“This murderous assault,” she went on, “would, of course, be unconscionable no matter where it occurred. However, it’s all the more disturbing because the site is Hong Kong, which is of crucial importance to the economic well-being of the entire Southeast Asia region. The wanton massacre of the Lady of Leisure is certain to rekindle the doubts felt by many nations regarding the trustworthiness of China’s pledge to honor the provisions of the Sino-British Agreement of 1985. The massacre of the passengers on Lady of Leisure represents an unprovoked act of aggression so extreme it eclipses even the student killings in Tienanmen Square. It…”
She realized T’ing was coming to his feet, rising as slowly and inexorably as the mercury in a thermometer. She fell silent, surprised by an act of rudeness she’d come to expect of the Cuban and Libyan representatives, but never of the Chinese.
When he had everyone’s attention, T’ing said, “Your passion about this matter is understandable, Madame Ambassador. However, the fact that an atrocity occurred in the vicinity of the People’s Republic of China does not automatically mean we are responsible.”
Wexler remained silent.
“The People’s Republic of China denies any knowledge of, or involvement in, the act of piracy and murder you describe. We remain completely committed to the agreement under which the illegally annexed Hong Kong territories were returned to our control.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the attack upon the American yacht was not, in fact, carried out by personnel or equipment from the People’s Liberation Army. Major General Wei Ao, the officer in charge of the Hong Kong garrison, assures us that all PLA personnel and equipment were accounted for on the evening in question; the records supporting this claim are available for anyone’s review.”
Wexler knew that the value of such documents was equal to the ash they would make when burned. “What of the witnesses, Mr. T’ing?” she asked coldly, refusing to sit.
T’ing’s eyes shifted her way briefly, then back to the table at large. “We believe that this incident was the result of an illegal narcotics transaction. We know that one of the guests aboard the yacht, Pablo Cheung, was a notorious racketeer and drug dealer in Macau; Macau itself, yet another illegally sequestered fragment of Chinese territory, is a haunt of gangs and gangsters as terrible as America’s own Chicago or New York. As for your witnesses, Madame Ambassador, by your own admission one of them is a very frightened and no doubt shocked young man, who might or might not have himself been involved in the narcotics activities aboard the yacht. Perhaps he really thought the attackers were in military equipment, perhaps he can’t tell the difference — or perhaps he fabricated that detail. How would we know? He has been questioned only by representatives of the United States, who can hardly be considered neutral in this matter. And this, despite the fact that this man is a citizen of China, not the United States, and the People’s Republic has repeatedly asked for his return.
“As for your other so-called witnesses, they are fighter pilots of the United States Navy… and I doubt I need to remind anyone at this table that no one is quicker to look for an excuse to involve her military in situations where they do not belong than is the United States.”
Wexler drew herself to her full height. “If you’re accusing the United States government of trying to take advantage of this tragedy to — ”
“There is a word for what you are showing now, Ambassador,” T’ing said. “ ‘Paranoia.’ I have accused no one of anything; I merely recite historical fact. I’m sure the governments of Iran, Iraq, Libya, Korea and many other nations will agree.”
T’ing bowed and sat.
Wexler did not. She continued to recite the official United States position on the massacre, but in the back of her mind, she wondered.
T’ing had interrupted her. Stood up and cut her off. For him, that was the equivalent of hysterics. Either that, or he wanted her to think he was hysterical.
No. After all these years as an ambassador, she’d learned to trust her instincts. Something was very wrong here, beyond even the murder of one hundred and sixteen innocent people. As awful as the massacre had been, there was some deeper work going on. Of course, the disguise of one motive behind another was business as usual for the Chinese, who were steeped in the teachings of the semi-mythical Chinese military philosopher Sun Tzu: “All war is deception.” But the Lady of Leisure massacre seemed to be more than mere sleight-of-hand to mislead an international audience. If even T’ing was out of the loop…
What was going on in China?
“Looks like war to me.”
Petty Officer Jackson Ord waited a moment, then pulled his head out of the small compartment set into the side of Tomcat 304 and saw that one of the tow tractors used to haul planes around the hangar had pulled up next to him. Behind the wheel sat Petty Officer Orell Blessing, a Vipers ball cap perched on his red head. Jackson didn’t want to talk to Orell, far less listen to him, but what could he do? He longed for the last few days, when Orell had been gone on leave to Hong Kong.
You didn’t ignore Orell Blessing. Didn’t kid him about his name, either. Orell was six and a half feet tall, no matter which way you turned him. Barely made it through the passageway doors. Rumor was he could carry five tie-down chains in each hand, one hooked over each finger… and those chains weighed twenty-five pounds apiece.
There were a lot of terrific things about the Navy — good, regular food; clean rooms; good work; more money than he could spend — but Orell Blessing was not one of them. He was one of those white-on-white dudes who, under all the grinning and back-slapping, really didn’t believe that the Confederate Army got its ass whupped in the Civil War. Suspected the blacks would all come creeping back to their slave cribs any time now. Navy was full of dudes like that, but most of them you could ignore. Not Orell.
The only time Jackson felt belittled by having greasy hands, by being a junior petty officer in the U.S. Navy, was when Orell chugged up on his tow tractor.
But right now, Orell wasn’t looking at him; he was staring across the hangar bay at the three rows of body bags and chunks of blasted, burned fiberglass lined up there. What was left of yesterday’s “incident.” People said the morgue couldn’t hold all the bodies and shit; it had reached its limit. So they put that stuff in here, the way they used to lay the dead out in the parlor back home, for people to pay their last respects. Except these bodies were in black bags, and had no relatives on the ship. Seemed like bad luck, having them there.
Not that he’d say any of that to Orell. He glanced around to see if his shift supervisor, Petty Officer Rinaldo, was in sight. Wasn’t. That figured; guys who outranked you weren’t ever around when you needed them. And Orell never came around when Jackson was with any brothers, either. Wiping his hands on a rag, Jackson said in a carefully neutral voice, “I don’t got time to talk to you right now, man. Busy with this hydraulics line.”
“Don’t got time to talk to me, eh?” Orell said, grinning, and winked. Guy came from West Virginia white trash, got dumped out of his division for shit details all the time, couldn’t even qualify as a Plane Captain, but acted like he had some degree from Harvard. “Got lots of time to fix that baby gonna drop bombs on your yellow brothers though, right?”
“What you talkin’, man?”
“What I talkin’? I talkin’ look around you. I talkin’ pay attention. We got us lots of airplanes and bombs here. And now we’re gonna use ’em, and guess what? Not one of ’em’s gonna land on whoever shot up that yacht. We don’t even know who those people were.”