foreigners too much credit. Your job was in many ways the most difficult: Getting the arms merchant Inning off our hands in a way that would not hold us up to the world's opprobrium, not annoy him to the point he would no longer do business with us, and with as little harm to our own as possible. And doing it all behind the scenes.'
Nyein bowed his head graciously, then asked, 'Speaking of which, sir, the policeman . . . ?'
The general seemed momentarily aggrieved. 'The one who was shot with an electric gun at the intersection? He died. Congenital heart defect of which no one was aware, least of all himself. Apparently the shock was too much.'
'Ah, that's too bad. Still . . .'
'Never mind,' said the general. 'His wife and children will be well cared for. Moreover, his death validates our innocence. Thus, he died for his country.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I must go down to the sea again,
to the lonely sea and the sky
-John Masefield, 'Sea Fever'
D-112, Hong Kong, PRC
The advent of 'communism' to this former British colony had made remarkably little difference to the running of the place. Trade, enormous levels of trade-especially considering the long recession-bordering-on-depression in which the world found itself-still flowed. Ships were built, outfitted, and repaired. Ships sailed to and from the place almost en masse. Indeed, the level of maritime activity was so great that one ship, more or less, being worked on, more or less, or even modified, more or less, invited little notice. More or less.
The ship, for the nonce the MV Magellan, rang and hissed with the sounds of workers, busily making the relatively minor mods Kosciusko thought he needed to turn a container ship into an assault transport. Under the guise of strengthening the hull, beams were being welded-and here the ship's sole gantry was proving singularly useful-to provide a resting platform for containers which would leave some open space down below. Additionally, another partial deck of perforated steel, sent up from the Philippines, was being welded very near the bottom of the hull. Space had to be left, and new power leads run, for a containerized, seventy-two hundred gallon per day desalination plant, being flown in tomorrow from Santa Clara, California.
And there goes about a hundred and twenty k, thought Kosciusko. But without something like the desalinator, we could never hope to carry so many people for so long. A quarter million liters of bottled water? That would have cost even more and taken up too much space. And that's not even counting predictable losses if we hit any rough seas. Which we will.
The Chinese were also being paid to add in some extra fuel bunkerage. The ship was capable of almost eighteen knots, fast for a merchie, but maintaining that speed cost in fuel. And, since every day mattered, speed would matter and fuel would be used profligately, as well. Moreover, the day was going to come when the ship would be carrying things no customs agent could be permitted to look at. Since customs agents and ports went hand in hand, any of the latter that could be avoided should be avoided.
There were Chinese at work, as well, on the exterior of the ship, painting it in its new colors as the flagship of the new-courtesy of Matt Bridges-non-governmental, humanitarian aid organization, Mobile Emergency Relief for Civilians In Fear of UnLawful aggression: MERCIFUL.
Stupid as shit, Kosciusko thought, though bleeding heart NGO-wise, it's got no monopoly on stupid names. And . . . well, it beats Onward Christian Soldiers, or OCS, which was the first suggestion given. And, thank You, God, ‘Titan Uranus' was already taken.
Then, too, one could read the name as 'Merciful aggression,' and that surely fits the mission profile. And I do kind of like that proliferation of clasping hands, doves, olive wreaths, and whatnot.
Rechristening as the 'Merciful'-though, in fact, no ceremony would take place –would be one of the last things done, the better-if only slightly-to drop off the screens after the ship left Hong Kong.
Three landing craft-LCM-6s-were already enroute to Manaus, Brazil. Two of these were coming from Richmond, California, and one from Seattle. They were expected to arrive there via a Panama registered merchie about ten days after the staff and advanced party landed at Gomes Airport, Manaus, to take possession of the huge tract of jungle purchased for an assembly and training area. If sufficient armored cars arrived to begin training with them in Brazil the LCMs would meet them on the Amazon and sneak them in to camp.
And, if not, we're just screwed, thought Kosciusko. Though there's always highly suspicious fallback position two: buy a couple of turret simulators from the Frogs, if they exist. Not my job, anyway.
Kosciusko had been something of an odd duck in the Navy. 'Duck,' in this case, carried more than one meaning. A former enlisted Marine, Ed had gone to the Naval Academy and elected, at graduation, to enter the Navy rather than the Marine Corps. In the Navy he'd made a specialty of amphibious operations, with a sideline in logistics. This, unfortunately, left him pretty much out of all the more powerful 'unions' within his service. He'd never been passed over for promotion. Still, his personnel manager had been direct. 'Ed, you've got about two years left in. You better find another job.'
Well over fifty now, nearly bald, and with a budding paunch, Ed had been with the merchant service for a while. That had lasted until boredom and the realization that he was a little late for that union, too, sent him into a second, potentially suicide inducing, retirement. He'd been mulching the flower beds surrounding his house when his wife, Elaine, had come out, cordless phone in hand, and said, 'Someone named Cruz wants to talk to you, Ed. Said you know each other from the Pakistan thing. By the way, what Pakistan thing?' she asked, very suspiciously.
'Need to know, Hon, need to know.' That dickhead, Cruz.
Cruz had been considerably more cagey about inviting Ed in than his naval personnel manager had been in inviting him out. 'Whatcha been up to, Ed? . . . Sounds really dull . . . yeah, I hear ya. Hey, why don't you fly on down to San Antonio. Friend of mine has unlimited cases of free beer . . . Yes, Ed, free beer. You'll understand when you get here . . . he might have some worthwhile piecework for you . . . We'll have to see . . . '
***
Though he'd kept his face a blank, at first Ed had been a little skeptical. Then he'd seen the staff at Stauer's place, heard the money being spent, seen the utter seriousness of the Army and Marine types Stauer had collected. This hadn't completely dispelled his skepticism. Indeed, he'd kept it until Gordo-Harry Gordon-had shown him four container ships he'd found for sale or lease and said, 'Pick one and defend your choice to Wes.'
With that, they'd had him hooked. Command the naval portion of an amphibious assault? My so-far-frustrated
