"Hurry," Yuri murmured. "I do not know how much time we will have."
I stared at them again, looking for some indication that this place was what Yuri claimed it was. The faces were undoubtedly Asiatic, probably Chinese. Still, the facial features were well within the range of physiognomy demonstrated by the Vietnamese people. I could not be certain ― not based on their appearance alone.
The sun glinted off something pinned to one man's shirt, and I focused on that, straining to make out the details. It was a badge of Some sort, white and plain. There was no lettering visible on it.
Suddenly, it hit me. I dropped the binoculars, handed them back to Yuri, and said, "Let's go. You're right, Yuri. Get us out of here."
Without wasting time for questions, the Cossack led the way. We moved over hills, the sounds of pursuit faintly audible in the jungle behind us. We were running now, crashing through brush as though there were no need for silence, desperately putting distance between us and the weapons behind us.
I panicked, gasping for breath, swearing that I would make this last run if I would do anything in my life. What I had seen was just too vital, of too critical importance for U.S. interests and stability in this region. The knowledge must not die with me, not when so many good men had already sacrificed their lives to get me here.
Finally, we reached the one remaining truck. We jumped into it, fired it up, and were speeding back down the one-lane trail toward Yuri's garrison.
"What did you see?" Yuri asked finally, as he regained control of his breathing. "All my arguments, all my facts ― what did you see?"
I closed my eyes for a moment, recalling the brief flash of light on that white badge. It seemed odd, out of place in a jungle camp, and that was what had first caught my attention. After looking at it for a moment, some vague memory came back to me, and I remembered the last time I had seen something similar.
It had been on an inspection tour of the engineering spaces on board USS Jefferson. Every engineering technician who works down there is required to have in his or her possession at all times one simple piece of gear. It is their first line of defense, their only indication that something might be going terribly and horribly wrong inside the bowels of the engineering plant.
The Jefferson is a nuclear-powered carrier. And what I had seen on my engineering technicians' coveralls, and on the man on guard duty in the compound, was a dosimeter. A small one, the kind a technician clipped to his clothing to monitor his exposure to radiation.
11
I don't think I've ever been as happy to see anyone as I was to see Admiral Magruder. After days and days in the jungle, at first I figured I was starting to hallucinate. You know, like seeing mirages? But I wouldn't have thought that Admiral Magruder's face would have been that high on my list of hallucinations.
By the time I first heard his voice, I was getting seriously worried about Gator. We'd been making progress slowly, but in the last couple of hours he'd started to look like real shit. His face was an odd, green, pasty color and he'd stopped talking. He groaned occasionally, and made it worse by trying not to. I could tell he was hurting, bad, and we needed to do something right damn quick.
All I knew was we were heading south, toward the part of Vietnam that was supposed to be friendly. How much that counted for, I didn't know. Not given the last air strike on Jefferson. Still, it was better than heading for the ocean and trying to swim home.
By the time I decided that Admiral Magruder's voice wasn't some fever dream or nightmare, the possibility that we might not make it was starting to dawn on me. It's not something I'd ever admit willingly, but it was there. But how could I give up with Gator depending on me? I couldn't. So it was one foot in front of the other, stumble, fall, get up, and move on. If we were gonna die, we were gonna do it on our feet.
If it had just been me, I would have stood up as soon as I heard the admiral's voice. But with Gator barely conscious, depending on me to keep him alive, I wasn't going to take the chance.
It was the gunfire that finally convinced me. Not that I needed much more. There is something about Admiral Magruder that is rock solid. It goes through and through to his very core. He can be a nasty bastard if you cross him ― just ask the Chinese, or the Ukrainians, or any one of a number of assholes around the world that he's put down recently ― but if you're one of his, you know he'll come after you.
As the admiral walked toward me, silent shapes rose out of the bushes around me. Strangers, not Vietnamese ― Russians or Asians of some sort, judging by their faces. But their appearance didn't worry me half as much as the knives I saw in their hands.
Before I knew it, Gator and I were hustled into a large diesel truck and headed back out toward civilization. The admiral told us to go, said he had something else to take care of. I didn't try to pump him ― by then, I was too worried about Gator to do anything else but be thankful that we were alive.
When they finally drove back into camp, Admiral Magruder's face was as scary as I have ever seen it. Something had pissed him off and bad. All I knew was I wouldn't be on the receiving end of whatever he had planned.
He was traveling with the Russian-looking guy, the one I'd seen on Jefferson last time we were in the Med. Not Russian ― Ukrainian, I remembered. The details came flooding back in. Hadn't he been the asshole who'd planted the bomb next to Tombstone's cabin? And if so, what was the admiral doing cozied up to him?
And just what were the two of them doing in Vietnam? I knew why the admiral was here. That story had made the mess decks intelligence circuit two seconds after he'd arrived on board. It was a hell of a thing, going after your dad in the jungle, and more than one of us admired him more than we could ever say.
Still, this combination seemed pretty strange. Was there any possibility-?
No. I swore at myself for even thinking it. But stories of the Walker spy scandal kept coming back to haunt me. Now there was a man that the Navy had trusted, had trusted completely. He had access to the most classified material around. He'd had security checks, polygraphs, and every other security measure that the armed forces could dream up to safeguard their classified material.
Yet he'd been a spy. A damned good one, from what I could hear.
Details of other cases nagged me too. The CIA guy that got caught, Longtree the Marine. What about them? Was there any possibility, however slight, that Admiral Magruder could be involved in something like that? Even unwittingly ― hell, it would have to be unwittingly.
But what could possibly have pushed him to those limits? There was only one thing that I knew of ― if the bad guys got a hold of Tomboy. Even then, I wasn't certain he would do it.
Could they have Tomboy? It was possible, I guess. We'd all been flying back-to-back missions, the skipper included. She wouldn't have wanted to be left out of that, and if she'd been flying combat missions, there was every chance she'd been shot down. Shot down, captured, and once they realized who she was, turned into the most heinous sort of bargaining chip. Had that happened?
I studied the admiral for a moment, looking at how intense he was. It was possible ― what else could bring that look to his face?
Finally, I arrived at a decision. Gator wasn't any help ― he was still out cold, although he was getting medical attention now.
I would keep an eye on Admiral Magruder, at least for the time being. At least until we got back to the boat and I was certain that there was no funny business going on. I'd probably have a chat with Lab Rat as well, maybe not tell him directly what worried me, but at least let him know what I'd seen and heard.