Blood of War rdr-4 Page 3

  “Not all of them.”

  “Give them time.”

  Melfi had been arguing against having any media present today at all. Greene instinctually knew that was a mistake — even though the last thing he felt like doing today was appearing before some goddamn cameras.

  “How long will it take to get them down here?” asked the president, rubbing some of the sweat away from his collar.

  “Just a few minutes. They’ll run here, believe me.”

  “All right, why not? It’ll give me a second to talk to Brian.” Greene spotted the Red Cross director, Brian Gear, coming out of the building. Gear, a former congressman, had played poker with him occasionally some years before.

  Not very well, which certainly endeared him to Greene.

  “Just to finish my thought,” said Jackson, clearing his throat. “General Perry is a problem. If he goes public—”

  “He’s not going to do that,” said Greene. “Do you agree with him? Should we give Vietnam to the Chinese?”

  “No.”

  “Then no matter what Harland does, he won’t be a problem.”

  “Politically—”

  “Screw the politics, Walter. And since when do you worry about them? Worry about China. We have to cut that bastard Cho Lai off at the knees.”

  Greene gave his national security advisor a phony smile, winked, then turned to Gear and began his hail-fellow-well-met routine. The former congressman smiled, then suddenly turned serious.

  “Sorry to hear about the, uh, the—”

  “Impeachment,” said Greene cheerfully. “What a crock, huh?”

  “Well—”

  “Ah, don’t worry about that. All political maneuvering. Here, introduce me to the honorees. I’d like to meet some real heroes.”

  Gear introduced him to a Red Cross volunteer who had personally saved two young men in the swollen Pohick Creek a few weeks back after a tropical storm had dumped upward of ten inches in the area drained by the river-sized creek.

  The storm was far out of season for anywhere, let alone Virginia. Meteorologists were divided about whether it was a completely freak occurrence or one more result of rapid climate change — and therefore a harbinger of things to come.

  While ordinarily he would have avoided it, Greene was glad to talk about the weather today. He nodded as the volunteer described how the rain had come down in what seemed like buckets as she was on her way to set up a shelter for the Red Cross. The life-saving skills she’d learned as a teenager during classes run by the Red Cross had certainly paid off.

  A volunteer, and a Red Cross beneficiary. Gear really had his public relations machine running on all engines, thought Greene. Had he been this adept in Congress, he never would have lost his seat.

  The press filtered around the Rose Garden. Melfi’s assistants attempted in vain to provide some sort of rudimentary traffic control. It was a lost cause; the White House gardener was going to have a fit.

  How wonderful it would be, Greene thought, if there was a sudden cloudburst and they were all soaked.

  The thought carried him through the ceremony, secretly poking up the corners of his mouth as he listened to Gear praise “the unsung volunteers” across the country. Then Greene said a few words, smiling and looking presidential for the mandatory photos — images that would only be posted on the Web pages of the volunteers’ hometown newspapers.

  “Well now, I know most of you are actually interested in asking me a few questions about things that have nothing to do with the Red Cross,” said Greene when the photo op was done. “So why don’t we take a few minutes and get that out of the way, and then we can talk about the Red Cross and the excellent job it’s doing. The excellent job my friend Brian Gear is doing.”

  Greene swung his hand over toward Gear and the volunteers. There was a smattering of applause from the family members who had come to observe the ceremony.

  The reporters were chomping at the bit. The oldest — Gar Daniels, a septuagenarian who had worked for the Washington Post but now had a regular blog on Politico—was by custom the first one to ask a question.

  He could also always be counted on to say something that would irk Greene.

  “Mr. President,” he started in his slow, overly studied Georgian drawl, “the unprecedented vote to investigate you—”

  “Gar, I’m not sure it’s unprecedented,” said Greene. “I’m reminded a bit of the attacks by Congress on Lincoln’s successor, Andrew Johnson.”

  Melfi was undoubtedly wincing — he had strongly advised Greene not to mention anything that would suggest impeachment, including, and especially, previous impeachment cases. But the hell with that — Greene thought Johnson had been railroaded, and he was being, too.

  “Of course, that was a little before our time,” added Greene. He tilted his head slightly, as if speaking directly to the reporter. “Though I suspect most of the rest of the press corps believes you and I were there in the flesh.”

  That got a laugh, but it didn’t do much to disarm either Daniels or the rest of the journalists. Greene let them shout for a few seconds, nodding a bit, relaxing — the truth was, he enjoyed seeing them act like jackals before waving his hand to silence them.

  “The congressman from New Jersey is wrong. Yes, let there be no mistake, I’m talking about Congressman Goodwell. I haven’t violated the law,” Greene added, paraphrasing one of the questions in his answer. He smiled, and paused to let the flashes on the cameras trickle off. There was a certain irony in Goodwell’s name — he’d have to find a way to play with that. “And let me make one thing clear to China — we are not going to stand by idly while they push around their neighbors.”

  A skinny female reporter who had pushed her way to the front row shouted a question. “Mr. President, are you threatening to use force against China?”

  “I didn’t say that at all.” Greene smiled at her. He blanked on her name, but he was sure she was with the Indianapolis paper. Or was it Dallas? She didn’t sound Texan. “We will deal strongly with acts of aggression. That’s how I’d put it.”

  “Are you prepared to defend Vietnam?” she asked.

  “We’ve already introduced several resolutions in the UN General Assembly,” said Greene.

  “Are you willing to commit U.S. ground forces?” asked a voice from the back.

  Who was that? Kevin Deere from Chicago? He couldn’t quite see in the crush.

  “I’m not ruling anything in or out,” said Greene. “All options are on the table.”

  “But Congress has specifically prohibited the use of U.S. forces,” said the mousy young woman, whose name and affiliation he couldn’t remember.

  “Congress does not supersede the Constitution,” said Greene. “I am the commander in chief.”

  “They claim you’re trying to supersede the Constitution.”

  “Well, the opposing party can make a lot of claims,” said Greene. “They can even claim I’m breaking the law. A lot of good it will do them.”

  Greene glanced at Melfi. The aide’s face was as white as he’d ever seen it — whiter than the Sicilian beaches his ancestors had once escaped from.

  Poor man. He’d have to find a way to get him a raise.

  Greene took another question. There was a bit more back and forth before Melfi finally stepped in and called a halt to the questioning, citing the president’s pressing schedule. Greene glanced around for Gear, but the Red Cross director had wisely faded into the background. The event was over.

  Greene thought he had done comparatively well, taking a bit of the edge off the press. But Melfi’s face afterward told him something else again.

  “They’re gunning for you,” he whispered as they walked inside. Greene was heading for a lunch meeting with the Army chief of staff.

  “When have they not?” asked Greene. “Don’t worry. The impeachment vote was bullshit. The Senate will never vote to impeach.”

  “What if Perry goes public with his opposition — and what we�
�ve done?”

  “We haven’t done much of anything yet.”

  Melfi didn’t comment. Even Greene understood that was the sort of lie he’d never get away with, and must not repeat in public. Not only had the U.S. supplied weapons to Vietnam illegally — shades of the Iran-Contra affair that had nearly brought down the Reagan presidency — but Greene had also authorized advisors and covert action to help the Vietnamese.

  Since giving aid to the Vietnamese was specifically prohibited by law, it could be considered a “crime” as specified by the Constitution under the article covering impeachment. But putting U.S. troops in harm’s way — which wasn’t technically covered by a law — would certainly resonate more with the public. And that made it much more dangerous.

  Even after having been presented evidence that the Chinese had provoked the war, public sentiment was running very high against the intervention. Most people didn’t understand how much of a threat China actually represented. Nor did the American public feel particularly close to Vietnam.

  “All right, Ray, just keep up your good work,” said Greene, patting him on the back as they approached the stairs. “I’ll try not to make it any harder than necessary for you.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” said the press secretary weakly. “I’ll do my best.”

  3

  Aboard USS McCampbell, off the coast of Vietnam, southwest of Beibu Wan

  Commander Dirk “Hurricane” Silas steadied himself against the rail of his destroyer, taking a deep breath of the night air. McCampbell rolled lightly on the sea, the gentle waves belying the ferocious storm she had so recently weathered.

  Silas himself was at peace, content if tired after several days of confrontations not only with the weather but with the Chinese. He had been playing cat and mouse with a Chinese cruiser and a smaller ship, finally succeeding in driving them away. In doing so, he had driven off a small flotilla of disguised merchant ships, which had hoped to land Chinese troops in the Vietnamese port of Haiphong. All without firing a shot.

  Much to his chagrin. Silas would have liked nothing better than to have sunk the lot of them.

  He could have, too. His Arleigh Burke class destroyer was equipped with a variety of weapons which would have taken the cruiser and her escort down in seconds. From the five-inch gun at the bow to his Tomahawks, all of his arrows were superior to what the Chinese mounted. If attacked from the air, he could send a dozen SM6 ERAMs — extended range RIM-174 antiair missiles — against the enemy. These were true silver bullets, as effective as any weapon in the world against cruise missiles. Just behind them were SM2s and SM3s — Standard Missiles — which could handle anything from a fighter to, in the SM3’s case, a ballistic missile. His Phalanx CIWS would mop up any “leakers” that made it past the other defenses. (CIWS stood for Close-in Weapons System — the Navy loved abbreviations, even prosaic ones.) Meanwhile, his SM2s and Evolved Sea Sparrows could sink a surface ship whether in sight or over the horizon, while his torpedo tubes could launch a barrage of Mk 54 torpedoes against any submarine no matter how deep or shallow the water.

  In short, Silas commanded a ship that had the capabilities of an entire World War II task force. And he was aching to use it.

  He paced along the deck. By all rights he should be sleeping; the ship was squared away, and he hadn’t had more than a catnap in several days. But he loved to walk his ship at such hours; loved the feel of it beneath his feet, the touch of metal or, better, rope against his hands.

  This was the time of day when he felt most like a throwback, most like a captain at sea two hundred years before, his own man, his own law and force.

  Today’s captain was anything but. A thousand masters tethered him: his destroyer squadron, COMNAVSURFPAC, CINCPAC, PACCOM, the Pentagon; the White House — Silas suspected even the post office had some part in overseeing his actions.

  Fortune favors the brave was his ship’s motto. They were words to live by, no matter what strings were wound around you.

  The commander moved down the deck toward the ladder. The Chinese warships were now some ten miles away, no doubt trying to come up with a plan to unbruise their egos.

  Sooner or later they would try something else. Silas and his ship would rise to the occasion once again.

  He’d even sink the bastards, if Washington would let him.

  Hell, maybe if they didn’t.

  4

  Jersey City

  Jing Yo floated in the water, oblivious to the present, unaware of the past. He moved only with the tide, unbreathing, unfeeling.

  His lover was with him. Hyuen Bo lay entangled against his side, drifting as he drifted. Their past was a blank, their future nonexistent. The soft curve of her breast against his chest, the fold of her hip against his stomach — these were the only things he could feel. These were the only things that were real as he floated, his brain dancing in the glowing infinite.

  And then the infinite was no more. The milky white above him began to crack, becoming jagged. The blue below him no longer supported him. As it gave way, Jing Yo found himself floundering, desperate to save himself. He reached his hands up, trying to pull against the waves that were suddenly surrounding him.

  As he struggled, he realized Hyuen Bo was gone. He reached for her, desperate to save her, but his fingers failed to find her. He let himself fall below the water, thinking she was there, but the water, angry and black, was empty. He kicked and flailed his arms. He shouted. Jing Yo groped but couldn’t find her.

  “You have been away for a very long time,” said a voice above him. “For very long.”

  He opened his eyes. Jing Yo found himself in a small room, the walls close. The place smelled of vegetables cooking.

  “Do you remember?”

  It took a moment to focus. A short man, Chinese, was standing next to him. He was familiar, though Jing Yo couldn’t place him at first.

  One of the monks who had trained him? One of his military commanders?

  Neither. He wore Western-style clothes and stood stoop-shouldered. He smelled of cigarettes.

  “You were taken from the water,” said the man. “Do you remember the attack on the bridge?”

  “With the grenade,” said Jing Yo.

  He remembered holding the launcher. He was trying to assassinate the American scientist. Jing Yo had followed him all the way from Vietnam, assigned to prevent the scientist from testifying at the United Nations.

  His name?

  Jing Yo couldn’t remember.

  “Where is Hyuen Bo?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Hyuen Bo? The girl.”

  Jing Yo’s memory came back in a rush. Hyuen Bo was dead, killed in Vietnam, murdered by the Americans as they escaped with the scientist.

  Murdered.

  He saw it again, saw it happening. She was an accidental victim of war — her death was as much his fault as theirs.

  Anguish overpowered him. Jing Yo closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the bed, overwhelmed. He tried to cry but could not.

  The man left him alone, for how long he couldn’t tell. It could have been days, it could have been bare minutes. Finally, Jing Yo opened his eyes and the room smelled of perfumed sweet tea.

  The man was back.

  “For your wounds,” he told Jing Yo, holding a small cup out to him.

  Jing Yo pushed himself up in bed. He was covered in bandages. He didn’t remember any of the blows that had caused these.

  “You have a remarkable body,” said the man. “Much energy.”

  When he said energy, he used a Chinese word that could be interpreted to mean “way” or “direction”—an expression peculiar to the monks Jing Yo had studied with as he learned the Shaolin path.

  “You are the tailor,” Jing Yo told the man. “You helped me before.”

  The man’s eyes danced for a moment. Then he handed Jing Yo the tea.

  “Drink.”

  * * *

  Later that day, Jing Yo felt s
trong enough to get out of bed and explore his surroundings. His body was quite stiff — his calves felt almost as if they had been broken in half, and his hip ached with every step — and just to move felt like an accomplishment.

  Outside the room, Jing Yo discovered a short hallway. The door to the room next to his was very similar. There was little furniture, only a simple bed roll on the floor and a dresser. A small shrine was atop the dresser, studded with objects that had meaning only to the person who had arranged it.

  Jing Yo studied the arrangement of rocks and bits of plants, then turned his attention to the broken butterfly wing at the right side of the ensemble. It looked as if it were randomly placed, a remnant haphazardly tossed on smooth granite pebble. But nothing here was random.

  The broken butterfly. Distraught beauty.

  Lost love.

  Jing Yo left the room and found the bathroom. He decided to take a shower. When he was finished, he sat on the edge of the tub for a while, breathing in the fading mist of the hot steam. Then he got dressed, and went back into the house.

  The tailor was waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting at a brown table made of tin. It was old and battered, but its simple lines filled the space perfectly.

  “You are hungry,” said the tailor. “Would you like eggs?”

  “Is it breakfast time?”

  “It is breakfast for you.”

  * * *

  Jing Yo spent the afternoon doing exercises and meditating. That evening, the tailor told him he was going out.

  “It is not safe for you to be on the street,” the tailor warned. “You must stay in.”

  Jing Yo agreed. Still, as soon as the tailor left, he was tempted to go and take a walk on his own.

  He stayed away from the windows, but from what he saw and heard he could tell that he was in a city. He wondered what was on the streets outside, but he stayed put, not because he was worried, but because he assumed this was some manner of test.

  Until he was feeling better, it made no sense to invite difficulty. Patience was the rule and the way.