Oberg was out of the lice-ridden goatskins too. He had his rifle slung over his shoulder, the one he’d taken off the wounded Han back at the square. Tok had given it back to him. “A fighter needs a rifle,” he’d said. Teddy had cleaned it, and lubed it properly. They’d been able to give him only five rounds for it, but it would do for now.
Ten paces off, squatting in the shadows, Dandan waited. A shadow herself, in the black cloak that covered her from bare feet to crown. That was her name. Dandan. They’d assigned her to him after he’d made clear he intended to stay. Rather to Fierros’s annoyance. Teddy wasn’t sure of her status. Slave? Volunteer? Temporary wife? Hostage? As far as the rebels were concerned, women seemed to be on a par with sheep. She didn’t seem to be Uighur. He doubted she was even thirteen, though it was hard to tell, and they had no language in common. But she looked old enough for the basic purposes. To cook his naan, and keep him warm at night. Beyond that, he was still too weak to be good for much. Although he had ambitions.
He told the pilot, “Tok says they’ll have you over the border tonight. Deliver you to somebody who can get you to the embassy. Couple days and you’ll be back in uniform, dude. And they’ll be counseling you about that beard.”
“You’re really not coming,” Fierros said, not for the first time. As if he couldn’t believe it.
“These guys are pretty hopeless right now. Just small-town bandits. But they could be made into a significant resistance. Cause Zhang some real headaches. Pull maybe as much as a couple divisions out here, if I do this right.”
“You don’t think we’ve done enough? You and me?”
“This war’s not over.” Teddy gripped Fierros’s hand again, then wrapped him in a guy hug. They held it, unembarrassed after all the nights spent cuddling in the mountains. “But you gotta get back. Tell them what we got here, and what we need. Primarily comms, to start coordinating. An A-team, if they can spare one. If not, I guess I can run things for a while. But they need weapons — LMGs, rockets, grenades, ammo. Mines, for the roads. All these guys have is worn-out AKs and some construction-grade explosive they stole. Send boots. Food. Medical supplies. Ballistic vests. Gas masks. Water treatment. But mainly, we need comms.”
Water and ammo and comms, a voice from his past said in his head. Who had that been? Oh yeah. Old Master Chief “Poochin’” Stroud. Never have too much ammo, Stroud had always said. And Let the fucking officers display the fucking leadership. You just make goddamned sure everything’s there when your troops need it, and it all works.
Fierros stepped back, but kept a hand on Teddy’s shoulder. “You really okay, Obie?”
“Yeah — yeah. But hit that ammo button hard, okay? And comms — squirt transmitter, a prick-one-seventeen or the new one, if they can spare one. With lots of batteries, or a solar. There’s a lot of resentment here. Akhmad says if he had the weapons, he could put two hundred fighters in the field next week. Anything they can get to us, air drop, even mules over the border, we can build this thing into a real pain in the ass for the fucking Chinks.”
“What about you, Teddy?”
“Me?” Since his vision on the mountain — or hallucination, or whatever it had been — he didn’t seem to want anything. He, himself, didn’t seem to matter so much. If something was going to happen, so be it. Then he remembered the slip of paper he’d prepared. “Oh yeah. Here, I wrote down the measurements. That’s in centimeters. If they can make me some kind of a brace for my fucking leg, that would be cool.”
“Sure, of course. What else?”
“What else? Oh… a thin-blade knife. And maybe a case of beer, if they’re really… no, that wouldn’t go down with the fucking mujes. Can you believe now we’re on the same side? Scratch that. The beer, I mean.”
The airman scuffed the dry pebbly soil, not meeting his gaze. “I meant personally. You told me about Salena. Your girlfriend? What do you want me to tell her? And that Japanese woman. Your producer, you said?”
“Hanneline.” Teddy took a breath, peering out from under the shelf at the distant mountains. The last of the sheep were loaded. The driver was beckoning.
On the far side of those snowcapped peaks, Tajikistan. But not safety. The war seemed to have spread while they’d been prisoners, from what he was able to gather from BBC World Service on the single little radio the rebels had. The whole world seemed to have been dragged in, one by one, while they’d been starving in camp. And it didn’t seem as if the Allies were winning.
Salena? She was a distant memory. A scene from a film he’d watched long ago.
Hanneline, his mother’s friend, his old agent? He could hardly believe he’d wanted to make movies once. He couldn’t even remember the name of the project now. No. That was all gone. Blown away, like the pollen of the poppies, lost on the thin cool wind of the Tien Shan.
You have always done My will.
There was no such thing as choice. There was no such thing as chance.
Teddy Oberg said, “Just tell them that the guy they used to know is dead.”
23
The house overlooked a creek that ran through a wooded ravine. A brick colonial, with flagstone walks and three bedrooms and a family room in the basement, though Blair and Dan didn’t have children, aside from his grown-up daughter. She’d furnished it from the antique shops she liked to stop at when they drove to Maryland to visit her parents. Other pieces were from her family’s estate, things her mom and dad had let go when they’d redecorated.
It wasn’t as nice a home as she’d grown up in, but it was all they needed. She spent most of her time elsewhere anyway.
“You bad boy,” Blair said. “Go on. Eat your food.” Jimbo preened under her hand, purring, stretching as if his black-and-white body were made of taffy. She didn’t mind talking to the cat when Dan wasn’t around. Actually, he did sometimes too.
The teapot began to whistle. She made a peach momotaro. Glanced at the clock while she waited for the sachet to open. Frowned, then realized the power must have gone out again during the night.
In their bedroom, she dressed. A severe blue suit. Dark pumps. Then clattered down the stairs. They wanted her in the Tank at seven.
She was checking her briefcase when she noticed activity on the street in front of the house. Several people had stopped their bicycles, or held their dogs on leashes, just standing there. Watching her house? She frowned, peering through the curtains.
No. They were watching two people who stood beside an official-looking sedan, consulting tablet computers. A short white woman and a Hispanic-looking man. Both were in Navy blue and gold.
Taking a deep breath, she searched around for a chair. “Not this house,” she murmured. Then immediately thought: How selfish. Do I really want someone else to get such news?
That’s right. Anyone else. Just not me.
When the doorbell chimed she couldn’t make herself get up. Her knees didn’t feel like they’d hold. Finally she groped to the door, pausing to lean on a side table.
“Mrs. Blair Lenson?” the woman, a lieutenant by the two gold stripes, said, meeting her gaze. In unison, a practiced movement, they both removed their hats.
“Um, well, I’m Blair Titus.”
“Wife of Captain Daniel Valentine Lenson?”
She braced a hand on the jamb, feeling, somehow, stronger than she’d have thought she would at such a moment. Or maybe the collapse would come later. “He’s an admiral. Not a captain.” The next second she thought, Why did I say that? What difference can it possibly make now?