Бlvarez, who seemed more than happy with that, asked if he might borrow the sergeant to speak to his men. Musso agreed, laying a light hand on Gutteres’s shoulder before he left them. ‘Take it easy, son. A light touch is called for. Let Бlvarez do any yelling and butt-kicking that’s required.’
‘Got it, General.’
His radio operator indicated from the command Humvee that he’d established the link to Pearl and Musso exchanged a salute and, less formally, a handshake with his newest subordinate before hurrying back.
‘Admiral Ritchie on the line, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said Musso, as he took the handset. ‘Admiral, it’s General Musso, sir. I’m afraid I have some more bad news.’
Ritchie hung up when he was done with Musso. He didn’t know what was more disturbing, the way the energy barrier had reached out and snatched Major Nuсez when he strayed too close, or the fact that the surviving Cubans had been so neutered by the events of the day that they’d effectively surrendered control of their territory, or what was left of it, to the United States – or what was left of
A terrible melancholy had settled upon his spirit in the last hour or so. He hadn’t noticed it stealing up on him, but having received Musso’s report he found himself in such a bleak frame of mind as he couldn’t recall ever having known before. He could hear an increasing hubbub outside his office as more and more people poured into PACOM headquarters. Hundreds of phones appeared to be ringing, and so many voices competed with one another to get their message through, to have their tiny part of this unfolding nightmare recognised as important, that the normally hushed environs of the command centre reminded him of the stock exchange in New York. He’d visited there with his wife and daughter a few months before 9/11.
‘Admiral?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, a little roughly, pretending he’d been lost in thought about something more than his own personal tragedy. His PA was at the door.
‘It’s General Franks, sir. On a secure line from Qatar. He says elements of the Iraqi Army are leaving their entrenched positions and appear to be heading towards the border with Kuwait.’
Just for a second Ritchie thought his heart might have stopped. Then he realised it had simply jumped. It felt as though it had gathered itself up and tried to leap right out of his chest. He felt momentarily dizzy and covered it by nodding as he leaned back in his chair. ‘Patch him through, Andrew, if you would,’ he said quickly. ‘Any other good news?’
‘The Israelis have moved extra units into the Gaza Strip,’ Captain McKinney reported. ‘A street party there got out of hand and turned into a riot. One of their guys got shot trying to close it down.’
‘A street party?’ Ritchie couldn’t keep the dismay out of his voice.
‘They’re breaking out all over, sir.
‘You mean, big Muslim populations.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. Patch General Franks through to me here.’
Ritchie had a few seconds alone before Tommy Franks came on the line.
12
MV
‘Shoeless fuckin’ Dan,’ spat Pete, with no joy in his voice at the arrival of such an old, esteemed colleague.
‘And all of his little toes,’ said Mr Lee, shooting a wide, gap-toothed grin at Pete. To add to the effect, he raised one eyebrow and winked. A most disconcerting sight. ‘Flippant humour, Mr Pete? To ease tensions before confrontation.’
Pete forced a wan smile in spite of himself. Shoeless Dan was no laughing matter. The dude dealt in some high-octane villainy. Word was, he’d once filled the hold of a Liberian freighter with a couple of hundred orphans for the Chechen maf. Unspoilt children paid off at the same dollar-per-kilo rate as good heroin, if you could get them into the right wholesale chain. Dan denied it, of course, but not all that strenuously. It added to his mystique – which he needed, given the incurable fungal infection that had turned his feet into putrescent, oozing slabs of meat. The things were grotesque, as big as footballs when they really swelled up, and never smelling any sweeter than a rancid wheel of Spanish cheese. He knew his boats, though. And he knew the smuggling biz.
‘Flippant humour, Mr Lee,’ Pete echoed with a nod, while watching the trio of go-fast boats split up and peel off to come at the yacht from opposite sides. ‘Does Chinese culture even do flippancy?’
‘Mr John Woo, yes. Central Committee of Communist Party, not so much.’
‘Who is the more Confucian, then?’ asked Pete, following Dan’s boat through a pair of binoculars.
‘Not Confucian,’ Lee replied, raising both eyebrows and positively beaming at his skipper with all of his remaining teeth on show, ‘just confusing.’
His punchline delivered, the old Chinaman held up a hand in triumph. Pete allowed himself a genuine smile that crinkled the net of lines at the corner of his eyes as he smacked out a high five. It might well be the last smile of his life.
‘Mr Lee, John Woo doesn’t know shit about Chinese action heroes if he doesn’t know you… Now, let’s deal with this shoeless fuckwit, shall we? I won’t have his stinky fucking plates of meat oozing and peeling all over my new
