Morton felt a cold chill. "Commander Tse—"
"We will, of course, give you and your people time to withdraw from the AO."
"Commander Tse," Morton repeated, "listen to me! You and your team can't go charging off like a loose cannon! If Washington and Beijing have reached some sort of deal—"
"It is a deal to which the Republic of China is not a party, Commander Morton. Washington has operated in its own interests for decades now. We have learned that we must rely on our own resources to… how do you Americans say it? To stand on our own two feet to maintain our freedom."
"We have the laser designator," Morton said. "It's going back with us."
Tse shrugged, unconcerned. "You Americans are far too caught up with the magic of technology. We will carry on as we always have."
Which meant Tse and his men had all of the explosives and detonators they needed to take down the objective themselves without calling in an air strike, a classic commando op.
"Damn it, Tse, do you think the Republic of China can fight the PRC alone?" Morton demanded.
"As I said, we have been alone for a long time, since the rest of the world turned their backs on us. You, of all people, should know how vital it is to stand up to an aggressor!"
And Morton knew exactly what Tse meant. Bin Laden's Al Qaida, and the War on Terrorism…
"I understand, Tse. But there's a hell of a lot more at stake here than—"
"You do not understand, Commander. No non-Chinese could." And he turned and left the communications bunker.
"What do you mean, there's nothing you can do?" Garrett swung his legs off the hospital bed and sat up… and was immediately sorry he had. He hid the stab of pain, however, and the dizziness, keeping his eyes hard and cold on the pair of Hong Kong police officers standing before him.
The nurse who was with them let out a burst of singsong Chinese, then shifted to broken English. "You no get up! You no get up! You hurt!"
"I want my clothes," he told her. "Please. I need to get back to my… ship."
Submariners always referred to their vessel as their boat, not ship, but the word would have sounded faintly silly here, and Garrett desperately needed to be taken seriously. He looked across the room at Kazuko. She was sitting in a chair near the door, looking pale and worn. He'd only learned this morning that after he lost consciousness the night before, Kazuko had called for an ambulance to bring him to the emergency room at St. Elizabeth's in Kowloon. Evidently, she'd also spent some time arguing security issues with the manager at the airport hotel and called both the American and the Japanese embassies.
Garrett had awakened in the emergency room, feeling woozy, but not that much the worse for wear save for the bruises and a throbbing head. The E.R. doctor, fearing concussion or internal injury, had insisted on admitting him, and he'd been transferred to a semiprivate room.
The two Hong Kong police officers showed up at 0900 hours, one speaking perfect English, the other no English at all. Neither one was very helpful.
Garrett managed to stand up, but a wave of dizziness swept over him. He touched the side of his head and felt blood on the white gauze bandage wrapping it. The nurse pushed past the police officers and firmly pressed him back down onto the bed. "You no move!"
"I no move," he agreed. "But please, I want my clothes." It was impossible to maintain a sense of proper dignity for an interview with the local police while wearing a hospital gown.
He looked up at the policemen and said again, "What do you mean there's nothing you can do? One of the guys who attacked us has a nasty cut, right here." He stroked the left side of his face, showing where one of the intruders had been pistol-whipped. "And his blood's on the carpet in that hotel room."
He didn't add the obvious, that his own blood was there, too. Christ, what a beating they'd given him….
"Sir, I'm afraid you overestimate our resources." The man had a pleasant, richly English accent. He'd given his name as Kuo Jung Wang. "And our abilities. Your attackers are long gone by now. Out of our jurisdiction."
"Attacking an American naval officer has got to be one hell of a serious crime. Don't you think Beijing is going to want to hear about this? They're going to hear about it from the American and Japanese embassies, that's for damned sure!"
"Commander Garrett," the officer said slowly, "it won't make any difference. These unfortunate things… happen."
"What makes you think they are gone?" Kazuko asked. She added something in Cantonese, which made the policemen look uncomfortable.
"As… your friend suggested, miss, attacking foreigners is a serious crime. They will have fled for the interior, where the Hong Kong authorities cannot track them."
"I'd still like to know exactly what the crime was," Garrett put in. "Aside from breaking and entering, assault, attempted rape, terrorist threats—"
"You did say that nothing was taken?" the officer said.
"Yeah, so it wasn't a robbery. They took off when they found my ID and Kazuko's passport."
"They were idiots," Kazuko added. "Their leader just kept going on about me being with a gwailo. They seemed to think that I was Chinese."
Gwailo, Garrett knew, was a Chinese word meaning "ghost." For the past two centuries the Chinese had used it as a term for foreigners, a term translated into English as "foreign devils."
"Is that what this is all about?" Garrett asked. "Racism? They thought she was Chinese and were scolding her for having a date with an American?"
"There are… traditional elements in our society, Mr. Garrett," the policeman said, "elements that are unhappy at the thought of Chinese girls mingling with… foreigners. They may have wished to point out to the lady of the impropriety of her—"
"Impropriety my ass!" Kazuko snapped. "That bastard pinned me against the wall and screamed obscenities into my face. Half of the words he used I didn't even know, which is saying something, believe me!"
"Well, miss, perhaps you just didn't—"
"My Cantonese is excellent, thank you." She added something in Chinese, and Kuo looked startled.
"And what did he tell you that you understood?"
"He kept telling me that I shouldn't mingle the pure blood of the Middle Kingdom with… with gwailo slime. When I told him I was Japanese, he didn't believe me, told me I was shaming my parents, being like that with a foreigner. They wouldn't believe me until they found my passport."
"Officer Kuo," Garrett said, "these weren't just racist street thugs. Three of them were carrying AK assault rifles. The leader had a military-issue pistol. They were organized, and they were looking for us, specifically. I think they got the maid to show them where we were staying and to let them in."
"Yes, sir." He looked thoughtful. "These are… difficult times, sir. Between your government and mine. I suggest you return to your ship and do your best to forget about this."
"That's bullshit! This wasn't political!"
"Can you be certain of that, sir? In my country, nearly everything is political to one extent or another, even if politics are rarely discussed openly. Especially politics of a…military nature."
Garrett was about to reply, then stopped. Those four intruders last night had been military men, of that he was sure. The close-cropped hair, the hard faces, the military weapons… There'd been a discipline about them, too, except for that one moment at the end, when one had accosted Kazuko and been hit by the leader. And even that suggested a military hierarchy of some sort, confirming that the man with the pistol had held rank.