He surfaced, blinked salt water from his eyes, and reached out for the board, but another wave washed over him.
Where was she?
He closed his eyes as another wave started to break over him. With a big breath of air, he ducked under the water, just like she had said to do.
Then he felt a soft touch on his cheek: the board’s leash flickering about underwater. He brushed it aside, but then it became taut, pulling around his neck. He grabbed the cord, but the hand trying to push it away was gradually drawn closer to his throat. His other hand reached out, but the current kept turning him around. He kicked, trying to reach the water’s surface, trying to breathe, swim, and fight all at the same time.
The harder he fought, the tighter the leash squeezed as wave after wave broke over him.
JFK-Citigroup Airport, Queens, New York City
“You want a letter of what?”
Admiral Beyer didn’t like having to leave the Pentagon in the middle of a war. And he definitely did not like having to sit inside a 787-9 executive jet48 that had been done up like the Studio 54 nightclub49 from the 1970s.
“A letter of marque,50 Admiral. My lawyers tell me I need one,” said Aeric Cavendish. He added, sotto voce, “I would have assumed a sailor would understand this from his naval history, but I guess not.”
Admiral Beyer dug his fingernails into the seat’s brown velour. Sitting beside him, the president’s deputy chief of staff, Susan Ford, watched the admiral, ready to intervene if he took the bait. Fortunately, Beyer didn’t react. He’d read the intelligence profile and was prepared for a great deal of nonsense.
Sir Aeric K. Cavendish had been born Archis Kumar to a middle-class family in the suburbs of Melbourne. Trained as a geneticist, he had made his first billion from several key patents in cell regeneration and cholesterol blockers. But Kumar soon figured out his talents lay in organizing other scientists to make money, and he’d ridden the biotech boom to the ranking of seventh-richest man in the world, notably the only billionaire among the world’s top twenty-five who did not live in China, Russia, or the Middle East. And when the world economy tanked, he scooped up everything from the business holdings to the private islands of the overextended billionaires farther down the list.
Whether it was changing his name to something more royal or buying Manchester United and forcing the team’s manager to put its new owner in as goalkeeper in a match against Leeds, the billionaire seemed to follow whatever whim he woke up with in the morning. And apparently, Beyer thought, his latest whim was to waste an admiral’s time.
“Let me put it in your American terms, then, since trying to meet on common naval ground was apparently unwise on my part. I want a hunting license,” said Cavendish. He made a pistol with his right hand and pointed it upward, miming shooting at the lime-green shag-carpeted ceiling. “For up there.”
Beyer sat back heavily in his seat and began softly tapping his fingers. If Cavendish had known Morse code, he would have recoiled at the insults the admiral was hurling at him.
“Sir Aeric, please tell us exactly what you have in mind,” Ford said.
Cavendish closed his eyes, as if collecting his thoughts. In fact, he had collected them carefully over the past several days. The idea might have started as a whim, but Sir Aeric had thoroughly investigated and vetted it. He knew that it was feasible, though it would seem outlandish.
“The United States military’s predicament is evident,” Cavendish said. “Your airpower projection is limited, especially given that you no longer trust your own warplanes. The land forces are now mostly in the retail and border-security business. Guarding stores from looting and the border from people who no longer want to cross it is, I suppose, the best way to keep the country on its feet,” said Cavendish. “Your navy’s primary mission, given that it cannot sail past what the Chinese have aptly labeled a demilitarized zone—demilitarized for you, not them, of course—is corrosion avoidance. That is also a battle you will lose, I am sorry to say.”
Beyer looked at Ford and began to stand. “I don’t have time for this bullshit. I need to get back to the building,” said Beyer. Ford responded by putting her hand on Beyer’s.
“Sir Aeric, you are testing the admiral’s patience, and now mine. And when you waste my time, you waste the time of the president of the United States,” she said.
“Please, I apologize,” said Sir Aeric. “I grew too . . . excited. Allow me to pause the conversation a moment and reset.”
A traditionally dressed English butler came in and wordlessly offered each a flute of champagne. There was no way Beyer was going to drink with this man, but he couldn’t find anywhere to set the glass down other than the shag carpet, where it would tip over.
Cavendish’s flute was half empty when Beyer looked back up. Good. Maybe the arrogant bastard was nervous after all.
“Admiral, please, you must try it, I bought it just for you,” said Cavendish. “It is one of the last51 1907 ‘Shipwrecked’ Heidsiecks. This bottle was on a freighter that was sunk by a U-boat in the First World War and sat on the bottom of the Baltic for the next century, perfectly preserved in the icy waters.”
“You were saying . . .” Ford prompted as Beyer looked at the world’s most expensive champagne with new respect. He had to admit, he was charmed by the twit’s nautical touch.
“This predicament is intolerable to you, but also to me. To fully enjoy my assets, I need the world back the way it was,” said Sir Aeric. “I have identified some impediments to this goal. Chief among them is the Tiangong station orbiting above the Pacific and what it does to limit your ability to act in the manner that I need you to act. It allows the Directorate to effectively command the heights of any battle. And, as best as I have been able to determine from my extensive contacts, you have failed in all your attempts to attack it. This, you worry, ultimately leaves you only the option of a nuclear response, which you are not certain would succeed and which, more pertinently, would escalate this conflict in a manner that would truly make all our lives intolerable.”
“I cannot confirm or deny any of that, but for the purposes of our conversation, let’s assume you are correct,” said Beyer. He felt the champagne flute warming. From 1907? It would be a shame to waste it.
“From the heavens come . . . oh, forget all that,” said Cavendish, his cultivated accent slipping back into his native Australian one. “Look, mate, if you want to win back your waters, and I do believe they are providentially yours, you are going to have to do something about that damned space station. But without provoking a nuclear fuss. Righto?”
Beyer nodded. It was now or never with the champagne. He drank it down in one gulp.
“Well done!” Cavendish, his British accent returning. “In exchange for a letter of marque, sicut aliter scitur my hunting license, I will eliminate this impediment to your operations at a time of your government’s choosing.”
“How might this work?” said Ford.
“First the contract part. My lawyers advise me that, as allowed under article one, section eight52 of that fantastic old document, the United States Constitution, I will require a letter of marque in order to be registered as an official privateer,” said Cavendish. “You know, perhaps I might be able to acquire one of the original copies of the Constitution. What would that run, Ms. Ford? Safekeeping and all that.”
Beyer interrupted. The champagne had been pretty decent, but the little twit was back to wasting his time.
“Look, I don’t care what the lawyers think. Not my job. What I care about is winning this war,” said Beyer. “Because I’m not here just to help you cross an item off your bucket list.”
“No, Admiral, I am here to help you,” said Cavendish.
“How?” said Beyer. “All I see is a guy with a funny name who’s sitting in a plane rigged out like a porno set and drinking a glass of old champagne in a country that’s trying to explain to kindergartners how rationing works. So what are you going to give us in exchange for
this letter you want?”
“A secret weapon, the likes of which the Directorate has never faced before,” whispered Cavendish, softly touching his empty flute against his temple. “My imagination.”
USS Zumwalt, Mare Island Naval Shipyard
Vern Li wiped the sweat from her brow and looked again. There. She took off her viz glasses and the graffiti was gone. She dabbed the sweat from her nose and put the glasses back on. There it was again.
She wobbled as if the ship were pitching at sea. The fresh red paint looked like blood.
We are watching you, Chink.
“Vern, you okay?” asked Teri, a thirty-five-year-old software engineer from Caltech who was working with her in the confines of the engine room.
“Uh, no. I mean, I think so,” said Vern.
“Sit down here,” Teri gently commanded. “Do you want a stim? We’ve been at this for, like, twenty hours.”
“Do you see anything odd here? At all?” said Vern.
“Yeah, everything I see on this ship is odd,” said Teri.
“No, I mean, do you see anything around us, like writing on the wall over there?” said Vern.
“Writing? No. You want me to get the corpsman?” asked Teri. “This is not good. How much did you take?”
“It’s not the stims,” said Vern.
“I heard there was a bad batch going around. Might have been Directorate tampering; at least that’s what the gov feed said. But the smart money says someone’s cutting it with laundry soap to make a few extra bucks.”
Chink. What century was this? How dare they doubt her!
“Here, sit down,” said Teri, more firmly this time. “What’s the matter?”
Vern opened her mouth to explain what she was seeing and then clenched her jaw shut. If the power systems failed in combat, the ship and likely whoever wrote that would die. And the power systems depended on this Chink’s graduate-school science project. It was that simple.
She flung her viz glasses at the spot on the wall. They hit where the graffiti53 would have been if someone had had the courage to write it in actual blood-red paint.
“Vern?” said Teri. “Take it easy. I’m going to go get somebody; you just rest.”
Vern crawled on hands and knees to pick up her glasses. They weren’t even scratched. How she wished they were broken. She pushed the reset button at the temple and waited for them to reacquire the Zumwalt’s network. She closed her eyes when she put them on. When she opened her eyes, the graffiti was still there.
The sound of heavy footsteps made her get up.
“Vern, this is Chief Simmons,” said Teri.
“Dr. Li, I hear you’re not feeling well,” said Simmons.
“I’m just tired of this shit,” said Vern.
“From what I understand, you may be the most important person on this ship,” said Simmons. “So you’re part of the equipment, then, and that makes you my responsibility. Let’s get you topside, give you some air, feed you, and get you back to work.”
Vern laughed at the notion of her being literally a part of the ship. This world seemed so absurd because it was true.
“More important than the captain?” said Vern.
“Well, that’s a complicated answer for me, Dr. Li.” Mike laughed. “I’ll just say definitively you’re more important to the ship.”
Vern laughed again. Teri gave them both a nervous grin.
Vern studied the old sailor. It seemed he’d never had a day of doubt in his life.
“Teri, I need to have a word alone with the chief,” said Vern.
“Uh,” said Teri. “All right. I’ll go grab some water and then meet you by the stern.”
Mike stepped aside to let Teri squeeze past. Despite his heavy footsteps, he had a surprising ease about him on the deck, at least for an old guy.
“So, Dr. Li, tell me what’s really going on,” said Mike.
Vern took off her viz glasses and held them out.
“You have to see for yourself,” said Vern.
“Why don’t you just show me,” said Mike.
“I am,” said Vern.
“No, I mean actually show me,” said Mike.
“I can’t. You need to wear my viz,” said Vern.
Simmons held the glasses out in front of him with a mix of disdain and, Vern sensed, fear.
“These won’t fit,” said Mike. “How about you tell me . . .”
Vern saw that uncertainty was a rare feeling for him, and that made him even more uncomfortable.
“You’ve never used viz before, have you?” she asked.
Mike looked down at the scuffed toes of his boots.
“No. I haven’t,” said Mike. “I never saw the point.”
“I know you’re an old fart, but you’re not that old,” said Vern. Her face reddened with embarrassment, and anger flashed across Mike’s features. “I’m sorry. That’s what they said we were to call you guys. Please. It’s important,” she said. “It’s about the ship.”
Before he could move, she placed the glasses carefully on his face. She noticed that his right ear was slightly lower than the left and that his nose had been broken at least once. He stiffened and then relaxed once she backed away.
He lost his balance, and she lunged forward to steady him with an awkward hug.
“Sweet Jesus,” said Mike. It was so real. He’d heard it was something about the way they projected a data stream onto your retinas that made it so different from the first-generation Google Glass.54 With these, you weren’t so much looking through the glass at the world; it was more like the world was being brought inside your brain. It gave you the sense of not just seeing, but feeling. And it felt damn weird.
Vern led him by the hand to the graffiti. He saw the sticky red that part of his brain said was real, even down to its smell, and that drowned out the other part of his brain whispering that it wasn’t real, that it hadn’t been there just a few seconds ago.
“What the hell is that?” asked Mike. “Blood?”
“Yes. At least, it’s supposed to look like blood,” said Vern.
“Who did this, goddamn it?” said Mike. He squinted and slid the glasses down on his nose and then back up. Down, then up again.
“That’s the sickest, most cowardly thing I’ve ever seen,” said Mike. “Anyone else see this?” She noticed his breathing had gotten deeper and the veins were bulging at his neck.
“I don’t think so. Just my viz feed,” said Vern, starting to collect herself. “Don’t worry about it. This bullshit too will pass.”
Mike stepped back and looked her over.
“No, Dr. Li. I have to do something about it. This bullshit doesn’t happen on my ship,” said Mike. “The captain has to be informed. The XO too.”
“Shit,” said Vern. “What if they think I’m some kind of a risk and make me leave? I had to get the FBI to watch my mom’s house because of all the threats she got after I disappeared to come work here. People assumed I’d left for China.”
Mike scuffed his boot along the deck and shook his head.
“Actually, Dr. Li, as I understand it, you’d be the last person to leave the Z, no matter what the graffiti on those glasses says. Whether you like it or not, you are now part of this ship. And let me be clear: I take care of my ship.”
Directorate Command, Honolulu, Hawaii Special Administrative Zone
The pistol’s barrel was pointed right at Colonel Markov.
This is the fourth time I’ve had to endure this performance, he thought.
General Yu Xilai shook the weapon slightly, as if he could not understand why Markov had not grasped the gun in thanks. “Did you know I found it with an empty magazine?” said the general. “He fired his very last round right at me.”
“But how did you survive unscathed?” said Markov, taking the pistol, playing his role.
The general sat on the edge of his desk and ran a hand over his freshly shaved scalp. He shifted his body before he began the story, the wooden desk gr
oaning under his bulk. Yu looked the role of a warrior, an image that, like too many generals, he’d traded on for much of his career. He was built like an Olympic heavyweight wrestler: a shaved skull, deep-set eyes beneath a thick brow that presided over prominent cheekbones and a large, sharp nose. But long ago, Markov had learned not to confuse the look of a warrior with actual military ability.
“Like all battle, a mix of skill and luck. This American Marine general was a warrior. Straight from the viz. He knew he could not be taken alive. After all, he was in charge of their Pacific Commands most important base. When I entered the room, there was so much smoke. But I was ready,” said General Yu. “My pistol was drawn. ‘Grenades?’ they shouted behind me. ‘No!’ I shouted back. ‘No!’”
“And why not?” said Markov.
“Honor,” said General Yu. “He was a fellow warrior who deserved to die fighting. It was so smoky, sparks and a little fire over in the corner where one of those phosphorus grenades had already gone off. Theirs or ours, I don’t know. It smelled of burning plastic. The incense of battle, right, Colonel? I could barely see. But I could sense the danger. He fired and I fired back.”
“How many times?” asked Markov, on cue.
“Just once,” said General Yu. “One shot was all I needed.” He put his index finger between his eyes as if to make clear he did not miss.
“General, I am impressed,” said Colonel Markov. He’d had his doubts after the first telling, but the story was actually true; Markov had checked with one of the commandos who’d been with General Yu that day. The weapon had indeed been pried from the dead hands of the Marine base commander killed by the Directorate general himself. But that didn’t earn him Markov’s respect as a leader.
He passed the SIG Sauer P226 pistol55 back to the general, who might have been good at leading a small unit of men in the heat of a gunfight but who was out of his element in a war that no longer followed his rules. Markov had always thought Americans would make fierce insurgents, so strongly did they believe their national narrative. After the first suicide bomber, at the King’s Village shopping plaza in Waikiki, Markov knew he was right. That’s why Yu kept telling the damn stories about the opening assault on Honolulu over and over. It was the one day of this war that made sense to him.
Ghost Fleet : A Novel of the Next World War (9780544145979) Page 17
