by Larry Bond
Zeus and Christian borrowed wet suits to wear, along with small Mae West–style life vests, tac vests, and special bags for their gear. They also had civilian clothes for Hainan. The wet suits were the largest the Vietnamese had, but they were still tight, especially around the crotch; too much of this, Zeus thought, and he wouldn’t have to worry about birth control for a while.
He had the helm in the lead craft, where he could use his GPS and act as a pathfinder for the others. Besides two marines, Solt was in the boat as well; her Chinese would be handy when they came to shore. Christian was in the third boat. Quach took the last craft, on the theory that he would have the easiest time if separated from the others.
Unlike the infiltration boats American units used, these Zodiacs and their engines were not purpose built. Starting life as normal pleasure or work craft, they had undergone a few modest modifications—they were now black instead of the original gray, their motors had detachable mufflers, and they carried extra fuel. But otherwise the little craft were so sturdy that there was no need for extensive changes. The marines had a lot of practice with them, and even with the heavy load of debris each carried, they made good time across the open water.
An hour after setting out, Zeus checked their location on his GPS unit and found they were almost ten miles farther than planned. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been an excellent start, but they were running ahead of the diversion. At least three Chinese ships were in the area east of them; if they kept going they were sure to sail right into them.
Zeus gave the order to stop, then signaled for the other boats to draw close. The waters were choppy, with the wind kicking up, but the marines brought the boats together expertly.
“We need to wait,” Zeus told the others, explaining what had happened. “We need to give the Chinese destroyers to the east time to grab the bait.”
“I think waiting is a fool’s mission,” said Christian. “We’re as likely to be seen here as anywhere.”
“The major is right,” said Quach. “To wait now tempts fate as much as going ahead.”
Zeus checked his watch. The Vietnamese patrol boats were leaving with the satellite. By now they would be broadcasting their position with a series of “sloppy” radio messages sure to be intercepted. So the Chinese should already be on their way south.
Or not. There was no guarantee that they would take the bait at all.
“All right,” said Zeus. “Everybody have their knives?”
The marines held them up. It was a not-too-subtle reminder that, to protect the mission, the Zodiacs and the weighted debris were to be scuttled to avoid capture.
“Let’s move ahead.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Zeus lifted binoculars to his eyes and strained to see into the distance. The night had darkened and the ocean smelled of rain. That was probably good, he reasoned; a storm would preoccupy the Chinese ships, making them much less likely to be on guard.
“There!” said the marine across from Zeus. Zeus turned to the north. There was a low black shadow on the horizon. It was heading in their direction.
A destroyer.
They’d make it past, he calculated; so could the boat following them. But he couldn’t be sure about the others.
He swung back to find the other boats.
* * *
They sat on the ocean for a half hour, waiting for the Chinese vessel to pass south. The ship’s outline was barely visible, and only when the waves took the Zodiac to their highest crest.
Quach sat in his boat next to Zeus, smoking the entire time. They’d killed the engines, and his smoke-laden breaths were louder than the slap of the waves against the rubber hulls.
Zeus was tired. Even though his heart was pumping with adrenaline, he felt his eyes sliding closed. He had to lean over the side and throw water on his face.
“Do you want a cigarette?” asked Quach. “It will help you keep awake.”
“I’m okay.”
They started out again a few minutes later. The monotonous drone of the engine and the slacking waves reinforced Zeus’s desire for sleep. He found himself wishing he’d taken up Quach’s offer of a cigarette—or better, had taken along a stash of the “go” pills doctors often prescribed for USSOCOM members on critical night missions.
Within minutes they were passing through a small rain squall. The water struck the boat so hard that it shook. Within five minutes they were beyond it, the ocean considerably calmer, but the night just as black.
The boats drew tighter together. An hour passed, boredom giving way to excitement as they neared land. Every apprehension Zeus had had about the mission began asserting itself; every possible argument against it echoed in his head.
He stretched; he moved around in the boat as much as its small size and the weighted bags of cargo and gear allowed. He knew he’d be fine once he got to shore. Once he was actually doing something, all the doubts dropped away. It was like playing quarterback—get on the field and the butterflies stopped flapping their damn wings.
“Major!” said the marine at the bow, pointing right.
Zeus looked into the shadows.
It was land.
He pulled his GPS out, surprised that they were so close already.
Then he realized it wasn’t land; it was a small ship, cutting north with no running lights.
“Gas!” yelled Zeus. “Give it the gas!”
The marine nailed the throttle. The ship just missed them. Its wake nearly threw the small Zodiac under the water.
Their second boat wasn’t as lucky. As the ship cleared, Zeus heard a scream behind them.
“Turn us around, turn us around!” he yelled, anxiously scanning the waves.
12
Washington, D.C.
Once a week, President Greene and his wife spent an hour having coffee together in the morning. It was a ritual they had begun decades earlier, when their schedules were easier to manage, but the practice was sacrosanct as far as the first lady was concerned; she insisted that her husband make the time.
If matters had been left completely to him, of course, he might never have made it. But the first lady knew a thing or two about politics—Greene’s appointments secretary and the chief of staff not only knew how important the time was to her, but also realized there would be hell to pay if the president missed the coffee.
Greene did, however, occasionally bring work to the sessions, which were held in the residence. He also pretended to be surprised by interruptions that he had arranged, knowing that his wife would not object if they at least seemed spontaneous.
“I really think we should invite Brin and the children to spend the holiday at the White House,” said his wife after they sat down in the dining room. “It would be so nice to have the little ones around.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Greene, glancing toward the door. As if on cue—and actually it was—Turner Cole appeared. “Oh look, Martha, here’s Turner. Come on in, Turner. Grab some coffee.”
His wife rolled her eyes at the interruption, then proceeded to welcome Cole graciously, as Greene knew she would. Ms. Greene’s real name was Sally; Martha, a reference to the very first first lady, was a joke between them.
“Coffee, Turner?” asked the president.
“I’m a little caffeined out, Mr. President.”
“Already? It’s barely nine o’clock.”
“Don’t give the poor man the jitters, George,” said Ms. Greene. “You should try the mini cannolis, Turner. They’re very good.”
“Turner, I’m glad you came. It’s a good coincidence,” said the president. It wasn’t a coincidence at all, of course—Greene had made it clear that Cole was to be sent over as soon as he arrived. “Here’s something you should hear, Sal. We have this little girl, an orphan girl from Vietnam. The cutest thing. Her name is Mạ. Right, Turner?”
“There’s a down tone on the vowel, Mr. President. Maa.”
“Yes,” said Greene. Actuall
y, it was Turner who had the accent a little off, but the president didn’t feel like giving the aide a language lesson. “Now the horrible thing is, Sal, her family was assassinated by the Chinese.”
“My God.”
“How is she, Turner?”
“She’s very good, Mr. President. She, uh, she misses Mr. MacArthur.”
“Well she’ll see him soon enough. She’s going with me to New York Friday, Sal.”
“She’s not going to that dreadful dinner, is she?”
“No, she’s testifying before the UN. She’ll make a great case.”
“Testifying?”
“Just saying what happened to her family.”
Ms. Greene frowned.
“What’s wrong, Sal?”
“How old is this little girl?”
“Teri’s age—six or seven.”
“We believe six, sir,” said Cole.
“You’re going to have her speak before the UN?” said Ms. Greene.
“Why not?”
The first lady shook her head.
“She has held up remarkably well, Ms. Greene,” said Cole.
“I’m sure she has. On the surface,” said the first lady.
“We’re having a psychologist look her over,” said Greene.
“They’re with her now,” said Cole.
“You’d better be gentle with her, George,” said Ms. Greene.
“She’s not going to break.”
“She’s still a child. Would you want Teri to speak before the UN?”
“She’d have them eating out of the palm of her hand. God, she’d be fantastic.”
“A week after her parents were killed?”
Greene frowned. His wife was smart, but sometimes she didn’t bring the proper perspective to things.
“These are good,” said Cole, reaching for another cannoli.
“She’s going to get the best care possible,” said Greene. “Believe me.”
“I’m sure,” said his wife. She looked over at Cole. “Try some milk with that,” she told him. “You look a little tired, Turner. I hope my husband isn’t working you too hard.”
13
Off the Vietnamese coast
The ship that had struck the Zodiac continued speeding northward, most likely unaware that it had hit anything. Zeus stood in the rubber-sided raft, trying desperately to see if there were any remains of the boat. Meanwhile, Christian’s two boats came up from the west and started searching as well. They moved in small, concentric circles, the marines grimly looking for their comrades.
“What happened?” asked Quach as his boat drew near the others.
“There was a ship without its lights running north. It struck the other Zodiac.”
“A smuggler,” said Quach. “Avoiding the port taxes. Or something else.”
“I heard someone call out,” said Zeus.
“We can’t wait to look.”
“We’ll take another look around, then catch up to you,” said Zeus.
“We don’t have the GPS,” said Quach. “You have to lead.”
Quach was right. Zeus was sure the marines and the girl were still here somewhere, but the timetable was tight, and waiting jeopardized the mission.
“Where are you?” he yelled. “Where are you?”
“We have to go, Major,” said Quach.
“Hey, Zeus, he’s right,” yelled Christian from his boat.
“Cut the engines for sixty seconds,” Zeus commanded. “Quiet everything down. And then we’ll go.”
One by one, the engines shut off.
“Where are you?” yelled Zeus. “Where are you?”
“Ðây,” said a weak voice in the distance. Here.
“Where?”
If there was an answer, he couldn’t hear it.
They restarted the engine and turned the boat toward the north. Even though it was on its lowest setting, the motor drowned everything out. He took the binoculars and scanned the water, but it was next to impossible to see anything. Finally he went to the bow and leaned out across the water with the flashlight, shining it across.
He saw a head, two heads, in the distance.
“There!” he yelled. “There!”
The Zodiac slipped toward them slowly. The heads rose on a wave, cresting above them, then disappeared.
Zeus cursed. He grabbed the marine on his right and put the flashlight in his hand. Then he went over the side, looking for the men he’d just seen.
It was darker and far colder in the water than he’d realized. He came up quickly, empty-handed. He swam forward, then to his right, then back. The salt water stung his eyes, making it even harder to see.
If it weren’t for the flashlight, he wouldn’t have known where the boat was. He realized he had to give up, and swam back to the Zodiac, clinging against the side.
Quach pulled nearby. “Major, your dedication is admirable. But we must go.”
Wordlessly, Zeus pushed himself into the boat. Clearing the salt water from his eyes, he opened his bag and took out the GPS, regaining his bearings.
“This way,” he told the marines.
They started back to the east. The air felt as if it had turned cold, close to freezing.
“Commander! There!” shouted the marine with the flashlight.
Zeus struggled to focus his eyes. All he could see was a black blur, with a dim yellowish white light moving back and forth across it.
The marine leaned over the side. Zeus crawled over the bag of debris in the middle of the raft and reached his hands out, blindly helping as the Vietnamese soldier pulled something into the boat. It was long and dark, and for a moment Zeus thought it was a giant fish.
It was the female intelligence agent, Solt Thi Jan. They laid her out across the large body bags containing the debris. Zeus thought she was dead, but when his fingers touched her face, it felt warm. His training kicked in, and he began following first-aid procedures buried somewhere deep in his consciousness. He bent and started giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Within three breaths he felt resistance; she started to vomit. He managed to get her up and over the side of the raft for most of it.
“Back on course,” he told the marines. He pointed east, then realized he wasn’t sure that it was east and had to hunt around for the GPS to make sure his instincts had been correct.
14
New York City
Josh woke in the middle of the bed, the covers off, his body naked. He had no idea where he was or how he’d got there.
He was cold. Very cold.
And he had to sneeze.
He pushed himself out of the bed. The curtains were drawn, but light was peeking through the sides.
He was in a New York hotel. Mara was in the next room.
The bathroom was near the door, to the right.
Up, up, up!
Just as he reached the bathroom, he sneezed. The sound echoed against the marble floor and walls.
He couldn’t find the light. Finally he got the switch that turned on the overhead heat lamp. There was just enough dim light for him to see the box of tissues.
The sneezes ripped through his nose.
“Goddamn,” he cursed. “I’m not in the jungle anymore. Stop, already.”
But his sinuses wouldn’t give in. Sneezing like a maniac, he reached into the shower, turned on the hot water, and let the room steam up, soothing his nasal passages. He buried his face in a towel.
A soft beep began to sound, quickly growing louder. Josh looked around for the source before realizing it was coming from the shower faucet. The water flow slowed, gradually falling to a trickle.
There was a cardboard placard on the sink counter.
Dear guest:
Please conserve energy. Be sparing with the hot water. Due to NYC and state regulations, we have placed limiters on our hot water. Showers will cut off after three minutes’ use. The device prevents the water from being turned back on for twenty minutes.
Josh turned the faucets off, the
n went and got dressed. His stomach and bladder felt better, but he’d lost track now of when he’d taken his last pill. Better to take an extra one, he decided, and so he took one, then checked the time. It was just after one.
He decided he’d go get some lunch. He opened the door and was surprised to see a man sitting across the way on a chair, a newspaper on his lap.
“Hey,” said the man.
“You talking to me?” Josh asked.
“Saying hello,” said the man. He wore a plaid flannel shirt under a zip-up sweatshirt, along with a pair of black corduroys and Nikes.
“Who are you?”
“Michael Broome.” He reached into his pocket and took out an ID. He flipped it open and closed quickly. “I’m with the marshals.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You’ve been sleeping late,” Broome said. “Right out when I got here. It’s after one. You know that?”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m just hanging to make sure everything is copacetic. Okay? Figured I’d let you have your privacy.”
“I guess.” Josh closed the door behind him.
“Where you going?” asked the marshal.
“Get some food.”
“Great,” said Broome.
Josh looked down the hall, trying to get his bearings. The elevator was to his left. He started for it. Broome followed.
“You coming with me?” Josh asked.
“That’s the general idea.”
Josh shifted back and forth, waiting for the elevator. Broome stood only a few inches away, too close for Josh to feel comfortable. The marshal smelled of whatever he’d had for lunch—some sort of Mexican food, Josh guessed.
An elevator chime announced that the car was arriving. The gondola was empty. Josh stepped in, Broome right at his side.
“Give me a foot, okay,” Josh said as the door closed, stepping away.
“Claustrophobic?”
“Something like that.”
“My cousin’s got that bad. You lock him in a closet, he’ll sign over all his bank accounts just to get out.”
