by Tom Clancy
That statement deflated her. “I’m sorry, John.”
“So am I.” Kelly paused, searching for words. “There is a difference, Sandy. There are good people. I suppose most people are decent. But there are bad people, too. You can’t wish them away, and you can’t wish them to be good, because most won’t change, and somebody has to protect the one bunch from the other. That’s what I did.”
“But how do you keep from turning into one of them?”
Kelly took his time considering that, regretting the fact that she was here at all. He didn’t need to hear this, didn’t want to have to examine his own conscience. Everything had been so clear the past couple of days. Once you decided that there was an enemy, then acting on that information was simply a matter of applying your training and experience. It wasn’t something you had to think about. Looking at your conscience was hard, wasn’t it?
“I’ve never had that problem,” he said, finally, evading the issue. That was when he saw the difference. Sandy and her community fought against a thing, and fought bravely, risking their sanity in resisting the actions of forces whose root causes they could not directly address. Kelly and his fought against people, leaving the actions of their enemies to others, but able to seek them out and fight directly against their foe, even eliminating them if they were lucky. One side had absolute purity of purpose but lacked satisfaction. The other could attain the satisfaction of destroying the enemy, but only at the cost of becoming too much like what they struggled against. Warrior and healer, parallel wars, similarity of purpose, but so different in their actions. Diseases of the body, and diseases of humanity itself. Wasn’t that an interesting way to look at it?
“Maybe it’s like this: it’s not what you fight against. It’s what you fight for.”
“What are we fighting for in Vietnam?” Sandy asked Kelly again, having asked herself that question no less than ten times per day since she’d received the unwelcome telegram. “My husband died there and I don’t still understand why.”
Kelly started to say something but stopped himself. Really there was no answer. Bad luck, bad decisions, bad timing at more than one level of activity created the random events that caused soldiers to die on a distant battlefield, and even if you were there, it didn’t always make sense. Besides, she’d probably heard every justification more than once from the man whose life she mourned. Maybe looking for that kind of meaning was nothing more than an exercise in futility. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to make sense. Even if that were true, how could you live without the pretense that it did, somehow? He was still pondering that one when he turned onto her street.
“Your house needs some paint,” Kelly told her, glad that it did.
“I know. I can’t afford painters and I don’t have the time to do it myself.”
“Sandy—a suggestion?”
“What’s that?”
“Let yourself live. I’m sorry Tim’s gone, but he is gone. I lost friends over there, too. You have to go on.”
The fatigue in her face was painful to see. Her eyes examined him in a professional sort of way, revealing nothing of what she thought or what she felt inside, but the fact that she troubled herself to conceal herself from him told Kelly something.
Something’s changed in you. I wonder what it is. I wonder why, Sandy thought. Something had resolved itself. He’d always been polite, almost funny in his overpowering gentility, but the sadness she’d seen, that had almost matched her own undying grief, was gone now, replaced with something she couldn’t quite fathom. It was strange, because he had never troubled to hide himself from her, and she thought herself able to penetrate whatever disguises he might erect. On that she was wrong, or perhaps she didn’t know the rules. She watched him get out, walk around the car, and open her door.
“Ma’am?” He gestured toward the house.
“Why are you so nice? Did Doctor Rosen . . . ?”
“He just said you needed a ride, Sandy, honest. Besides, you look awful tired.” Kelly walked her to the door.
“I don’t know why I like talking to you,” she said, reaching the porch steps.
“I wasn’t sure that you did. You do?”
“I think so,” O’Toole replied, with an almost-smile. The smile died after a second. “John, it’s too soon for me.”
“Sandy, it’s too soon for me, too. Is it too soon to be friends?”
She thought about that. “No, not too soon for that.”
“Dinner sometime? I asked once, remember?”
“How often are you in town?”
“More now. I have a job—well, something I have to do in Washington.”
“Doing what?”
“Nothing important.” And Sandy caught the scent of a lie, but it probably wasn’t one aimed at hurting her.
“Next week maybe?”
“I’ll give you a call. I don’t know any good places around here.”
“I do.”
“Get some rest,” Kelly told her. He didn’t attempt to kiss her, or even take her hand. Just a friendly, caring smile before he walked away. Sandy watched him drive off, still wondering what there was about the man that was different. She’d never forget the look on his face, there on the hospital bed, but whatever that had been, it wasn’t something she needed to fear.
Kelly was swearing quietly at himself as he drove away, wearing the cotton work gloves now, and rubbing them across every surface in the car that he could reach. He couldn’t risk many conversations like this one. What was it all about? How the hell was he supposed to know? It was easy in the field. You identified the enemy, or more often somebody told you what was going on and who he was and where he was—frequently the information was wrong, but at least it gave you a starting place. But mission briefs never told you, really, how it was going to change the world or bring the war to an end. That was stuff you read in the paper, information repeated by reporters who didn’t care, taken down from briefers who didn’t know or politicians who’d never troubled themselves to find out. “Infrastructure” and “cadre” were favorite words, but he’d hunted people, not infrastructure, whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Infrastructure was a thing, like what Sandy fought against. It wasn’t a person who did evil things and could be hunted down like an offensive big-game animal. And how did that apply to what he was doing now? Kelly told himself that he had to control his thinking, stay to the easy stuff, just remember that he was hunting people, just as he had before. He wasn’t going to change the whole world, just clean up one little corner.
“Does it still hurt, my friend?” Grishanov asked.
“I think I have some broken ribs.”
Zacharias sat down in the chair, breathing slowly and in obvious pain. That worried the Russian. Such an injury could lead to pneumonia, and pneumonia could kill a man in this physical condition. The guards had been a little too enthusiastic in their assault on the man, and though it had been done at Grishanov’s request, he hadn’t wanted to do more than to inflict some pain. A dead prisoner would not tell him what he needed to know.
“I’ve spoken to Major Vinh. The little savage says he has no medicines to spare.” Grishanov shrugged. “It might even be true. The pain, it is bad?”
“Every time I breathe,” Zacharias replied, and he was clearly speaking the truth. His skin was even paler than usual.
“I have only one thing for pain, Robin,” Kolya said apologetically, holding out his flask.
The American colonel shook his head, and even that appeared to hurt him. “I can’t.”
Grishanov spoke with the frustration of a man trying to reason with a friend. “Then you are a fool, Robin. Pain serves no one, not you, not me, not your God. Please, let me help you a little. Please?”
Can’t do it, Zacharias told himself. To do so was to break his covenant. His body was a temple, and he had to keep it pure of such things as this. But the temple was broken. He feared internal bleeding most of all. Would his body be able to heal itself? It should, and under
anything approaching normal circumstances, it would do so easily, but he knew that his physical condition was dreadful, his back still injured, and now his ribs. Pain was a companion now, and pain would make it harder for him to resist questions, and so he had to measure his religion against his duty to resist. Things were less clear now. Easing the pain might make it easier to heal, and easier to stick to his duty. So what was the right thing? What ought to have been an easy question was clouded, and his eyes looked at the metal container. There was relief there. Not much, but some, and some relief was what he needed if he were to control himself.
Grishanov unscrewed the cap. “Do you ski, Robin?”
Zacharias was surprised by the question. “Yes, I learned when I was a kid.”
“Cross-country?”
The American shook his head. “No, downhill.”
“The snow in the Wasatch Mountains, it is good for skiing?”
Robin smiled, remembering. “Very good, Kolya. It’s dry snow. Powdery, almost like very fine sand.”
“Ah, the best kind of all. Here.” He handed the flask over.
Just this once, Zacharias thought. Just for the pain. He took a swallow. Push the pain back a few steps, just so I can keep myself together.
Grishanov watched him do it, saw his eyes water, hoping the man wouldn’t cough and hurt himself more. It was good vodka, obtained from the embassy’s storeroom in Hanoi, the one thing his country always had in good supply, and the one thing the embassy always had enough of. The best quality of paper vodka, Kolya’s personal favorite, actually flavored with old paper, something this American was unlikely to note—and something he himself missed after the third or fourth drink, if the truth be known.
“You are a good skier, Robin?”
Zacharias felt the warmth in his belly as it spread out and allowed his body to relax. In that relaxation his pain lessened, and he felt a little stronger, and if this Russian wanted to talk skiing, well, that couldn’t hurt much, could it?
“I ski the expert slopes,” Robin said with satisfaction. “I started when I was a kid. I think I was five when Dad took me the first time.”
“Your father—also a pilot?”
The American shook his head. “No, a lawyer.”
“My father is a professor of history at Moscow State University. We have a dacha, and in the winter when I was little, I could ski in the woods. I love the silence. All you can hear is the—how you say, swish? Swish of the skis in the snow. Nothing else. Like a blanket on the earth, no noise, just silence.”
“If you go up early, the mountains can be like that. You pick a day right after the snow ends, not much wind.”
Kolya smiled. “Like flying, isn’t it? Flying in a single-seat aircraft, a fair day with a few white clouds.” He leaned forward with a crafty look. “Tell me, do you ever turn your radio off for a few minutes, just to be alone?”
“They let you do that?” Zacharias asked.
Grishanov chuckled, shaking his head. “No, but I do it anyway.”
“Good for you,” Robin said with a smile of his own, remembering what it was like. He thought of one particular afternoon, flying out of Mountain Home Air Force Base one February day in 1964.
“It is how God must feel, yes? All alone. You can ignore the noise of the engine. For me it just goes away after a few minutes. Is it the same for you?”
“Yeah, if your helmet fits right.”
“That is the real reason I fly,” Grishanov lied. “All the other rubbish, the paperwork, and the mechanical things, and the lectures, they are the price. To be up there, all alone, just like when I was a boy skiing in the woods—but better. You can see so far on a clear winter day.” He handed Zacharias the flask again. “Do you suppose these little savages understand that?”
“Probably not.” He wavered for a moment. Well, he’d already had one. Another couldn’t hurt, could it? Zacharias took another swallow.
“What I do, Robin, I hold the stick just in my fingertips, like this.” He demonstrated with the top of the flask. “I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, the world is different. Then I am not part of the world anymore. I am something else—an angel, perhaps,” he said with good humor. “Then I possess the sky as I would like to possess a woman, but it is never quite the same. The best feelings are supposed to be alone, I think.”
This guy really understands, doesn’t he? He really understands flying. “You a poet or something?”
“I love poetry. I do not have the talent to make it, but that does not prevent me from reading it, and memorizing it, feeling what the poet tells me to feel,” Grishanov said quietly, actually meaning what he said as he watched the American’s eyes lose focus, becoming dreamy. “We are much alike, my friend.”
“What’s the story on Ju-Ju?” Tucker asked.
“Looks like a ripoff. He got careless. One of yours, eh?” Charon said.
“Yeah, he moved a lot for us.”
“Who did it?” They were in the Main Branch of the Enoch Pratt Free Library, hidden in some rows, an ideal place, really. Hard to approach without being spotted, and impossible to bug. Even though a quiet place, there were just too many of the little alcoves.
“No telling, Henry. Ryan and Douglas were there, and it didn’t look to me like they had much. Hey, you going to get that worked up over one pusher?”
“You know better than that, but it puts a little dent in things. Never had one of mine wasted before.”
“You know better than that, Henry.” Charon flipped through some pages. “It’s a high-risk business. Somebody wanted a little cash, maybe some drugs, too, maybe break into the business quick? Look for a new pusher selling your stuff, maybe. Hell, as good as they were on the hit, maybe you could reach an understanding with ’em.”
“I have enough dealers. And making peace like that is bad for business. How they do ’em?”
“Very professional. Two in the head each. Douglas was talking like it was a mob hit.”
Tucker turned his head. “Oh?”
Charon spoke calmly, his back to the man. “Henry, this wasn’t the outfit. Tony isn’t going to do anything like that, is he?”
“Probably not.” But Eddie might.
“I need something,” Charon said next.
“What?”
“A dealer. What did you expect, a tip on the second at Pimlico?”
“Too many of ’em are mine now, remember?” It had been all right—better than that, really—to use Charon to eliminate the major competition, but as Tucker had consolidated his control on the local trade, he was able to target fewer and fewer independent operators for judicial elimination. That was particularly true of the majors. He had systematically picked out people with whom he had no interest in working, and the few who were left might be useful allies rather than rivals, if he could only find a way to negotiate with them.
“If you want me to be able to protect you, Henry, then I have to be able to control investigations. For me to control the investigations, I have to land some big fish from time to time.” Charon put the book back on the shelf. Why did he have to explain things like this to the man?
“When?”
“Beginning of the week, something tasty. I want to take down something that looks nice.”
“I’ll get back to you.” Tucker replaced his book and walked away. Charon spent another few minutes, searching for the right book. He found it, along with the envelope that sat next to it. The police lieutenant didn’t bother counting. He knew that the amount would be right.
Greer handled the introductions.
“Mr. Clark, this is General Martin Young, and this is Robert Ritter.”
Kelly shook hands with both. The Marine was an aviator, like Maxwell and Podulski, both of whom were absent from this meeting. He hadn’t a clue who Ritter was, but he was the one who spoke first.
“Nice analysis. Your language wasn’t exactly bureaucratic, but you hit all the high points.”
“Sir, it’s not really
all that hard to figure out. The ground assault ought to be fairly easy. You don’t have first-line troops in a place like this, and those you have are looking in, not out. Figure two guys in each tower. The MGs are going to be set to point in, right? It takes a few seconds to move them. You can use the treeline to get close enough for M-79 range.” Kelly moved his hands around the diagram. “Here’s the barracks, only two doors, and I bet there’s not forty guys in there.”
“Come in here?” General Young tapped the southwest corner on the compound.
“Yes, sir.” For an airedale, the Marine caught on pretty fast. “The trick’s getting the initial strike team in close. You’ll use weather for that, and this time of the year that shouldn’t be real hard. Two gunships, just regular rockets and miniguns to hose these two buildings. Land the evac choppers here. It’s all over in under five minutes from when the shooting starts. That’s the land phase. I’ll leave the rest to the fliers.”
“So you say the real key is to get the assault element in close on the ground—”
“No, sir. If you want to do another Song Tay, you can duplicate the whole plan, crash the chopper in the compound, the whole nine yards—but I keep hearing you want it done small.”
“Correct,” Ritter said. “Has to be small. There’s no way we can sell this as a major operation.”
“Fewer assets, sir, and you have to use different tactics. The good news is that it’s a small objective, not all that many people to get out, not many bad guys to get in the way.”
“But no safety factor,” General Young said, frowning.
“Not much of one,” Kelly agreed. “Twenty-five people. Land them in this valley, they hump over this hill, get into place, do the towers, blow this gate. Then the gunships come in and hose these two buildings while the assault element hits this building here. The snakes orbit while the slicks do the pickup, and we all boogie the hell down the valley.”
“Mr. Clark, you’re an optimist,” Greer observed, reminding Kelly of his cover name at the same time. If General Young found out that Kelly had been a mere chief, they’d never get his support, and Young had already stretched a long way for them, using up his whole year’s construction budget to build the mockup in the woods of Quantico.
