He frowned, then curtly lowered his head.
16
Rankin folded his arms as the ship’s executive officer explained to Colonel Van Buren the difficulties involved in sailing closer to North Korean territory. First of all, they had orders to maintain their position two hundred miles off the coast of
“Maybe you oughta let the colonel worry about that,” said Rankin, unable to stand the BS any longer. “He’s done this before, you know?”
The ship’s exec and intelligence officer looked at him like he was a cockroach that had just run across the galley deck.
“We need to be within a hundred miles of the target area,” said Van Buren, his voice smooth but firm. “So we need to be further north.”
“You know, Colonel, it would be helpful if you could tell us precisely
“I don’t know myself,” said Van Buren. “We’re working on it.”
“Generally, we like to know where the hell we’re going before we get there,” said the exec sarcastically.
“By then it’ll be too damn late,” said Rankin.
“We have only the most general idea,” said Van Buren smoothly. “We’re positioning for a rescue mission. If we knew where we had to go, I assure you we’d be underway already.”
“You don’t even know if there’s going to be a mission,” said the intelligence officer.
He sounded like he was making an accusation rather than stating a fact.
“That’s right,” said Van Buren calmly. “Exactly.”
“Colonel, even if I wanted to accommodate you,” said the captain, “my orders are pretty specific.”
“I’ll take care of your orders. Let’s have another look at that map.”
“You’ll take care of our orders?” snapped the exec.
Rankin had listened to all he could stand and walked out of the meeting. No one tried to stop him, not even Van Buren.
When they found out that Ferguson was missing, Rankin had suggested they launch a search-and-rescue mission immediately. There were two problems with that: First of all, they weren’t exactly sure where Ferguson had gone after landing at the capital, and, second, Slott said there was too much else going on in Korea to risk an incursion, certainly not without hard evidence of where Ferguson might be.
Even if they had evidence, though, at the moment they were too far away to get him. The Little Birds’ range was at best three hundred miles on a combat mission. If word came right now that Ferguson was standing on the double-loop roller coaster at
Van Buren at least understood the problem, and had come to the ship personally to get the idiot commanders here to cooperate. Van was an exception to the rule that officers were jerks — the exception that proved the rule. The colonel thought and acted like a noncom, but had the eagle on his collar to back up what he said.
“Giving up making nice to the navy?” said Jimenez when Rankin walked into the officer’s wardroom to see if he could get some coffee. Jimenez was sitting with the translator at a table, going over their strategy for the next interview session.
“The navy’s fine. It’s officers I can’t stand,” Rankin told him. “Where’s Ch’o?”
“Taking a nap.”
“Tell you anything important?”
“Mostly he wants to know where Thera is and whether she’s really OK.” Jimenez smiled. “He has good taste in women.”
“I guess.”
“You don’t think she’s cute?”
“She’d bust you in the mouth again for saying that.”
Jimenez flushed.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody,” said Rankin. “Besides, she’s beaten the crap out of a lot tougher guys than you.”
17
Thera had only just returned to her room from the elevator when the room phone rang. It was Mr. Li, calling on his cell phone.
“Mr. Park would like to invite you to dinner,” he told her. “This evening. A car will pick you up at eight p.m.”
“That would be very convenient,” she said.
Thera glanced at the clock. It was nearly five; she had less then three hours to find a dress suitable for an arms dealer’s first date with a billionaire.
18
Hugh Conners picked up the pint of Guinness Stout and held it in front of Ferguson.
“Look at it, Ferg. Aye that’s a beer,” said Conners, his Irish accent far thicker in death and dream than it had been in real life. “You’ll be wantin’ to drink up now, lad, if you know what’s good for ya.”
“Hey, Dad,” said Ferguson, using the dead sergeant’s nickname. “How’s heaven?”
“Ah, it’s a grand place, Fergie, simply grand. A parade every afternoon, and the taps never run dry. Drink up now.”
“Can’t.”
“Ah, you have to. We have a place saved for you. We’ve been waitin’ a whole long time fer ya, a whole long time.”
“Gotta go.”
“Stay awhile and have a song.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” said Ferguson.
Suddenly overcome with grief, he began to cry.
“Ah, now, there’s a good lad. No savin’ to be done,” said Conners gendy. “Yeh did yer best.”
“You shouldn’t have died. It should’ve been me.”
“A song to brighten your mood.” The sergeant, killed during a First Team mission a year before, began singing “Finnegan’s Wake.”
“Gotta go,” said Ferguson, and the next moment he was awake, back in North Korea, heart pounding and
