Choke Point

“Cunning old prick,” said Sal.

“Silly bitch thought she’d been hit,” continued Aussie. “Well, she had been. Those nonlethals hit hard, mate.”

“You shit,” said Sal. “You—”

“Ah, don’t get your balls in a knot,” continued Aussie. “I found the vial on the floor — guess he couldn’t do everything at once. If he tried to put it back into his pocket, we would have seen that. Anyway, once I confronted him, he ordered me to keep it quiet. If young Mao even suspected it’d been a put-up job to scare him witless, there’s no way he’d’ve told us about the tunnel. Everything was riding on that. Fuck, if we’d —”

“Excuse me!” It was a burly head nurse, and even with the starched white uniform, she looked as if she’d stepped right out of the World Wrestling Federation’s ring after crushing Jesse Ventura. “We’ll not have any of that foul language here, thank you very much. There are children here, you know.”

The SpecFor trio were utterly cowed. Terrorists, they could do. This, they couldn’t handle. “Sorry, ma’am,” they said contritely.

As she left, there was a moment of silence, Sal and Choir feeling guilty for ever doubting the general.

Down on the first floor, Freeman stood impatiently in the phone cubicle outside Emergency, the stiffness in his chest from the impact of the sub’s.50 round against his Kevlar spreading up to his neck and shoulders. He could tell that if he didn’t get something to relieve the discomfort, as the hospital staff referred to pain, he would be in for a Motrin-sized headache. Trouble was, to get a pill in Emergency required a consultation with an M.D. So instead he took a combat vial of morphine from his jacket and jabbed it into his upper arm.

“Junkie!” exclaimed a disgusted young woman hurrying by with an open-mouthed teen. “In the hospital yet. I dunno.”

Freeman felt badly — stupid thing to do — and was about to hang up the phone so he could go and explain, but then he heard Charles Riser’s voice on the other end.

“Mr. Riser?”

“Yes?”

“General Freeman here. You’ve probably seen the news, Mr. Riser, about what’s been happening up here in the—”

“The sub and that other boat, yes. Thank God.”

“Mr. Riser, I hate to fall back on a cliche, but I can’t think of anything better than to say I’ve got some good news and bad news. Well, I guess it’s all bad for you. Li Kuan and General Chang are— were—the same person. Chang being in prison was a lie — just a smoke screen.”

Freeman waited, giving Charles Riser a chance to absorb the shock. It was only seconds, but seemed infinitely longer, before Riser, whom Freeman imagined must have had to sit down, get his thoughts together, replied, “Is — Are they …?” his voice taut with tension.

“He’s dead,” said Freeman. “Shot the son of a bitch myself.”

There was another long pause before Riser inquired, “You’re sure he’s dead?”

“Deader’n a fucking doornail — excuse my Latin.”

“You actually saw him die?”

“Mr. Riser, I saw the scumbag melt. I can go into details if you like, but I’m sure —”

“Please do,” said Riser.

Charles Riser’s next door neighbors were concerned for him. It was late, 1:00 P.M. on the East Coast, and they could still see him, in his tartan robe, roaming around his house, from kitchen to dining room to front hall and back to the kitchen, clutching a large, gilded portrait of his daughter to his chest.

“He’s talking to her,” said the neighbor’s wife. “I think he’s crying.”

“Don’t think so,” her husband said, peering over her shoulder at Riser. “Looks to me like he’s celebrating. Maybe both.”

Marte Price, the embodiment of unflustered professionalism, was becoming flustered. She had just clipped on the Medal of Honor winner’s throat mike — the emergency room a terrific backdrop, as Stan told her — everything set to go, and what did she see? The elevator opening and John Rorke, the captain of the USS Encino, who the White House confirmed had launched the first blow against the PLA’s Penghu garrison. Together with the McCain’s air arm strike, it had forced Beijing to the cease-fire table with Taipei.

As Freeman reentered the room, he heard Marte ask her cameraman, “Who’s the woman with him?”

Stan was busy adjusting the tripod and the focus. “What?” he said.

“The woman with Commander Rorke,” said Marte.

Stan glanced over. “In the wheelchair?”

“Yes, Stan. In the wheelchair. It’s the only one I can see.”

The couple were now over at the admissions desk, obviously ready to check out, he in the stunning white dress uniform of a United States naval officer, she in a flattering, loose-fitting blue silk dress.

“She’s the one who was in the hospital room when we barged in for that interview.”

Marte remembered the occasion. “But that’s not her,” she said emphatically. “That woman was badly burned.”

“She was,” said Stan, adjusting the down angle of the video. “She still is on most of her upper body, but haven’t you been reading the papers? They’ve had photos of her and some of the other burn victims. Pretty impressive, I can tell you — some sort of miracle skin wrap that’s revolutionized—”

“Damn!” said Marte. She had the legendary Freeman on tape, the Medal of Honor winner all miked up and ready to go. And now a naval hero and a medical miracle were about to get away.

“Excuse me,” she told David Brentwood, unclipping his mike and dropping her clipboard.

She scuttled over to the admissions desk. “Commander!” she called out, but she was positively beaming at the woman in the wheelchair. Quick pleasantries were exchanged between Rorke and Marte.

“This is my wife, Alicia,” he said, his pride evident. “And Alicia, this is Marte—”

“Oh, I recognize you,” said Alicia, her smile pleasant but not obsequious — and extraordinarily painful to her, though she didn’t give any indication of it.

Would they be so good as to let CNN do a “quick” interview? Marte asked. “Just a few minutes?” she lied. “I know it would mean so much to the people who—” She stopped as she saw John Rorke looking down with concern at Alicia.

Alicia knew it was her call. Talking tired her — there was so much subcutaneous healing yet to occur, and her face was still so sore that the slightest breeze at times became unbearable. “Fine,” she said. “Where would you like us to go?”

“Over here,” said Marte, and, returning with them to the camera, ever so politely edged Freeman and Brentwood out of camera range. “David, would you be willing to wait a few minutes?” Marte asked.

“Sure,” he said. He felt relaxed for the first time in over six months. He’d called Melissa, and knew he’d be home by tomorrow evening. “I don’t mind. Take your time.”

“Thank you,” said Marte, turning triumphantly to her cameraman. “You see, Stan, things happen in threes.”

Freeman watched her do the interviews, realizing again how people who don’t actually do a job, any job, from gofer to legend, ever understand how much goes into making things happen. He rose to leave, feeling exhausted and slightly woozy from the morphine, but he managed to interject a brief invitation between camera takes. “Dinner tomorrow night?” he asked Marte.

She smiled knowingly. “Last time you invited me out, General, you thought I was too hyper — needed to relax. How did you put it? Rest and recreation. Calming down. Will eight o’clock be all right?”

“Done,” the general replied, and left.

“You see,” Stan told Marte. “Things happen in fours.”

“You ready to roll?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

On the second floor, as the nurse, taking Aussie’s vital signs, finished up and closed the bed curtains, Choir and Sal sat down, and soon the three warriors were busy talking over the mission.