With half-lidded eyes, Deng stared at Nung as if taking his measure. “I happen to recall the Arctic crossing seven years ago. You delayed then. Why won’t you delay again at precisely the wrong moment?”
Marshal Nung opened his mouth in anger. Those delays had not been because of him. They had been because of—
The Leader cleared his throat.
Nung glanced at the Leader. A cold feeling crept through him. He’d almost told these men the truth. That would have ruined everything.
“I have learned from Jian Hong,” Nung said. “I will not make the same mistake twice.”
“Sir,” Marshal Kao asked the Leader. “I wonder if we might add one precaution, especially as we recall that you had to prod Marshal Nung seven years ago.”
“Yes?” the Leader asked.
“I would like to send Field Marshal Gang to the First Front,” Kao said. “Gang would report to us—the Ruling Committee—particularly if he sees that Marshal Nung is spending our troops too liberally against the enemy fortifications. Also, if he feels that the Marshal is stalling, Gang could report that to us as well.”
“I object,” Nung said. “Divided commands are a serious impediment to—”
“Excuse me,” Kao said. “I am not speaking about a divided command. Marshal Gang would be an observer only. Surely, you cannot object to the Ruling Committee having its own personal representative at your front?”
“The implications—” Nung said.
“I would feel better if Marshal Gang joined the First Front,” Deng said. “It would alleviate my last qualms and help me to convince our allies. Naturally, we would have to empower the marshal to act in an emergency.”
The Leader drummed his fingers on the table. Very well,” he said. “Marshal Gang will return with you, Marshal Nung. He will observe, and he will be granted emergency powers, provided the need occurs.” The Leader glanced at the others in turn before looking at Nung again. “In two weeks, you will unleash the greatest assault in history, smashing the Americans.”
Nung nodded, delighted at the prospect but wondering how much Marshal Gang was going to try to interfere with him.
-3-
Deployments
Paul Kavanagh ran along the beach, trying to outdistance his guilt. His angular features were contorted with concentration. He repeatedly went over in his mind what had happened in Mexico.
Beside him, ocean waves rolled in, crashing against the sand, with swirls of cold saltwater and white foam reaching for his running shoes. In the water, tanned surfers rode the waves. They seemed like humanoid seals to Paul, moving with such ease and grace. He’d surfed a few times. The freedom of lying there on his board as the water rolled under him…it had been magical, among the most peaceful moments of his life.
The thud of his feet and the roar of the ocean couldn’t absolve him of guilt, couldn’t even hide it for long. He’d abandoned Maria Valdez to the Chinese. It hadn’t been his choice. He hadn’t known the helicopter drone was going to take off with only him in it. He’d thought it would pick up Maria and the last guerilla. There had been three seats in the drone.
Paul wore mirrored sunglasses, but he didn’t bother glancing at the beauties lying on the sand on their towels. Most would have already untied the back of their bikinis to get rid of tan lines. Today—actually, ever since coming back from Mexico—he wasn’t interested in any of these women. Running, pumping weights, drinking beer interested him, anything to exhaust him or take his mind off lifting away as White Tigers fired shock grenades at Maria Valdez, knocking her unconscious.
By phone, he had complained to General Ochoa about the drone. The four-star general had told him he’d look into it. The drone was supposed to have picked up all survivors, not just him.
You don’t leave your own on the battlefield. It was a Marine saying that had long ago been drilled into him.
Paul flung his head to the side so sweat flew off. He kept his thumbs “out.” When you clutched your thumbs with your other fingers while running that meant you were about to flag, to quit. He now forced himself to swing his arms in rhythm and keep his knees up. He was too old to allow himself to get out of shape. If he wanted to succeed at his recon duties, he had to keep in top condition.
Years ago, many years ago, he had arrived in Camp Pendleton for basic training. It was only a few miles down the beach from here. That had been a grueling time for most of the recruits, but he’d excelled at it. While on leave, he’d met Cheri in Oceanside. She had been lying on the beach, one of the babes with her string bikini untied. He needed to call her later this evening. She wanted to know where they were posting him next. He still didn’t know. General Ochoa—
Hey! What was this? An MP in his white helmet stood fifty yards down the beach, waving his arm at him. Several sunbathers had propped themselves up onto their elbows to stare at the man.
What do they want with me now?
Figuring this would be the end of his run today, Paul accelerated. He sprinted for the MP. The initial burst made him feel as if he was flying. He loved it. The sand whizzed by in a blur. He felt like a young god, as if he could run forever. Then it hit him: the long run and the demand he’d already placed on his aging body. His lungs wanted more air and his legs lost their feather-like lift. Paul snarled, forcing himself to run just as fast. It lacked the same effortless joy, though.
Keep it up to the MP. Sprint to there.
Paul did through raw stubbornness—it might have been his greatest attribute. He sprinted past the MP.
“Hey!” the man yelled at him.
Paul slowed and then stopped. He gasped for air as sweat appeared. The cool ocean breeze felt good on his skin. He turned around as sweat bathed his face.
“Paul Kavanagh?” the MP asked.
“That’s me.”
“You’re to come with me, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Is there trouble or am I in it?” Paul asked.
The MP shrugged, which made the strap over his shoulder creak with a leathery sound. “I’m just carrying out orders. I’m to take you straight to Camp Pendleton, to the Commandant’s office.”
“You can’t tell me anything?”
The MP shook his head.
“Sure. Let me get my stuff down the beach.”
“We need to leave right away,” the MP said. “I was told that was to be without exception.”
Paul thought about it and shrugged. He had his key with him. What did a towel and water bottle matter? “Do you want me to follow on my motorcycle?”
“I want you come with me. We’ll have someone else bring in your bike.”
“Sounds serious,” Paul said. “What’s up?”
“Don’t know, just that I’m supposed to get you.”
The MP was young, maybe twenty-one.
“Let’s go then,” Paul said, marching across the hot sand, heading for the nearest set of stairs up to the road.
It was a short trip to Camp Pendleton. He’d been detached from his unit for some time. The last he heard, they were training near the Oregon border. He’d gone to D.C., meeting other special ops members for the secret missions so dear to General Ochoa.
Instead of heading for the Commandant’s office, the MP took him to the base stockade.
“You didn’t tell me I was under arrest,” Paul said.
“You’re not.”
“Then why—”
“Security. We’re to keep you safe.”