CHAPTER 60
The cargo was divided between the two ships. Strapped to steel cradles on the lower vehicle decks, each of the 20,000-ton Roll-on/Roll-off vessels carried the warhead section of an ex-Soviet R-29R nuclear missile — the unofficial (and unacknowledged) payment for China’s support of Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov’s short-lived revolution.
As true owners of the nuclear warheads, the Russian Federation had not authorized their transfer to the People’s Republic of China, but the transfer was taking place nonetheless. In the bowels of two innocent-looking merchant ships rode the technology that would finally transform China into a nuclear superpower. The balance of world power was poised to shift suddenly and (perhaps) irrevocably toward Communist Asia.
In the years to follow, no one would ever be able to prove the details of the illegal transaction taking place on a lonely stretch of shipping lanes in the Western Pacific Ocean. Despite a mountain of suspicion, and an avalanche of circumstantial evidence, no investigative body would ever manage to formally verify the link between the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China and Zhukov. No court would ever bring official charges against the Chinese government or the People’s Liberation Army.
Unconcerned by the growing controversy in Russia, the United States, and Japan, the Motor Vessel
The West would rattle and rail, but the sluggish mechanisms of the international courts would move far too slowly to have any real effect. By the time the self-important fools had finished wrangling with themselves, the deed would be done.
They came from the northwest: six Mitsubishi F-2A fighter jets, screaming through the darkness in three flights of two, afterburners trailing streaks of translucent blue flame less than 1,000 meters above the wave tops. Although no one aboard the
The attack was sanctioned by no court. It was recorded in no log book, and it was not formally authorized by any agency of any recognized government.
Officially, the attack never occurred at all. Unofficially, it happened quickly and without mercy.
Twelve jewel-like flashes announced the launch of a dozen Japanese ASM-2/Type 93 Air-to-Ship missiles. The dart-shaped weapons locked onto the heat signatures from the two unarmed merchant vessels and hurled themselves toward their respective targets.
The darkness was shattered by a dozen simultaneous explosions, as the Motor Vessels
The fighter planes circled the area until the demands of fuel consumption forced them to turn back toward the waters of their own country.
When the sun finally straggled above the horizon, the location was marked only by a scattered field of floating debris, and the rainbow smudge of an oil slick from the ruptured fuel tanks of the
There were no survivors.
EPILOGUE
Whoever it was, would not stop knocking.
Ann Roark grabbed the remote for her stereo and wound up the volume another few clicks. Johan Sebastian Bach fairly flew out of the speakers, the buoyant violins filling the living room of her condo with the brightness and promise that were totally lacking from her life.
The knocking grew louder.
“Go away!” Ann said. She fingered the remote again, and Bach swelled to maximum volume.
The scars on her wrists were fading now, just thin white lines where the razor blades had cut their tracks through her skin. She wondered when she’d have the courage to try again. Maybe she’d get it right this time. And maybe that would finally end the dreams. Maybe she’d stop seeing the fireball in the sky over Pearl Harbor. Stop seeing the faces of the dead strangers she hadn’t been able to save.
The knocking on the door continued unabated.
She would wait them out, whoever it was. She wasn’t going to answer the door.
But the knocking continued, pausing only for brief intervals every now and then, as the unwanted visitor changed up and began knocking with the other hand.
The Bach CD ran out, and the stereo restarted it automatically. Ann wondered if the persistent asshole at the door would still be pounding away when the disc restarted the next time.
She sighed and stood up, trudging to the door as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders. And, in a way, it was.
She left the security chain on, opening the door only as far as the short length of chain would allow. She glared at the dark-haired man outside her door. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.
“What?” she said. “Can you
The dark haired man smiled, and suddenly Ann recognized him. It was Bowie.
“I realize that you don’t want visitors,” he said. “But you know how captains are. We get spoiled. We’re accustomed to having things our own way.”
“So I remember,” Ann said.
Bowie looked through the gap of the partially-opened door, past Ann into her living room. “Brandenburg Concerto Number 3, right? One of my favorite Bach pieces, but I don’t usually listen to it quite this loud.”
Ann turned far enough to point the remote toward the stereo. She brought the volume down.
“Are you going to invite me in?” Bowie asked.
Ann made a face. “Do I
Bowie smiled again, and she saw again that he really was a decent looking guy, in a Boy Scout sort of way.
“It’s not an order, if that’s what you mean,” Bowie said. “And I don’t really need to come in. I actually came to take you out. Let’s go have a drink, okay?”
