The Weapon

by David Poyer

  The house was across the river from Washington, in the suburbs that had grown up along the Metro line. It had been built years earlier, so there were lawns and maples and elms and yellow poplars. A brick colonial with flagstone walks, and three bedrooms, and a family room in the basement though they didn’t really have a family. Blair had done most of the furnishing. Some pieces had come from her Crystal City apartment. Others, from the antique stores she made him stop at when they drove out to visit her parents. And some were from her family’s estate, pieces her mom and dad had let go when they redecorated.

  A bigger, nicer house than he’d grown up in, and it felt strange having so much room, so many things he didn’t need. But when he hinted at that she’d raise her eyebrows as if he were from another planet. Once she said that if his father hadn’t beaten him he wouldn’t feel that way. He wasn’t sure if this was insight or psychobabble, but he felt like an imposter and figured he always would.

  She rolled over toward him. “Remember what we were arguing about last night?”

  “Capital punishment, I think.”

  “I didn’t mean to be a butthead.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re not still wrong. But I shouldn’t have gotten all bent about it. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” He opened his eyes to hers, and his hand found her hip under the comforter. “Those the PJs I gave you?”

  “I didn’t think I’d like black silk. But maybe I do.”

  “That mean you’ll take them off for me?”

  “The bottoms, or the tops?”

  “The bottoms and the tops.”

  “I’d have taken them off last night. All you had to do was ask.”

  “It didn’t feel like the right time.”

  “It’s pretty much always the right time. As long as the press isn’t around, I mean.”

  He wasn’t sure this was accurate but it didn’t seem the time to contradict her. Not with her leg thrown over him and every crevice of her pressed against every projection of his. He felt around under the covers and found silk and flesh beneath. The silk flowed down skin smoother than silk, and his hands gradually penetrated regions explored before but still not yet familiar. His erection was like a third person between them, and when they fused, pulled into her as if into a perfect vacuum, she tightened around him instantly. From nowhere Oberg’s words echoed. Young, dumb, and full of come.

  She said into his shoulder, “I miss you when you’re gone.”

  “Miss you, too.”

  “Tell me about that Russian woman.”

  “She was terrific. The Polish one, too. She had braided armpits—”

  “Don’t talk anymore. Just fuck me.”

  He felt her widen and soften and then focus down. He rode the first wave out, then kickstarted it again. If he timed it right and caught the monster she’d surf it for minutes, crest after crest rolling in and tumbling them over and over till they panted for breath.

  He plunged and it built again, then they were over the top and headed down. She gripped him the way Byrne had, deep beneath a dark river. There was no way back. She was arched and bucking, her expression like that of a terrorist being tortured. He was a dark river reaching deep into the land. Two electrodes touched, and a stream of white fire connected separate consciousnesses, flesh and bone and blood filled with the shattering roar of the void.

  They sat in bathrobes over breakfast, listening to the morning news. A gang shooting in Montgomery County. A freight train of chlorine derailed in Iowa. Two evangelical missionaries missing in the Philippines, probably being held for ransom. Her hair was damp from the shower and she had it twisted in a towel to dry. He felt damp and twisted, too. She’d gotten the dark roast he liked, and it tasted good after airline coffee. The bay window looked down on the backyard. Almost everything was winter dead now but in summer they had azaleas, and peonies, and tulips, and hollyhocks he thought too tall but that she loved. The yard was backed by a screen of trees so that with the leaves gone you could just see the houses on the next street over. He murmured, “Woodpile’s getting low.”

  “I like a fire at night. Seems less lonely. Not that I get to spend many nights here.”

  Her travel schedule was as bad as his. He wondered what would happen if they ever got to spend a whole month together. “I’ll call that place out on Lee Highway and order another half a cord.”

  “Did you see the Post out front?”

  “Want me to get it?”

  “Never mind. I don’t want to see what today’s idiocy is.”

  “Speaking of that, what are you doing at the Building?”

  She told him she was in another political fare-thee-well. This time she was battling Treasury and a good deal of her own party, trying to add a light infantry division while the White House budget people were trying to cut the Army to fund the new foreign aid initiative. “Which is dead, in my opinion. I even offered them a carrier battle group. They liked the idea, but not the trade.”

  “Presidents usually get more middle of the road toward the end. This one seems to be getting more liberal.”

  “This isn’t a matter of liberal or conservative. That’s the point I was trying to make at the committee. The Right calls us antimilitary when we’re just really antiwaste. Or anti, at least, spending so much on their pet donors. But we really need more manpower. Unfortunately we don’t have the numerics to help us anymore with our force sizing. The way we used to back in the Kahn era. Who exactly are we deterring? And who are we going to have to fight? I know you think China’s the main threat—”

  “I never said that—”

  “Well, not in so many words. But I understand your focus. That’d be a naval war, unless it went horizontal to Korea. But that’s not all we have to be prepared for. Things could get bad in the Mideast very quickly. East Africa. Venezuela. We’re just not ready for sustained ground operations anymore.”

  “You don’t have much longer with this administration, anyway.”

  “No, he’s quacking and limping. The court fight didn’t help.” She got up and poured more coffee. “Warm up? Then I’ve got to get dressed.”

  “Okay, I get to ask you what you’re always asking me. Where’s Blair Titus go from here? Is the Vice going to run?”

  “He’ll try but I don’t think he’s got a ghost in the primaries. I’m not sure who I’m going to work for this time. Actually I can’t while I’m still at DoD. But Dad said he’d put my name on their Central Committee donation. If the radical wing captures the nomination I won’t be welcome. I’ve kicked too many ankles on better enlisted housing and TriCare for retirees. The same thing that makes me anathema to the other party—putting the bucks against the people who actually serve.”

  “I’m new to this political behind-the-scenes. What happens if the other guys win?”

  “Not likely. They’ve had Congress sewed up all this time and what have they done?”

  “I think there are some strong candidates there.”

  “Unfortunately they’ve got your friend advising them.”

  “My friend? Who?”

  “Doctor Edward Ferenczi. They’ve all but named him the national security adviser, if they take over the White House.”

  “Ferenczi’d be a great choice. He’s objective.”

  “He’s a technocrat in love with big weapons systems.”

  Dan wasn’t sure this was fair to the guy who’d been his mentor years before, back when he’d been working on the flying torpedo that became Tomahawk. He thought about bringing up the Chinese and how influential they were in the administration, but he didn’t need another argument. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Okay, I’m getting dressed now.”

  He finished the pot and took the cup into the bedroom. He could hear her in the bathroom, finishing her makeup. Her voice floated out. “I was thinking. Would you have a problem if I ran for the House?”

  He stopped, one leg in black jeans, one out. “Uh—that’s
one I haven’t heard before.”

  “Well, we’re exploring it.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “I’ve discussed it with Dad. And some other people in Montgomery County.”

  She came out in her slip and glanced over as if she wanted to ask something, but wasn’t sure she should.

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering . . . Dad thought you’d make a good campaign manager. I said I didn’t think you’d go for it.”

  She was fitting herself into a dark blue dress. She was right, he didn’t go for it. Radiation, spying, and politics, three things he tried to stay as far away from as possible. He’d be first to admit that was short-sighted. If everybody felt that way, it just guaranteed the scum would rise to the top. But trying to live in that world himself . . . “I don’t know . . . actually I don’t think they’d let me.”

  “Who? The Navy?”

  “Right.” A cowardly out, but he’d take it. “You serious? About Congress?”

  She started brushing her hair. “Not yet. But we’ve got an incumbent who’s vulnerable. I wouldn’t want to go back to being a committee counsel. I guess I could hide out at SAIC or one of the other think tanks. Or take the revolving door out to Lockheed Martin and make some real money, general counsel or something—ha ha.”

  “I don’t see you there, either.”

  “But I really don’t think the country’s going to go with the other guys.”

  “This president’s ticked off a lot of people. Could be a backlash.”

  “I don’t think the American people operate that way, Dan.” She took her cell phone off the charger, checked it, tucked it into her purse. She reminded him of a Marine prepping for battle. Uniform, gear, attitude. She wasn’t the same woman he’d had under him an hour ago. God help anybody who got in her way today.

  “What’s on your plate?”

  “Not much. Call Nan and see if she can break me out a couple hours.”

  “A daughter needs her dad. What else?”

  “Get the car inspected. Then start on those bookshelves downstairs.” He flexed his fingers. He’d had the wood a month now, smooth seasoned poplar. He planned floor-to-ceiling units, to fill with the hundreds of books he’d accumulated and never been able to winnow down. A display cabinet for things he’d picked up over the years. It’d be nice to build something he could put his hands on. Too much of what you did in the Service was over and forgotten the next year. If not the next day.

  “Well, have fun. How do I look?”

  He ran his gaze up and down, then spun her around. “You look . . . very businesslike.”

  His arms went around her from behind, and his lips found her neck.

  “Oh, no.” She wriggled out of his grasp. “We know where that goes. Home around seven. If you’re still interested.”

  “See you then, honey.”

  She turned at the door. “Almost forgot. I’ve been asked to speak at Davos. Next spring. It’d be great if you could come.”

  “Davos . . . where’s Davos? Colorado?”

  “That’s Aspen. Davos is in Switzerland. A week long. And they hardly ever invite administration members at my level. It’s a good sign.” She hesitated, not meeting his eyes. “Will you try? It’d mean a lot.”

  “I don’t know . . . what would I do there? I could try to get leave. If we didn’t have an exercise scheduled.”

  “Will you? Would you?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. But his heart wasn’t in it and her gaze turned flinty. “All right. I go to your Annapolis reunions, but you don’t go to Switzerland with me.”

  He started to open his mouth, to say that they weren’t the same thing; an hour’s drive to Maryland wasn’t a week in Switzerland. But before he could muster words the door slammed.

  He thought about going out and catching her car, but the way the tires sounded going down the driveway he’d as likely get run down. He’d catch her tonight, after she got over it.

  Okay—Nan. He tried his daughter, but her line was busy. He stood irresolute, wondering if he should call Blair at the office. Try to make up. Or let it ride.

  Instead of making a decision he took the remote phone down to the rec room. Flipped the table saw on and off beside the stacked lengths of smooth white wood. Looked at the pencil marks on the wall where the shelves would go.

  He thought about boarding a merchant ship, putting innocent sailors adrift in lifeboats. Setting the ship afire. Could he do that?

  He flicked the saw on again and off again, watching the blade turn invisible as it spun up to speed. If he put his hand in there, invisible or not, the teeth would slice skin and sinew and bone. Blood would spray over the walls.

  He hit redial. Still busy.

  Putting it all out of his head—Blair and Nan and Congress and the Shkval—he picked up a length of poplar. Taking his time, he measured it. Measured again. Then with a flick of his wrist scored a pencil mark.

  There. That would be his first cut.

  11

  Southern Mindanao, the Philippines

  Whoever had the control had set the day to broiling before morning. They lurched and banged along in the Cherokee, the air-conditioning so cold it made Dan’s teeth hurt.

  They’d been on the road, if it could be called that, for two hours, mostly on a side track that was supposed to lead around a downed bridge. Obie and the local guy were in the lead car. The local guy wore his hair down past his shoulders. He sported a little Uncle Ho beard and reflective sunglasses, a Walkman, cheap black sneakers, and a black Chrono Crusade tee he wore untucked with camo pants. Maud’dib Sosukan had said so little when they’d met that morning Dan still wasn’t sure if he spoke English. As they drove he glimpsed him now and then in the car ahead pointing or sometimes just nodding where he wanted Oberg to turn. Not that there were any off ramps. They’d been in four-wheel-drive and low gear, going up and down through a mountainous jungle that had only grown thicker and darker.

  Now, again, the Cherokee ahead pulled over. Beside him Henrickson plucked at his short-sleeved shirt and muttered, “Fuck. We lost again?”

  Dan lowered the window as they eased off the track into thick edge-of-the-road brush. The rot-heavy stink of the jungle rolled in, wrapped in fever and wet fur. Within seconds his guayabera was sweated through. The air felt heavy, like some hot transparent oil. Oberg snaked out of the SUV ahead. He crouched beside it, as if expecting incoming. The SEAL looked carefully around, then motioned to them to dismount.

  Dan stepped out into an overpowering shade of green that enveloped everything, and suffocating heat. The Jurassic must have been like this. He half expected a tyrannosaurus to come crashing through the canopy that blocked the sun and sealed the smells underneath like a green house. They were organic, earthy, setting off alarms in primeval layers of his brain. His boots sank ankle deep into the churned-up red-yellow mud of what was less a road than a razor-cut where the jungle was not quite always master. He listened to the sounds that had gone still when they stopped the engine. Suddenly the world seemed very loud, and at the same time hollow silent. Flies buzzed in shrinking orbits. He waved them away, but they didn’t take a hint. Nor did the mosquitoes.

  “This it?” he called. Keeping his voice low.

  “Our boy says so.” Oberg glanced in at Sosukan, who was basking in the air-conditioning. The SEAL jerked the door open and hoisted a thumb.

  The teenager unfolded himself like a sulky deck chair. He stood in a wheel rut, unbuttoned, and began pissing, only slightly turned away. Dan and Henrickson moved a step farther off. Wenck and Carpenter were back at the hotel; he hadn’t seen any reason to risk more men than he had to on this first trip in. Beside the lead vehicle, Kaulukukui stood with fists on his hips, peering around. The darkness cupped a steady chatter now, distant shrieks like women being murdered alternating with clicks and hisses Dan hoped were just insects.

  The kid hitched up his pants and nodded to Oberg, whom he seemed to have fixated on as the le
ader. Then stepped through the green wall and was swallowed, not so much as a swaying leaf marking where he’d been. The SEALs traded impressed looks.

  Dan cleared his throat. “Jungle time, Monty.”

  Henrickson looked aghast. “I told you,” Dan told him.

  “I know, jungle—but I didn’t think you meant, jungle.”

  Oberg squished down the ruts toward them. His sweated-through olive-drab skivvy shirt clung to his chest, outlining his pectorals. “Commander? You two better stay here, is my recommendation.”

  “Who’s going to do the negotiating, Obie?”

  “That’s going to take time, sir. Could take a long time.” Oberg scanned the jungle again. “It’d be better if we scoped the situation. Set up the meet, do the psychology, find out their bargaining position. Then come back and bring you in as the VIP who closes the deal with their head man over a cup of tea. That’d be the smart way.”

  Dan looked around, at the silent, noisy jungle, then directly up. The canopy had grown together above the ruts, showing only a transient gleam far above, as if it was a single enormous organism that quickly scabbed over even the cruelest incision. “All right, Teddy. We’ll do it your way.”

  He rubbed his head as the SEALs moved off after the Filipino. He said to Henrickson, “I hope that was the right thing to do.”

  “Teddy’s sharp. They train for this.”

  Dan rubbed his head again. He checked his Seiko. Slapped gnats. They were tiny, but they bit above their weight class.

  Far overhead, something mocked their thin whine. It grew slowly, though still far away. He shaded his eyes, and caught a glimpse as something raptorial passed slowly over.

  “Drone,” said Henrickson under his breath, as if it could hear them. It banked slowly, then disappeared over the trees. The chain-saw whine faded.