CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Charles Riser was going home. Sent home by Ambassador Rogers, who had been his staunch defender at the embassy, more willing than most to “cut Charlie some slack,” as he put it, after the tragedy of Mandy Riser’s murder by Li Kuan’s terrorists in Suzhou. It wasn’t so much Charles’s behavior at the embassy in Beijing, but his unauthorized forays into Chinese officialdom, such as his pestering General Chang, which had resulted in a plethora of complaints from the Chinese. Beijing used the complaints to deflect the U.S. ambassador’s enquiries about why the PLA air force, under the guise of Red-Cross-flagged ships supposedly supplying the people of Penghu with urgently needed food supplies and rebuilding materials, had in fact been unloading more crates of MiG-29s Sukhoi 30 Flanker fighter-bombers.
Charlie was fuming, but in those rare moments of objectivity he forced upon his grieving soul, he knew that the ambassador had made the correct decision for the embassy as a whole.
While waiting for the China Air flight to Seattle via Narita, he took the photograph of Amanda from his wallet. There was something important about actually holding it. Merely looking at framed pictures of her had never been enough. Intellectually absurd, he told himself, but nevertheless it somehow drew her closer. The only photo of her that he kept in his wallet was one of her with their chocolate-colored spaniel. Mandy had called him “Truffles,” because of the dog’s ears. Truffle had habitually refused to surrender a grungy old rag Charlie’s wife had used to wipe the dog down when he’d rolled ecstatically in the piles of bitch-scented fall leaves from the border collie next door. Everyone said it was because of the collie’s scent that Truffles had refused to give up the disgusting old rag, but Charlie knew it was because of the dog’s memory of his wife. Truffles had held on to that rag until the day he died of grand old age, everyone fondly remembering the faint deathbed growl as the vet tried to move it during his final examination. The family, in fact, had erupted in laughter, and it had smoothed the beloved pet’s passing.
But nothing could ease Mandy’s passing in his mind. There was never so-called “closure,” but at least he’d hoped and prayed for the possibility of justice. And now even that seemed lost.
It was meager solace, but Charles Riser had treated himself, paying the substantial difference between the embassy’s economy allowance and first class. It didn’t make being sent home to the doghouse any easier, but at least it allowed him to be miserable in comfort. He did not mind airline food, though as a cultural attache in the foreign enclave of Beijing, it was mandatory for him to voice detestation of airline — and especially American — fast food, particularly at a French-hosted soiree. In fact, it was mandatory for cultural attaches never to offend any other culture. But going home had its compensations.
To hell with the French, he thought now, and their pompous posing as the moral arbiter of European interests. They’d sell their mother for a sou as quickly as Petain caved in to the Nazis. To hell with the whole anti- American lobby and their “root causes” aid and comfort to the terrorists. Only the British and the Aussies had immediately allied themselves with America in Iraq. Even Canada, once America’s dependable ally, had degenerated under what he considered an unbelievably incompetent and fence-sitting anti-American government into one of the undependables, all the time secure under the protective American umbrella. What was it Barzun had said so well? “Democratic civilization is the first in history to blame itself because another power is trying to destroy it.” Well, to hell with them. All that mattered now in his life was seeing Li Kuan and his terrorist legions, who had murdered Amanda, who were attacking America right now, punished.
On China Air’s screens, however, CNN’s “War in America” held little hope, the updates from Homeland Defense Director Hawthorne admitting they still hadn’t found the terrorist submarine. The department had received so many false reports and predictions of the sub’s whereabouts from rumor-rife refugees that, Hawthorne said — sensibly, thought Riser — the only “updates” about the midget sub from now on would be of its “confirmed demise.” Clever, too, Charlie acknowledged as he washed down another of the cerulean-blue Zopiclone pills that would take him out of the savage world, at least for the duration of the flight, back to the happy world of his sweet Mandy.
His recurring image was of her shrieking with delight as he took her on a horse ride along the wide, white strand of Cannon Beach. The breeze in their faces, the white-slashed blue of the Oregon surf pounding down, exhausting itself in floods of lacy foam that swirled about his feet, the gulls screeching, were so real, he believed he could smell the sea as Mandy laughed, urging him on, “C’mon, Daddy, giddy-up, fast twot, faster!”
By the time the flight attendant had begun to distribute the first-class section’s meal, Charles was asleep, smiling, to the unspoken amusement of the attendant who switched off his TV console, the faces of wanted terrorists gone in an instant.
“If only it was that easy,” said the passenger in the seat adjacent Riser’s.
“Pardon?” said the attendant.
The passenger pointed at the blank screen. “If only we could get rid of those bastards so easily.”
It was a strict government policy, adopted by all the airline and other industries these days, that employees not become involved in any “dialogue that might offend specific religious, political, and/or minority groups.”
The flight attendant looked at the passenger. “I’m afraid I can’t comment, sir. Have you ever heard of Cofer Black?”
“No, who’s he?”
“Used to be one of George Bush’s inner circle at the White House, and he said when we’re finished with those terrorists, they’re gonna have flies walking across their eyeballs.”
“I
“I should tell you,” she said, “it’s not on the menu, but if you prefer we have a vegetarian casserole.”
“Fuck the vegetarian. I’ll have the steak. Where’s it from?”
“Nebraska. U.S. First grade.”
“There you go!”
As Charles Riser was heading back to the United States, Commander John Rorke was leaving it on a military transport, not a commercial airline, his thoughts for the moment not on the coming mission but on Alicia Mayne, whom he decided to write.
Dear Alicia,
I hope you’re feeling a lot better than when I visited you in the hospital. I feel a terrible sense of responsibility for what happened to you, wracking my brains for what I could have done differently. My mom and dad were fond of saying, “Everything works out for the best.” Can’t say I feel that way — sure as heck don’t feel that way after the last little while. Seems like the roof has fallen in on us. My uncle Leroi in Panama City (the city in Florida) called the other night on my way to L.A. and said he was a boy when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and after that he grew up thinking nothing worse could happen to America! I guess I’ll never get over the shock of what’s happened since 9/11—so many good men and women lost — and then what’s happened to you. One thing it’s taught me, Alicia, and I guess a lot of others, is that life really is short, and we shouldn’t put things off till tomorrow and should tell people who mean a lot to us just how much they mean to us, before it’s too late.
Which brings me to thinking about you. Truth is, I’ve been thinking about you all the time. I love you. There, I’ve said it. I used to laugh at those guys who said they knew it right away — the moment they saw her, etc. Well, I knew it the day you set foot on the boat. I’d heard about this knockout woman scientist we were going to have to take aboard, and at first I thought, “Right, that’s all I need, a boatful of horny guys and a good-looking woman — I’ll have to walk around with a bucket of water.” And then, like the old Beatle song says, “When I saw her standing there.” Sounds corny, I know, but I hope you can make allowances. I’m trained to run a boat, not write love letters, but I guess that’s what this is — a love letter. I’ve never written one before — I guess that shows — but I wanted to get this down before I get to my new posting. You’ll understand I can’t tell you where it is — except it’s out of the States. Big clue!
I’ve got to hurry this up — we’re about to land and, knowing the Navy, I’ll be expected to get right to my job. It’s true, Alicia. I’ve never written anyone like this in my life. Okay, I’ve had a few girlfriends, some pretty serious, I guess, but you’re the one. I love you, and if you’ll have me, I want to tie the knot. How original is that (!), but I’m rushed at the moment and I have to submit this to the unit censor, it being wartime and all, so I really can’t tell you about where or when we’ll see each other again, honey, but hold tight — God willing, I’ll be back.
All my love, John
