Shock of War (19 page)

“I can sink them.”

“Dirk, why do you give me a hard time?”

“Because you know and I know they should be sunk if they're Chinese.”

“Even if I agreed with you—which I'm not saying I do—that isn't the admiral's order. You board them under UN sanction 2014-3-2 and search them. All right?”

“What if they don't want to be boarded?”

“We'll deal with that when we get to it. The admiral will want you to be in communication at that point anyway.”

“Doesn't trust me?”

“You're busting my chops.”

“You've been ashore too long, Tommy.”

“I'm not disagreeing with you. Contact us every hour to let us know what's going on.”

No way,
thought Silas. But he didn't say it.

“Are our carriers moving in my direction?”

“Not at the present time,” said Mortez. “Everything else is staying near Taiwan. You're on your own. You don't think you can handle it?”

“I can handle it,” said Silas. He reached for the kill button. “
McLane
out.”

11

Hanoi

Zeus woke to a buzz of voices.

Nurses, doctors, and attendants flitted around his bed. He had trouble opening his eyes. When finally they opened, the light was so intense he had to close them again. He gasped for air, struggled, then breathed as if for the first time.

When he finally managed to keep his eyes open and focused, he found General Harland Perry standing next to his bed. To the general's right was Melanie Behrens, the American ambassador to Vietnam.

“Major, are you with us?” asked Perry.

“Sir, I'm good.”

“Glad to hear it.” Perry gave him a broad smile. “Doctors claimed you'd sleep for a month.”

“Nah, I'm awake.”

“Maybe you should rest,” said Ambassador Behrens. “They said you were dehydrated.”

Zeus pulled himself upright. He felt a little woozy.

“How's Major Christian?” he asked.

“Already checked out,” said Perry.

No way Zeus was staying in bed now. He looked around the ward. It was a large room with space for about a dozen beds. Those across from him were packed closely together, the space between them barely enough for a nurse or doctor to edge into. His own bed had three times as much space around it—a gesture toward VIP status, he guessed.

Little else about his immediate surroundings could be considered exclusive, however; there were no monitors, and the saline drip was hung from the ceiling by a thin metal chain, which ended in a blunt, oversized fishhook. There were carts of equipment parked near the foot of the bed next to him, and more extensive equipment a little farther down to his left.

“General, the Chinese have tanks on the border,” Zeus told Perry. “They're ready to come across. They must already be across. There was a bunker…”

“We know all about the bunker,” said Perry. “And the fuel accident.”

“It wasn't an accident,” said Zeus.

“Major, I believe you are mistaken,” said Behrens. “You may have a fever. You are in no position to know what is happening on the Chinese side of the border.”

Behrens was a small, petite woman; barely five foot. But she had the voice of a tigress, sharp and commanding. It brooked no discussion, let alone argument.

Perry smiled down at him.

“See you when you're rested up,” said the general, starting away with Beherns.

“I'll be in soon,” said Zeus.

When they were gone, he took stock of his situation. He pulled up the tight pajama shirt they'd dressed him in. The left side looked fine, but there were several large welts on the other. Oddly, he felt pain only on the right side.

A mystery of medical science.

His right knee felt a little funny. It was slightly swollen, but not really painful. There were numerous scratches and tiny cuts along his lower legs, and his arms looked like they were crisscrossed with graffiti.

All things considered, he was in good shape. The only possible complication was the bag of saline hanging from the ceiling. Zeus looked at the needle taped into his arm, then followed the rubber tubing back up to the bag. The drip wasn't surging through his body—obviously they'd given it to him because they thought he was dehydrated, a problem that could have been solved by just giving him a few gallons of water, for cryin' out loud.

The easiest way to deal with these things was quickly: he pulled off the taped bandage holding the tube in place, then, with a good tug, removed the needle.

Saline poured all over his hand, running down to his arm. He swung his legs off the bed and got up, a little unsteadily. His head cleared as he tied the tube in a knot.

He couldn't get it quite tight enough to stop running. He reached the tube up over the bag, hooking it into the chain. Gravity 101, but he was quite proud of himself for realizing it.

Now where were his clothes?

One of the nurses rushed over as he looked for them at the end of the bed. He didn't understand what she was saying, but knowing the exact words was unnecessary; she was speaking universal nurse-patient language, saying something roughly along the lines of:
What are you doing out of bed?

“Hey, I'm okay. Thanks,” Zeus told her.

She looked at him with the outraged stare nurses are trained to use on noncompliant patients. Zeus had seen that stare plenty of times from his mother, herself a nurse, so he simply smiled.

“You have any idea where my clothes are?” he asked.

The nurse threw up her hands, adding gestures to her verbal admonitions. She pointed at his arm where the IV had been.

It was bleeding slightly.

“You could give me a bandage,” said Zeus. He pushed down the pajama sleeve to staunch the bleeding.

“What are you doing from bed?”

Zeus looked up and the met the green eyes of the most beautiful woman he had seen in years, if not his entire life. Her dark-skinned face was framed by black hair that was pulled back behind her head into a long ponytail. Her bleached white smock hung loosely off a narrow frame over baggy blue pants. A stethoscope was strung around the back of her neck.

“I'm okay, nurse,” Zeus told her. “I'll just be going now.”

She smiled broadly. “Oh, are you now?”

“Yeah, all I have are a couple of bruises and stuff,” said Zeus.

“Bruises.”

“I used to play football,” said Zeus. “I had a lot worse than this after a typical practice.”

“Your head?”

“Nothing.”

“Concussion?” asked the woman.

“Nah.”

God, she was beautiful.

“Your knee?” she asked.

“Banged it up, but look.” He put his weight on it, walking out from around the bed. “Not a problem.”

“No pain?”

“Just feels a little weird. You know what's wrong with it?”

“Hyperextended it,” she said. Even her slight mispronunciation and unsteady grammar were endearing.

“You think so?” Zeus asked.

He looked into her eyes. They were definitely the highlight of her face, and her face was extremely attractive without them. The irises were almost incandescent—he'd seen hazel before, but these were more green.

Jewel-like.

So that wasn't a metaphor. It was how some women's eyes really were.

“I am a little hungry,” Zeus told her. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“We could get something to eat,” said Zeus. “I don't know any places around here. I'd need a guide.”

She smirked.

“No no, not like that,” said Zeus. “Just to, you know, show me around.”

He touched her elbow. The slightest frown came to her face.

“Your English is very good,” he told her. “Is your accent British?”

“I went to school in Australia.”

Zeus looked around. The nurse who had scolded him had gone off to see another patient. Two attendants were watching from the far end of the room. The patients in the beds across from him were too sick or injured to pay much attention.

A real shame,
Zeus thought. Every eye in the place should be on this nurse.

“Where are my clothes?” asked Zeus.

“You must be released by the doctor to leave. Then you can get clothes.”

“Good, let's find him.”

“You feel okay?”

“Sure. Absolutely. I could do a dance or something.”

She smiled, this time amused.

Finally.

“Come this way,” she told him.

“I'm Zeus, by the way. Zeus Murphy. Zeus is an unusual name in America. My father was Irish. My mom Greek. Zeus is an ancient god of Greece.”

He babbled on, knowing he wasn't making much sense, but not really caring. Maybe they had doped him up.

A pair of metal desks sat at the end of the ward, pushed together to form an L. Folders and papers were stacked high at the one close the door; the other was covered with small wooden baskets that were filled with rubber gloves and common medical supplies like bandages and shrink-wrapped syringes. A stern-faced man in a pin-striped black business suit sat behind the desk, looking over the material in one of the folders—a patient's chart, Zeus assumed. He was about fifty, and even seated looked tall.

The expression on his face could have soured milk.

“Hey, Doc,” said Zeus. “I'm good to go.”

The man looked up at him. He wasn't wearing a tie, but his Western-style button-down shirt was cinched so tightly at the collar that Zeus wondered how any blood got to his head.

“I'm ready,” said Zeus. He made a motion with his thumb, then pretended to scribble. “Can we sign out?”

The man frowned at him and started speaking in Vietnamese. The woman responded.

“Tell him I'm good to go,” said Zeus. “Right?”

Neither paid any attention to him. Zeus thought of slipping away, but the idea of leaving the woman's side voluntarily seemed … foolish.

Finally the man behind the desk reached to the pile of folders, took the top one, and slid it across the desk. Sighing, he handed the woman a pen. She jotted something in the top corner, and handed it back.

“You're coming with me, right?” Zeus asked her. “For dinner?”

She shook her head. “Much work.”

“But you have to have dinner with me. To eat. For my strength.”

She frowned, but not in a mean way.

“And my clothes,” added Zeus. “You're going help me with my clothes.”

“Clothes are at the desk, the hall end,” she said, pointing. “To the right.”

Zeus leaned out the wide doorway. There was a cage at the end, with a person working behind it.

“I can do that,” he said. “When are we having dinner?”

She tilted her head slightly, looking him over though her gaze never moved from his eyes.

“Please,” said Zeus. “Tell me when you get off.”

“Midnight.”

“That's when I'll be back,” he told her. “Where should we meet?”

“I…” She smiled. “I will meet you upstairs.”

Zeus hadn't realized until then they were in a bunker. They went down the hall, where an older woman sat behind floor-length bars that blocked off part of the hall and a side room. She had white hair, sunken cheeks, and a deep frown. Her arms were covered with large liver spots. Before Zeus could say anything, she got up from her chair, said a few words in Vietnamese, and went into the room.

“She'll get your clothes,” said the woman.

“Your name,” said Zeus. “So I know who to ask for.”

“Doctor Anway.”

Of course she was a doctor, not a nurse. Duh.

“Doctor,” said Zeus, bowing his head.

She smiled, shaking her head—not quite a laugh, but certainly amused.

*   *   *

The matron found army
fatigues about an inch too tight in the crotch and two inches too short everywhere else. But they were the best she had. The clogs she gave Zeus were a little undersized as well, but better than walking in bare feet. Making his way up the large flight of stairs at the opposite end of the hall, Zeus felt as if he were a character in a play—an elementary school play, the unlucky child who had to play a forest tree in a costume a size and a half too small.

He went up four flights, stiff-legged, clogs clunking the whole way. A guard stood at the top of the last flight. He wore a helmet and a flak vest, and stared at the wall opposite him, unsmiling, his hand near the trigger guard of his AK-47. He said nothing as Zeus passed.

The doors at the end of the landing opened into a large, dimly lit space that smelled like damp concrete. Zeus shuffled toward a red light at the far end, where another stairway led upward. The top of that landing was guarded by two soldiers, who snapped to attention as soon his feet clapped on the first tread.

Zeus walked past them into the ground floor of a building that at first glance seemed entirely abandoned. The wide hall before him extended some twenty feet, where it opened into a wide room of desks and low partitions. The overhead lights were off, but sunlight flooded through from the left side of the building. The air smelled like dust and ozone, as if there had been an electrical fire. When Zeus reached the open area, he saw rubble to the right; two more steps and he realized that the far side of the building had collapsed.

A woman in a light-brown khaki uniform stood at the far end of the room. She was talking on what looked to Zeus like a cordless phone. Looking up, she gestured to him, signaling for him to approach as she continued her conversation.

The floor tiles had been freshly mopped. Aside from the crumbled stone that had been part of the building wall, there was no other sign of wreckage or destruction—no scattered papers, no debris or refuse. The desks Zeus passed were immaculately clean.

“You are the American,” she said, still holding the phone. It was a satellite phone, an older model.