Warshot

was still pitch-black.

“Yeah. Big-time spender,” said Sal. “Let’s go. Briefing in five minutes. We’re outta here in twenty.”

“A mission?” Aussie was sitting up on the edge of the palliasse, the SAS/D teams preferring the straw-filled hessian bag to regular Special Forces foam-rubber issue. Salvini, who had been on the eight-to-midnight watch, was handing him a steaming cup of coffee. “That SEAL outfit,” said Salvini, “one Davey’s brother’s in…” He glanced about to see whether David Brentwood was nearby. “Well, SATINT shows at least one of the two Zodiacs bought it. We’re on standby for assist. And you, sweetheart, owe me and Choir some bread!”

This jolted Aussie more than the coffee. “Hey, hey, fucking hold on there, Sal. Just hold on a mo. This just happened, right? Out of the fucking blue, right?”

“Yeah — so?”

“So this had nothing to do with any friggin’ rumor. You and Williams here made up that bullshit!”

Choir was filling a C-mag for his squad automatic weapon. “That’s right, boyo. We were just guessin’. Playing the odds. There’s a war on, you know.” He smiled across at Salvini, then down at Aussie. “Fact is, Mr. Lewis, sir, you owe us fifteen ‘In God We Trust.’ “

“All right, all right,” said Lewis. “What a pair of bloody bushrangers.”

“He means holdup men,” Choir told Sal.

“I mean fucking con men,” said Aussie good-naturedly. “All right, I’ll pay you when we get back.”

“I’d like mine now, please,” said Choir, giving Salvini the nod.

“Oh, thank you, Choir,” replied Aussie Lewis over his steaming coffee. “Thank you for your wonderful display of confidence in your mate. Think I’m gonna buy it ‘fore I can square accounts, that it?”

“Had occurred to me, boyo.”

“Jesus!” retorted Aussie, fixing Sal in his gaze. “Doesn’t he take the fucking cake?”

“I’d like my ten, too,” said Sal. “Now.”

“Oh, I get it. It’s fucking gang-up time on old Lewis, is it? All right, sticks and stones’ll break my bones but names — I’m gonna report you fuckers to Davey.”

“What for?” joshed Salvini, gathering his kit.

“For being assholes — detrimental to my morale.” Suddenly Lewis remembered David Brentwood’s brother. “Did his brother cop it?”

“Don’t know,” said Salvini. “Can’t tell from the satellite pix.”

“What’s the problem? POE out?” He meant the point of extraction.

“Yeah. Freeman’s HQ says the second team, if they’re still alive, probably hid their kit a few miles upriver, and ChiComs’ve probably found it by now. So if there are any SEALs left, they won’t be able to use the Zodiac to get to the original POE.”

“How do we know they’re still alive?” asked Lewis.

“We don’t. But we will if the bridge goes,” chipped in Choir. “Make one bloody great splash for a satellite picture, it will.”

“A satellite’ll be overhead, then?” pressed Lewis.

“Don’t know,” said Choir. “We’d probably find out via Chinese underground radio, anyway. Same outfit in Harbin that put us in the know about the bridge.”

“Yeah,” added Salvini. “They tell us the poor bitch who passed it on to us is now in a Harbin lockup.”

Choir made a face. “Chinese jail. Wouldn’t change places with her, boyo.”

“Well, she’s not goin’ to be much friggin’ good there,” said Lewis. “She’s not gonna see whether the bridge goes down or not from fuckin’ Harbin.”

Sometimes Salvini got teed off with Aussie’s insensitive streak. Still, it also was what made him a good man in a tight spot.

“No,” agreed Salvini. “But Choir’s right. We’ll hear through the Harbin underground if anything happens in Nanking.”

“So what’s the plan?” said Lewis, draining the coffee. He saw David Brentwood come in. “Sorry to hear about your brother, mate.”

David nodded. The fact was, he was trying to push any thought of Robert out of his mind by thinking only of the plan. That it was family made all the difference, but it couldn’t make any difference. If you were going to let it get in the way of a good, clear, standby plan, you might as well withdraw. He motioned down at Aussie’s bandaged foot, the iodine stain now a dark saffron on his left ankle and arch. “You up to it, Aussie?”

“Don’t be bloody silly,” answered the Australian. “Got to help a mate out, right?”

David Brentwood could feel his throat constricting with emotion. The simplicity and spontaneity of the Australian’s response to go so willingly into danger — though it was the same quality he himself had — momentarily threatened to overwhelm him. It was an unspoken pride they all shared, and he wondered whether anyone outside could ever fully understand. But perhaps they did. It had often struck David that there was many a civilian in the suburbs of America who, like the Chinese underground, carried on an everyday life with an unspoken commitment — to an aged parent, a handicapped child — with the same kind of devotion, and no one knew what it took. He thought of what his brother Ray had gone through after being so terribly burned aboard the USS Blaine; of his own wife, Georgina; and Robert’s wife, Rosemary. And his sister Lana, still bound to La “Creep” Roche. They, too, had to cope with unspoken fears and the absence of loved ones.

“Standby plan is this,” explained David quietly. “If we get a go from Freeman, we’ll be flown — Mach-plus transport — to the carrier Salt Lake City. It’s moving in as close as possible to the coast. Then we go into the area north of Nanking under the radar screen via a Pave — one of the two that took them in. But we don’t go for the actual assist unless we get an emergency call sign. No call sign, we assume they’re all dead.”

“What is it?” asked Salvini.

“Mars.”

“No,” said Salvini. “What’s the assist?”

“STABO.”

Choir Williams shook his head at the acronyms the bureaucrats had thought up. STABO technically meant “stabilized tactical airborne body operation.” And like most military acronyms, it made it all sound banal and straightforward, like taking the bus, the danger obfuscated by the bloodless officialese.

“Well hell,” said Aussie, “we weren’t planning anything for today, were we?” He looked around.

“I’d rather be playing football,” said Choir wryly, adopting Aussie’s tone, knowing that no matter what they said, David Brentwood would feel badly about them all being involved in the mission, figuring that in a way they were doing it as a favor for him, inadvertently making him feel responsible.

“Football!” said Aussie, a mock sneer on his face. “D’you mean real football, Choir? Australian rules?”

“Australian rules?” echoed Choir, looking bemused at Salvini and David. “Now there’s a contradiction in terms.”

“Don’t be so fucking rude!” said Aussie, picking up the mags for his 7.62mm mini and turning his attention to David Brentwood. “How many of us, Davey?”

“Four,” answered David. “I’m going, but if any of you don’t—” He stopped; the others were already picking up their gear.

“Maybe they won’t need an assist,” said Salvini.

“Right!” said Aussie.

“And pigs fly,” replied David, looking straight at him. “Right?”

“You mean Welshmen?” said Aussie. “Oh yeah — they fly all the time.”

“I hope we don’t have to go in,” said David. “I mean, I hope they get the bridge and—”

“They’ll get it,” said Salvini, though knowing he’d fail a polygraph test.

“One for the books, hey, Davey?” said Aussie.

“What’s that?”

“Our mob — SAS/D — helping out the navy. Jesus, they’ll never forgive us.”

“Hadn’t thought of it that way,” said David, momentarily cheered by the Australian’s light banter in the face of the odds.

“Well, you should have, mate. A Pave can accommodate us all, I take it?”