Dan lowered his window for a better look. Unlike the demonstrators down by the waterfront, all these were male. Some had beards, which he hadn’t seen on any Italians in the streets. They were dark-skinned. A squad of police, shields and helmets stacked at their feet, were joking and smoking, leaning against a warehouse wall.
The brake lights of the SUV ahead flashed as it reached the throng. As the police yelled at the demonstrators, it pushed slowly through. Some of the crowd screamed back, parting sullenly. Others ignored it, haranguing the gate guards, who stood with gloves on pistols. A reaction team watched from a Humvee. The noise level was building.
Dan pressed the switch. The window was humming upward again when a green projectile hurtled up out of the mob, whirled in the air, and plunged. It burst on their windshield with a crack of shattering glass, spattering pinkish liquid, which, an instant later, burst into flame. His window was still closing as it hit, and some spurted in, filling the cabin with gasoline fumes. Time slowed as he watched the flame outside propagate along the fume-line, jump the gap just as the window sealed, and ignite on his shoulder and in the rear seat.
“Holy shit,” Mills said, hitting the accelerator. Dan twisted away from the flames, beating at them frantically as they lurched forward. They crisped his hair, and a choking plasticky smoke filled the interior. Flailing at the fire, feeling his skin start to burn, he only dimly sensed their acceleration forward, then an abrupt brake that slammed him into his shoulder belt.
A thick white cloud blasted windshield and hood, instantly extinguishing the flames that roared and licked there. Tiny volcanoes of blistered, smoking paint vented gas and then sagged, stiffening as frost coated them. The door jerked open and an icy howl enveloped him, stopping his breath, instantly freezing his skin. But the flames doused as if by incantation. The rush of frigid gas moved on, to blast first over Mills, hunched at the wheel, eyes squinched, then shifting to the backseat, to quell the last stubborn pools of fire back there.
Gloved hands seized his belts, sawed, and yanked. He stumbled out in a gush of smoke and white vapor, flakes of which drifted around him before sublimating into invisibility. He nearly fell, but other hands steadied him, and he coughed hard, his 9/11-scarred trachea nearly closing. He swallowed, and grabbed the mask tubed to a green cylinder someone held out.
“Matt, you okay? — Matt?”
“Okay, sir,” Mills said, sounding shaken, but looking unhurt. “You burned?”
“Just my … mainly my uniform, I think.”
As a medic led him toward an emergency response van Dan glanced back. A steel mesh barrier and a solid line of troops barred access to the base. Red and blue strobes hurtled across still-smoking asphalt. The Italian police were in among the demonstrators, pushing them to their knees, handcuffing them. Some fought back, and the cops blocked the blows with their shields. Black batons rose and fell as, down the narrow street, sirens seesawed and more police vehicles turned in toward the scuffle.
He coughed hard, and sucked another hit of oxygen. If he hadn’t gotten that window closed, the gasoline would have gone all over him. A fucking Molotov cocktail. Was he the target, or just a random victim? His damaged throat spasmed again and he closed his eyes, trying to breathe.
“Sit down right here, sir,” the corpsman said. Filipino, by the look of him. “Got a problem with that airway?”
“No. No … problem.”
Shrewd brown eyes examined him. “Looked like you might have. Just need to have you lie down here, then. And I’m going to give you a little injection, all right? Just to help you relax.”
Still fighting to catch his breath, Dan only nodded.
That night, in his suite, he looked through a book someone had left in the lobby bookcase. It was by Freya Stark, about Rome’s long struggle to maintain its eastern frontier against first Mithradates, then the Seleucids, and then the long struggle with the Parthians … who seemed to be related, in some way not quite clear, to the Pathans or Pashtuns he, Dan, had fought in Afghanistan. The Persians seemed to be involved too, but later in the story.
Eventually, trying his cell every few pages, he managed to get through to Blair. His wife sounded depressed. She’d been fighting the blues for a long time now, after being injured in the Twin Towers collapse. She’d gone through bone infection, burn problems, and trouble with the autografts to her face and ear. “How’s it going, honey?” he said. “It’s me.”
“I know. But why’s your voice so raspy?”
He debated telling her about the firebombing, but decided that would serve no good purpose. His skin still itched where the corpsman had applied an antibiotic ointment. He shivered. After getting badly burned on Reynolds Ryan, and so narrowly escaping from the Pentagon on 9/11, he was really starting to fear fire. “I don’t know. Do I sound different?”
“Maybe not. Where are you now? Italy?”
“Correct. Naples.”
“I’m sitting here watching them start another TV war. Are you aboard your ship? Savo Island, you said?”
“No, I’m at the Navy Lodge. I can’t take over until they relieve the previous CO.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go.”
He lay on the bed, BlackBerry pressed to his ear. The news was on the television, an Italian channel, sound muted, but a long shot panned the length of a beached and helpless warship, lingered on the U.S. flag, then pulled back to show the harbor. A commentator spoke in the foreground, ending with a smirk and a shake of the head. Dan closed his eyes. “So, how’s the ear?”
“Looks horrible, but the swelling’s going down.”
“And the fund-raising?”
“I feel infected after every meeting. But Checkie says it’s got to be done. He’s been a big help. He advises me before every sit-down.”
“That’s good, hon. But I can’t believe you need much hand-holding.” Checkie Titus was her father, a retired banker. Blair was from one of the oldest families in Maryland, and a former undersecretary of defense. Dan didn’t think she’d actually have much trouble raising enough cash to run for Congress, though he wasn’t sure he wanted her to win. That, of course, had to go unvoiced. Like maybe a lot of things between husbands and wives.
“I wish you didn’t have to deploy again.”
“I wish I could be in two places, hon. How about this. Maybe you can take a break and fly over. How’s Crete sound? The ruins of Minos. Or maybe Athens?”
“I’ve been to Athens, but Crete … hmm. That’d be new.” Her voice changed, gained what sounded like anticipation. “Can you let me know your schedule?”
“Not sure just yet. And I couldn’t tell you over the phone anyway. I’ll give you the name of the port-calls guy at Surflant.”
When he hung up he lay watching the muted images flicker shifting shadows on the ceiling of the darkened cavelike room. He hadn’t seen his daughter in nearly a year. Wouldn’t see his wife for months. Neither would any of the others aboard the ship he might shortly call his own.
Why did they do it? When they could all make more money ashore? Be with their families. Have actual lives. Instead, they were part of a crew.
Part of a crew.
Yeah.
Maybe that was explanation enough.
2
The next morning Mills took him to the Spina, a bricked courtyard with a Subway, a Navy Federal Credit Union office, and a Navy College storefront. Admin Two’s long, wide, light-filled corridors smelled of cappuccino. They were floored with glossy white callacatta veined with writhes of cinnabar. The slick hard marble felt strange underfoot; he was used to buffed tile or terrazzo.