Shock of War

Intentionally or not, Sergei projected the image of a Russian fat cat, complete with the macho assumption that every woman he met was cast instantly under his spell. This might actually have been true when he was younger — there was a certain twinkle in his eyes, and his face was not unpleasant to look at. But he was past fifty now, and not aging particularly well, with a full paunch and a rather odd balding pattern on the top of his head. The leather jacket he wore looked almost comical. But at least he didn’t smell of cologne.

“So, it is a pleasure to be working with you again, Turpentine,” he said brightly as the waiter approached. “Such a pleasure.”

The restaurant was located in the center of the station, which didn’t bother Mara as much as Sergei’s booming voice. She’d taken a table off to the side, with no one else around. Still, a modicum of discretion was in order.

But discretion wasn’t Sergei’s style.

“I will have a vodka gimlet,” he told the waiter. “You will use Standard.”

The waiter nodded.

Sergei looked at Mara. “You are wondering why Standard? It is the best.”

“I was wondering if your voice had a lower volume,” said Mara.

“But if I am too quiet, your microphones can’t hear me.”

“I’m not miked.”

Sergei smiled and gave a little knowing laugh. Mara caught a glimpse of a nondescript, middle-aged man taking a seat not too far away.

One of his bodyguards, she guessed.

“So. You have wishes, yes?” asked Sergei.

“Yes.”

Mara saw the waiter heading toward their table. They ordered — she asked for a Caesar salad with grilled tuna, Sergei a burger with cheese and bacon, along with a double order of fries.

“And, I will take beer,” said Sergei. “You have this Boston Ale.”

“Pint or glass?” asked the waiter.

“The pint.”

“It’s not ‘this,’ “ said Mara when the waiter left.

“This?”

“You said, ‘this Boston Ale.’ You don’t know the adjective… just say, ‘Boston Ale.’ “

Sergei smiled. “Ah, Turpentine. It is always an education to be working with you. Now you will correct my grammar. When will you allow me to teach you Russian?”

“We need antitank weapons,” she said softly. “Big enough to take out main battle tanks.”

“Hmmmm. Very expensive.”

“I understand. We need Kornets.”

“I could get, perhaps, the Konkurs,” he said, referring to a Russian wire-guided missile that could penetrate about 800 mm of armor — not enough to deal with the Chinese tanks the Vietnamese would be facing.

“Kornet or nothing.”

“Miss Turpentine, so crass today. Vietnam was not agreed with you.”

The waiter appeared with their orders. Mara asked for another beer.

“You know, it is not always easy to find what you wish,” said Sergei offhandedly. “Have you considered the Sheksna? Very nice.”

Mara made a face.

“You would refer to it as AT-12. This good weapon.”

“Sergei. Really. Just get what we need. Okay?”

“So we work on your request. What else?”

Mara worked down the list. Sergei was relatively agreeable, even when it came to spare parts for the Vietnamese MiGs.

The price, of course, was ridiculous. But Mara agreed, as long as delivery could be arranged within hours.

Sergei, much to her surprise, agreed.

“Some things already on way to Manila,” he told her. “From there, your problem.”

This had been approved at the highest levels, Mara realized. The Russians clearly wanted the Vietnamese to give the Chinese a bloody nose.

Good for business? She wondered what else was involved in the deal.

“We’ll confirm through the usual channels,” she said, getting up.

“What? You don’t stay for lunch?”

“I have to put things in motion,” she said. “Leave a good tip.”

31

The Gulf of Tonkin

They played cat and mouse with the Chinese cruiser for several more hours, the night growing darker and the weather growing stormier as they went. The merchant ships were almost in Vietnamese waters now — which was fine with Silas; he could board them more easily there.

What wasn’t fine was that they were still a good two hours away — that would put them in Hai Phong before he could get there.

Though given the intensity of the storm, maybe not.

The cruiser was faster than the McLane, but it was clear that her captain was not willing to actually risk a collision. The first encounter had been the closest; since then, the captain had taken a few feints, but hadn’t presented an outright threat.

He might have been more willing to risk his frigate escort, but the smaller ship couldn’t keep up her speed. She fell farther and farther behind in the heavy seas.

“She’s turning off!” yelled one of the extra lookouts Silas had posted. “Turning to port.”

The synthetic radar plot confirmed it. The Chinese captain was giving up, battening down to cope with the storm. Now was their chance.

A strong wind echoed through the ship. The gust pushed the McLane down against the water. A white cloud of ocean rose, enveloping her from bow to amidships.

The typhoon was faster than them all.

“Captain, should we come about and face into the wind?” asked helm.

“Belay that,” said Silas, as if it had been an order rather than a question. “Steady on course.”

The ship rose from the fantail and crashed forward. The wind howled over the deck, the hush of a ghost clawing at the bridge’s glass.

“Steady!” repeated Silas. “We’ve got to intercept them.”

A hard roll sent him to the deck.

“Steady!” he repeated, climbing back to his feet. “Keep me steady!”

32

CIA headquarters, Virginia

Peter Lucas was surprised that Mara had made the arrangements so quickly, even though he tried not to show it. He pressed his lips together and nodded solemnly as she filled him in on the details.

“How do I get to Manila?” she asked.

“Manila?”