“Grease — ”
“It does suit you.”
3
The Chinese were still there, six miles off the port bow. The frigate was the closer of the two; the cruiser’s captain used the smaller boat as a shield and a prod, sending it close, only to have it tuck away. Right now it was doing the latter, sailing into what its captain probably supposed was safe murk beyond Silas’s immediate vision.
The communicator on the destroyer captain’s belt buzzed and vibrated with an incoming message. The wireless system allowed Silas to communicate with all departments on his ship without having to be tethered to a physical control panel. He could switch from voice or text messaging by pressing a small button, changing channels and issuing simple commands such as “save” via voice.
In this case, the message referred him to a longer transmission from his fleet commander via video; he retreated to his cabin to view it.
Admiral Roy Meeve’s stone countenance filled the screen. The message had been recorded; it wasn’t live. The admiral’s face seemed almost gray. That wasn’t a function of the video mechanism — if anything it cast it a little more fleshlike.
“Dirk — we’ve confirmed now the Chinese have canceled their plan to ship the landing force from Hainan. Continue your patrol in the area. Maintain a course in international waters. Do not provoke or engage. Do not withdraw.”
Silas flipped the video off with disgust and went to find a cup of coffee.
4
The door opened. Josh started to rise, then saw that it was only Jablonski.
“There you are. Ready?” asked the political troubleshooter.
“No.”
“Come on now. You have to have a positive attitude.” Jablonski somehow managed to look disheveled in a bespoke black suit. Maybe it was his purple tie, which despite a perfect knot at the top was a fraction of an inch too long at the bottom. Or perhaps it was the creases in his white shirt, which suggested the pattern of a psychotic snowflake. “You’ll do fine. Senator Grasso loves you. He owes you his life.”
“He owes Mara his life. She’s being smeared, too.”
“We’re not going to mention Mara at the hearing. Okay?”
“Mmmm.”
“How’s the suit? Still fit?”
“It fits.”
Jablonski had had the suit made for him in New York. Josh had worn it for the UN speech; it was still a bit dirty from the attempt on his life before the speech but there’d been no time to have it dry-cleaned.
“Tailor’s father fought with Chiang Kai-shek,” said Jablonski. “Interesting life story. Long struggle.”
The door opened again. One of Grasso’s aides, a young man about Josh’s age, came in. “Ready, Mr. MacArthur.”
“It’s Dr. MacArthur,” said Jablonski.
“Oh, right, I’m sorry.”
“It’s Josh.” He got up and followed the aide into the conference room. It was jammed with aides and seemingly every foreign-interest lobbyist in town. They all wanted to see Josh in person.
Half were undoubtedly spies, Josh thought.
The press was gathered along the far wall of the room. Bulbs flashed and TV lights came on as Josh walked in. He walked stoically to the table opposite the dais and sat down.
Senator Grasso, who chaired the Senate subcommittee on affairs with China — double entendre be damned — sat at the center of the long, courtroomlike platform at the front of the room. He had a grim face — much grimmer than Josh remembered from when they had met in New York. He gave Josh a serious, portentous nod, then leaned back to whisper to one of his aides.
Josh grimaced as a photographer came and took a picture of him. Several more followed. He didn’t even try to smile.
Grasso gaveled the session to order. Or at least attempted to — another senator began speaking immediately, saying something about how he wanted to make sure proper procedure was followed.
“The committee will come to order,” said Grasso, rapping sharply. “These hearings are being conducted to review the President’s request for immediate military aid to be given to Vietnam in light of the gross violation of — ”
The senator on Grasso’s left pulled his microphone forward to interrupt. “Mr. Chairman, I have a request — ”
“Requests will be handled at the proper time,” said Grasso. “The chair will make the opening statement.”
As seen in television reports, congressional hearings seemed at least somewhat organized, with direction and occasional sparks of order. From Josh’s vantage, this one was three-ring chaos, with the senators talking to aides and correspondents at the back of the room doing brief broadcasts. Josh heard the loud clatter of laptop keys; the session was being live-blogged on at least half a dozen sites.
He was completely ignored for a few minutes as Grasso made a statement about searching for the truth, then corralled the rest of his subcommittee into agreement that they would shut up while he swore Josh in.
“Will the witness rise?” asked Grasso finally.
Josh put his hand on a Bible and swore that he was going to tell the truth.
“Absolutely,” he added.
Jablonski had coached him to read a prepared statement that was essentially an edited version of the one he had given the UN the day before. As he sat down, he took it from his jacket pocket and folded it out on the table in front of him. The cameramen rose, poised to take his picture as he read.
“Dr. MacArthur,” said Senator Grasso. “Do you have a statement you’d like to make?”
“Yes, Senator, I do,” said Josh.
His tongue suddenly stuck in his mouth. He looked down at the pages, filled with words Jablonski had written. They weren’t his. He couldn’t read them.
Everyone waited. The cameras clicked away.
“I… A few days ago, I returned from Vietnam after witnessing a massacre.” Josh pushed the paper to the side. “Innocent people were killed. I testified about it at the UN yesterday morning. I brought back a video. In the
