine captain clearly wasn’t happy.
“They’re getting greedy,” said Christian a little while later, as they stood on the fantail eying a pleasure boat passing about a half mile away. “That can be fatal.”
“Yeah.”
Zeus knelt down and opened the box with the timers. They were primitive, though undoubtedly reliable. Their fuses could only be set an hour in advance. That made getting off the ship a little tight, but it wasn’t an insurmountable problem.
“What do you think of this boat?” asked Christian.
Zeus rose. Still holding one of the timers in his left hand, he took the binoculars in his right. There were two men in the boat. The men seemed a little too intent to be just taking a pleasure cruise, but they weren’t headed in their direction.
“I thought the Asian mind always followed orders,” said Christian. “Does it apply across the board, or is it because we’re white?”
Zeus focused on the men. They seemed to be looking in his direction, but that might just be curiosity.
“You listening?” Christian asked.
“Vaguely.” He handed the binoculars back and turned around just in time to see the marine captain and three of his men emerge from the cabin with rifles. “Shit.”
“You will not plant the explosives on the ship,” said the captain. “You cannot do it.”
“You’re being foolish,” said Ze
us.
“If you were to die, it would be easily explained,” answered the captain.
“Hey, relax,” said Christian. “This isn’t that big a deal.”
“What do you mean, big deal?” asked the marine captain.
“I mean it’s not a problem.”
Christian reached over to the timer Zeus had in his hand. “Put it down, dude. Come on.”
Zeus let Christian take it.
“It ain’t worth your life,” said Christian. “Or mine.”
“We will take the timers and the explosives,” said the captain. “I am sorry, Major. But this ship is too important to lose. I hope you understand.”
“I don’t understand,” said Zeus.
“I am very sorry.”
23
New York City
Josh slept for nearly ten hours, without dreams that he remembered this time. It was a deep sleep, but it didn’t leave him relaxed or at ease. Instead, his body ached when he woke up, his muscles cramped and twisted.
He just wanted to get the whole damn thing over with. He just wanted to go home.
Where was that, though?
The Midwest, where he’d grown up. Where his parents had been murdered.
God, how dark his life had been.
He thought about Mạ. He was really looking forward to seeing her, though he still had a lot of doubts about whether she should talk or not.
God, she’d had just as horrible a childhood as he had.
But he’d overcome it. Or at least dealt with it.
She would, too.
Josh took a quick shower—the only kind possible—then got dressed. Broome was outside once again, reading his newspaper. He had a cup of Starbucks coffee waiting for Josh.
“Figured you’d like a shot of joe,” said the marshal, handing it to him. “Sleep okay?”
“Like a baby, thanks.”
“Babies sleep like crap,” said Broome. “At least mine did. Mara’s downstairs, with that guy Jablonski. Just went down. They were going to wait for a while before waking you up.”
“Aren’t they nice?” said Josh sarcastically.
* * *
“There’s the prince,” said Jablonski when Josh and Broome entered the lobby. “Ready for breakfast?”
“Yeah.”
“I think you ought to get dressed for the presentation,” said Mara. “The schedule’s going to be tight.”
“What schedule?” said Josh.
“We’re going to meet the senator at eleven ten at the New York Hall of Science in Queens,” said Jablonski. “Then we’re going to come back to Manhattan and meet the president before his speech. He wants to go over a few things with you.”
Josh looked at Mara. She was wearing a dark black skirt that fell to her knees, with a matching jacket.
“You look nice,” he told her.
“Thank you. Mr. Jablonski picked it out.”
Josh felt a slight twinge of jealousy.
“No, actually my wife,” said Jablonski. “Very professional looking.”
“I’m with the State Department,” she told Josh, winking. “Public relations.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, let’s get you ready,” said Jablonski, taking Josh’s elbow and steering him toward the elevator. “Let’s run through your speech, and there’re a couple of things I want to tell you about the senator. First of all, he has an ego the size of Mount Rushmore. Never interrupt him. And never answer your cell phone or text a message while he’s talking.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“That’s a start,” said Jablonski.
“So basically, this guy thinks he’s God,” said Mara.
“No, he thinks he’s a senator,” said Jablonski. “That’s a whole rung higher than God.”
24
Long Island, New York
Jing Yo turned off the Long Island Expressway, following the GPS’s directions toward the high school in Jericho where Senator Grasso was to appear at 9 a.m. He had more than two hours to get into position, and he drove slowly, looking around, trying to memorize everything he saw, comparing it to what he’d seen the night before.
It’d be easiest to take the scientist here. There was a parking lot right across the street where Jing Yo could park and watch. Once he identified his car, the rest would be easy. He could take him then or, more likely, get him when he returned from the building. If he was with the senator, so much the better.
The problem was, Jing Yo didn’t know if the scientist was going to be here. The senator’s schedule noted that a meeting was supposed to be arranged to talk to an expert “prior to UN.”
“TBA” was the annotation.
TBA. Jing Yo had had to look the abbreviation up on the Web. “To be announced,” it said. Or “to be arranged.” So the appointment was still tentative.
If he had to kill him at the UN, he would have to use his bare hands. The bookmarked references made it clear that security would be very tight, even for employees. Jing Yo’s passes would take him pretty much anywhere he wanted to go, but even a diplomat could not bring a gun into the building.
The school, on the other hand, would be easy. It was not yet in session, but there were already teachers and other staff members inside. A pair of policemen stood at the front, looking bored.
Jing Yo swung through the parking lot and went back onto the street, continuing to a second minimall a few hundred yards away. He pulled in and took out his laptop.
The senator’s schedule had been updated. The meeting with the scientist was now on it, an addendum beneath the entry to the senator’s second appointment of the morning, an 11 a.m. presentation at the New York Hall of Science, where the senator was being thanked for obtaining a federal grant.
CHINA/VIET BRF—J. MACARTHUR—11:10
Jing Yo put the laptop into sleep mode, then backed out of the parking space.
“New York Hall of Science,” he told the GPS, even though he thought he could remember the way.
25
Washington, D.C.
One of the perks of being president was never having to wait at an airline gate for the flight to leave. Air Force One was always ready when you were ready.
On the other hand, getting to the airport could be a major hassle, especially when you couldn’t just hop aboard Marine One. Even stripped to its essentials, the presidential motorcade made the process a bit cumbersome—though at least it didn’t have to stop for traffic lights.
But this morning’s trip through the Washington suburbs was President Greene’s fault, a direct result not just of his decision to take the little girl to New York with him, but of his opinion that Mạ should be allowed to sleep as late as she wanted. So rather than having Turner Cole take her to the air base and meet them there, Greene decided he would stop off at Cole’s house and take her himself.
Cole’s house was, in fact, very close to the airport, which calmed the Secret Service objections about the arrangements, at least to the point where the agents didn’t protest for too long when Greene told them in the morning that they were making an unscheduled stop. In his short time in office, Greene had made a habit of overruling his bodyguards. To hear them tell it, he had already vetoed their arrangements and advice more than any three of his predecessors.
It might very well be true. Having survived a shooting war, not to mention Washington itself, he knew a thing or two about risk taking.
Picking up Mạ himself, Greene decided, would give him the chance of talking to her alone for a while in the car. He needed to build a rapport. It wouldn’t be tough; he was a great grandfather. All his grandkids said so.
The limos stopped in front of the brick colonial. Secret Service agents were already spread out on the lawn. The front door was open; Turner Cole stood centered in it.
Greene got out. He was going to do this right—this child was going to see exactly how grandfatherly he could be.
Hell, maybe they’d take in an amusement park over the weekend
. It had been ages since he’d been on a roller coaster. He loved those damn things.
“Mr. President, very good to see you this morning,” said Cole as Greene strode up the walk.
“Turner. So, where’s my little girl?”
“She’s upstairs, sir. Uh …”
Greene didn’t like the sound of that “uh.” “Out with it, Cole,” he snapped.
“Sir—”
“You might want to get in the residence,” suggested one of the nearby Secret Service agents.
Greene stepped inside.
“Mạ is upstairs,” said Cole, still mispronouncing the name. “She, uh, she’s a little resistant.”
The translator and the psychologist, along with a CIA officer, two federal marshals, and some of the Secret Service detail, were standing in the living room. Cole’s wife had taken the children to school. A nurse was upstairs with Mạ.
“All right, the president wants the entire story,” said Greene, addressing the small crowd. “And he wants it unvarnished. This is a no-bullshit zone. Out with it.”
“Well, the psychologist seems to feel that reliving the—going back over what happened to her family would be traumatic at this point,” said Cole when no one else would speak. His tone was reluctant in the extreme.
“It’s no more traumatic than what happened to her in the first place,” said Greene.
He looked at the psychologist, a kind of dorky-looking type with unkempt hair and blue jeans.
“You’re the psychiatrist, right?” said Greene.
“Child psychologist, sir.”
“Whatever. What’s the problem?”
“Reliving the trauma, at this point—”
“She’s not reliving it. She’s telling the world about it. She’s saving her people.”
“I …”
“Damn it,” cursed Greene, “sometimes individuals have to make sacrifices for the better good.”
“She’s already made a hell of a sacrifice,” said the psychologist. “With respect.”
“Maybe we could tape her talking,” said Cole. “Not bringing her in front of all those people.”