below.
Zeus smacked into a deep puddle of water. His feet collapsed beneath him and he slipped backward, falling so his head plunged below the surface of the water. Though it was just barely over his face, he still managed to get water up his nose. Coughing, he rolled over and staggered to his feet, pushing away from the bridge.
A light moved across it — one of the tanks.
A gust of wind slammed so hard against his back that Zeus felt himself turning around involuntarily. He hunched down and began making toward the field, trudging through the water and mud. What had been just a wet field just a few minutes before was now a torrent of water.
The way the water was rising, it might go over the bridge. Maybe the Chinese would be stopped after all.
Zeus heard a series of rumbles. Unsure whether they were thunder or cracks from the ZTZ99’s 120 mm guns, he turned back toward the bridge to see what was going on. A flash of lightning revealed the silhouettes of two tanks on the bridge, just starting to cross. Several more approached behind them.
There were already five across. The first two were about fifty yards from the bridge, each on one side of the road. Three more clustered in a row, moving slowly toward them.
Something ran by on his left.
Three figures — one of the attack teams.
Zeus started to follow, trailing by about ten yards. Part of him knew it was foolish. The madman that had taken him over just a short while before had vanished. But the soldier left in control had no better plan.
“Christian!” he yelled. “Christian!”
Something moved on the tank ahead.
Tracers flew.
Zeus threw himself down.
A red light flashed to his right, too large, too jagged, to be gunfire. Zeus turned his head, and saw a black jumble falling in his direction, moving in slow motion against the howling wind. There was a scream above the roar, a cry for help, and a terrible reverberation that shook deep into the earth.
The Vietnamese had managed to blow the charges on the bridge.
2
There were good arguments either way. Lately, bourbon messed with his stomach, not a particularly pleasant situation. It wasn’t automatic, though. There was some sort of equation involved:
On the other hand, the beer in this allegedly first-class Manila establishment was decidedly second-rate. The Japanese offerings were basically Japanese. Kerfer liked much that was Japanese, but nothing involving alcohol. Tsingtao — Chinese — was out of the question. Which left Stella, an Italian lager. And what the fuck did the wops know about beer?
Espresso, sure. Grappa, definitely. Wine, eh. But beer?
“Sir?”
“Yeah, I’ll take another bourbon,” said Kerfer. It was research.
He leaned back on the barstool, surveying the
Unfortunately for Kerfer, he wasn’t quite so impossible to find as he had hoped.
“Either you hit the lottery or you’re getting some money under the table from somewhere.”
Kerfer glanced up into the mirror behind the bar. One of his old sea daddies, Jacob Braney, was standing with his arms folded about twenty paces away.
Kerfer scowled into the mirror.
“Fuck you, chief,” he said as Braney came next to him.
“And yourself back, asshole.”
“Drink?”
“At these prices? You’re buying.”
“Scotch,” Kerfer told the bartender. “Worst crap you got.”
Chief Braney had served under Kerfer during his first SEAL command. While officers didn’t admit it, old sea dogs like Braney had a hell of a lot to teach them, especially when they were still wet behind the ears as Kerfer had been.
One of the things that made Kerfer different was the fact that he admitted it. He considered Braney one of his best teachers in the service, and one of the few men he was truly close to now.
Not that an outsider would ever know it from their conversation.
“God, how the hell do you live with yourself, drinking in a place like this?” asked Braney after his drink arrived. “Look at this — all these guys are wearing suits.”
“I think of it like I’m goin’ to the zoo.”
Braney laughed. He’d left the Navy a few years before; after six months catching up on all the sleep he’d missed, he’d gone back to work, first as a contract CIA worker, then with the National Security adviser’s office. He’d never been forthcoming with the details of his employment in either case, though Kerfer knew the general lay of the land, and had even worked with him a few times.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Kerfer.
“Can’t a guy just wander in to see an old friend and bum a drink?”
“Sure. And Cinderella’s sittin’ upstairs with her legs spread, waiting for me.”
Braney smiled and drained the Scotch. “Another,” he said, pushing it toward the bartender.
“We need something done really fast, in a place you’ve been very recently,” said Braney.
“Uh-huh.”
“Boss asked for you specifically.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Well, I think they thought you were in the States,” said Braney. “I was sent to track you down.”
“You really should get a better job,” said Kerfer.
“There are some goodies from our Russian friends that need to be delivered to Vietnam. They’ll tell you where once you’re in the air.”
“Why not tell me now?”
“I don’t think they’re sure themselves. It’s all quiet, you know.”
“That country is one big fuckup.” Kerfer stopped talking as Braney passed a pair of slow-moving trucks. Driving was not the chief’s forte. He’d once nearly driven straight off a bridge in Venezuela on a clear, dry day when he hadn’t had a drink for a week.
Which, come to think of it, might have been half the problem.
“I don’t get much input on foreign affairs,” Braney told him as he pulled back into the lane, barely missing an oncoming Suzuki compact. “I’m just the messenger.”
“Well, send them back the message that it’s one big fuckup.”
“I’m sure they’ll listen with all ears. Don’t use the phone to call out unless it’s an A-l emergency. And if things fuck up bad, they aren’t gonna want to know you.”
“Feeling’s mutual, I’m sure.”
