was no war down there, at least not a shooting one, and no one would be watching and waiting … theoretically. The drop zone had been calculated carefully — created from satellite photos that were less than twenty-four hours old. Cloud cover was expected to be adequate. Winds were relatively mild.
Every technical precaution and preparation had been made. Now it was up to him to ready himself psychologically. He went over each step in his mind, looking for human error and unforeseen problems. He shook out his arms and legs periodically to keep his muscles loose.
A crewman came back. “Time, Colonel. Suit up.”
“How long?” “Ten minutes. Skipper said to tell you everything looks on the button.
Moon won’t be up for a couple of hours, weather’s holding, and no one’s locked onto us. All’s quiet, as they say. I’ll be back to test your equipment and give you the heads up. Remember, when you jump, make sure you don’t fall upward. That wild-and-crazy tail assembly of ours can chop you like salad greens.”
The crewman went away, chuckling at his own bad joke. Jon did not laugh.
He hooked his Heckler & Koch MP5K to three rings on the special harness that crossed his chest to hold it in place. He dabbed blacking onto his face, avoiding his wounds. He struggled into the insulated oversuit and gloves and zipped the suit closed. After buckling on the outer harness, he hooked on his two parachutes and attached his oxygen, altimeter, GPS unit, and other equipment.
Getting hot, he felt as if he weighed a half ton. He wondered briefly how troops dressed for full combat could even move and answered his own unspoken question: Because they had to. He remembered. He had been there himself.
Ready, he waited, overloaded and overheated, hoping it would not be long. He was sufficiently uncomfortable that all he wanted was to get it over with. Jump, fall, and land. Almost anything was better than this… even facing the black void outside the AWACS.
“Here we go.” The same crewman was back, tugging and checking his equipment for proper attachment and functioning. At last, he slapped Jon on the back. “Start breathing your oxygen. Watch that light up ahead.
When it flashes, slide open the door. Good luck.”
Jon nodded and did what he was told. As he fixed his gaze on the light, he felt the compartment depressurize. When the light flashed, he slid back the door. As the inky air sucked at him, he had one moment of indecision. Then he remembered something his father had told him a long time ago: Everyone dies, so you’re one hell of a lot better off to live your life now than to look back and wonder what you missed.
He jumped.
It was nearly noon in the nation’s capital, and the president was working at his table desk in the Oval Office. He had received and discussed the contingency war plans of the joint chiefs, from a mere show of force against Taiwan by the Chinese to full-scale invasion of the island nation and the unthinkable — a nuclear strike aimed by mainland China at the United States.
President Castilla leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Under his glasses, he rubbed the eyelids, then he clasped his hands behind his head. He thought about war, about trying to fight a nation of 1.3 billion, give or take a few million the Chinese had probably lost or never counted. He thought about nuclear weapons and felt as if he were losing control. It was one thing to face off against small, poorly armed nations and terrorists, homegrown or foreign, whose limit was to kill thousands, and quite another against China, which had unlimited capacity for mass devastation. He doubted China wanted war any more than he did, but what was the difference between a submarine commander so angry he was ready to fire a torpedo and an outraged hard-liner in a high place with his finger on the nuclear trigger?
A light knock on his door preceded the head of Jeremy. “Fred Klein, sir.”
“Send him in, Jeremy.”
Klein came in like a nervous suitor, eager but apprehensive. Both men waited for Jeremy to leave.
“Why do I think you’ve brought me good news and bad news,” the president said.
“Probably because I have.”
“All right, start with the good. It’s been a long day.”
Klein hunched in his chair, sorting everything in his mind. “Colonel Smith is alive and well, and the original copy of the invoice manifest Monagon tried to deliver to us has reappeared.”
The president sat up like a shot. “You have the manifest? How soon can you get it here?”
“That’s the bad part. It’s still in China.” He detailed Jon’s report from the time he was captured, his escape, and the phone call from Li Kuonyi. “He had to tell the CIA team he was working for the White House, but that’s all. Covert-One was never mentioned. A special, one-time assignment again.”
“All right,” Castilla said grudgingly and scowled. “Now we know Ralph Mcdermid is definitely in the middle of the whole thing. But it changes nothing about the danger presented by the Empress.”
“No, sir.”
“Without the Flying Dragon manifest, we’re facing war. Li Kuonyi and Mcdermid’s people are meeting in Dazu tomorrow morning?”
“No, sir. Tuesday morning. Before dawn probably.”
“That’s cutting it even closer, Fred.” The president looked at his clock. “Brose says we’re down to hours. Our military’s standing poised for trouble. What are you doing now to get the manifest?”
“At this moment, Colonel Smith is on his way back into China. He knows Li Kuonyi by sight, and she knows who and what he is. She might deal with him for asylum in the States.”
“He’s gone? I thought you said two mornings from now in China.”
“Something else came up. I sent him a day early.”
The president nearly exploded. “Something else What in hell could’ve happened that’s so critical that it’s taken your focus from the manifest!”
Fred remained calm. “It’s your father, Sam. And I haven’t shifted my focus. A problem has appeared, and I think Colonel Smith can handle both it and the manifest.”
“My father.” The president felt his stomach plummet. “What problem?”
“I’ve had a report from the prison that they’re moving him tomorrow morning, their time. Our man inside doesn’t know why, but once Thayer’s moved, our chances of freeing him anytime soon get very slim. My team can’t possibly arrive early enough, so I came up with another plan. The trouble is, it’s riskier. The only good thing in this mess is that Li Kuonyi’s choice of location has handed us an opportunity to make rescuing Dr. Thayer less risky. By sending Colonel Smith in early, I increase our chances of success.”
The president was alarmed. “Not at the expense of our main goal, Fred.”
“No, Sam. Never. You know us better than that.”
“You, yes. Smith I’m not so sure about. He went in alone?”
“He won’t be alone, sir, but I don’t think you want to know more.
There’s likely to be a lot of deniability needed.”
“Tell me what you can.”
“We’ve got Chiavelli and a network of political prisoners inside the prison, Smith outside, and some imported private help I mentioned that you don’t want to know about, especially since they helped him earlier.
I’ve poured considerable U.S. greenbacks around, so — barring any more disasters — we’ve got a good chance to break out Thayer successfully.
Then Captain Chiavelli will spirit him to the nearest border. At the same time, Smith and the others will go to the Sleeping Buddha and lie in wait.”
The president still seemed dubious. “All right. Smith has a place to hide all day tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
The president sat for a moment nodding, his mind somewhere else. “What if the whole thing’s been a fraud? A trap? What if there are no illicit chemicals?”
“Given everything we’ve learned, that’s improbable.”
“But not impossible?”
“In intelligence and international politics, nothing’s impossible. Not as long as human beings are running things.”
The president was still focused somewhere far from the Oval Office. “Why does anyone take this job? There’s a certain blind hubris in wanting it.” Then his gaze returned to Klein. “I appreciate all you and Smith are
