what had happened to Longbow.
29
When National Security Advisor Donna Bing asked Rubens to convene a joint briefing session on the Vietnamese Assassin Plot, as she called it, Rubens tried to demur, telling her he thought it was premature. But she had insisted, and so late that eve ning he and Ambassador Jackson trekked down to Washington via Admiral Brown’s he li cop ter to meet with representatives of the CIA, FBI, and Secret Service to, as Jackson put it, sing for their supper.
It was easy to see how much credence the various agencies placed in the theory by how high-ranking their representatives at the meeting were. Collins was there for the CIA; the initial information was theirs and she had turf to protect. But Frey had sent one of his deputies and a mid-level member of the investigative task force on the McSweeney investigation.
Rubens didn’t even know the FBI officials representing the bureau.
He understood the skepticism. His agency’s review of Vietnamese intercepts found nothing that indicated a plot existed.
“Of course they would be careful about it,” said Bing briskly. She badgered the other agencies for opposing theories — a disgruntled constituent was preferred by both the FBI and Secret Service, though he had yet to be identified — and then disparaged them. For once, she dropped her belligerent attitude toward Rubens and actually seemed — not
Rubens saw why when she summed up the session.
“Looking at this from the macro level, it makes utter sense,” Bing declared. “The ultimate players here are the Chinese. They’ve helped the Vietnamese set it in motion — I would be looking for that connection in the intercepts.” Rubens was hardly a fan of China. But if there was still scant evidence that the assassination plot had been backed by the Vietnamese, then there was even less — as in nil — that the Chinese had a hand in it. He exchanged a glance with Jackson, who, diplomat that he was, returned only a hint of a smile.
“Was there something else, Bill?” asked Bing.
“I would only emphasize that we have yet to develop hard information about Vietnam’s involvement, let alone China’s.” Disappointment fluttered across Bing’s face. But she quickly banished it, saying, “Well, then we have to keep working. Unfortunately, this is the sort of development where I would expect future attacks to bear us out.” She rose, dismissing them.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sure the President will be pleased.”
“Interesting theory,” said Jackson on the he li cop ter home.
“That’s one word for it.”
“Sometimes it’s useful to know why the wind is blowing at your back.”
“In Donna Bing’s case, it nearly always signifies there is a hurricane seeking to overtake you,” replied Rubens.
30
By now, the rifle fire in the distance had stopped. Dean decided it was worth the risk to save time by taking the trail, doubling back to the sniping position to make sure Longbow hadn’t returned. When Dean saw the nest was empty, he went back down, circling away from the trail and then paralleling it as he slowly worked toward the spot where Longbow would have gone for water.
It took Dean nearly an hour to find the first body. He couldn’t be positive, but he guessed from the clothes that it belonged to one of the men he’d let go past him on the trail.
Even in death, the man clutched his AK-47 so tightly Dean had to use a knife to pry it from the man’s hands. Dean took two magazines from the guerilla’s body, tucking them into his pockets before continuing across the ridge.
While the vegetation here was sparse, there were still plenty of places to hide, and Dean had to stop every few minutes to search the terrain and listen for movement. The impulse to rush to his friend’s aid felt like a dog growling at his side, nudging him forward. But moving too quickly could get Dean killed, and he struggled to keep his emotions and adrenaline in check.
It took a good twenty minutes to find the second man. He lay a hundred and fifty yards from the first, curled in a fetal position, huddled around his gun. The top part of his head had been split open by one of the M14’s bullets, revealing an oozing black mass where his scalp and forehead had been.
Though hardened to death, Dean had to turn away as he searched the body for ammo and anything else that might be useful.
A third Vietnamese guerilla had died a few yards away.
He was a small man, barely five feet, and thin; his chest and back were pockmarked with bullets. It had taken six to put him down for good.
Dean found Longbow next.
Longbow’s bush hat had been blown off during the battle, and it lay like a discarded rag in the pebbles near the water hole. The soldier lay on his side a yard and a half away, the M14 leaning against his body, as if it had been propped there.
Dean bent down on one knee, looking at his friend’s face, hoping that he would be breathing, not believing what he knew was true. Longbow stared back at Dean, his expression twisting pain and bewilderment together.
Was he asking where Dean was when he needed him?
A shot ricocheted across the nearby rocks and into the water. Dean threw himself flat, smacking his rib on the butt of the AK-47 he’d been holding. He rolled right as another shot ripped through the ground nearby. Dean pulled the automatic rifle up and fired off a burst before jumping to his feet and running in search of cover.
There was no answering fire, but he knew he hadn’t hit his enemy. The guerilla was firing from behind a large clump of jungle grass and rocks about fifty yards away. Dean decided that his best bet was retreating downhill, then circling back to flank the guerilla from the slope of the nearby ridge. The hardest part was the first twenty feet — under heavy fire, Dean climbed up the side of a large boulder, squeezed through a tumble of rocks, then crawled through a cluster of brush. His enemy emptied his rifle in the few seconds it took for Dean to reach safety.
Nearly fifteen minutes later, Dean reached a point where he could look down on the guerilla’s position. It was empty.
Bent grass showed the way he had gone.
By now tired, hungry, and thirsty, Dean considered whether it might not be better to let the man go. Probably it was, but logic didn’t rule Dean that day. He slipped down the rocks and moved as quietly as he could into the thick vegetation.
He nearly tripped over the guerilla, who’d collapsed only a few yards from the grass where he’d fired from earlier. He was wounded but still alive.
Dean saw the man’s body heave right before he fired point-blank into the bastard’s head.
“Are you awake?”
Dean opened his right eye warily. The man sitting next to him on the plane smiled awkwardly. A stewardess stood behind him.
“Are you awake?” she repeated.
“Yeah,” said Dean, straightening.
“We’re about to serve breakfast.”
“Sure.”
He rubbed his eyes, then accepted a cup of coffee. The stewardess passed him a plate of French toast.
