avoid. He'd thought most taxi drivers in this city understood English. Why did he have to pick the one who didn't?
He searched his memory for the right words. Sathan thut… that was it.
'American sathan thut!' he said. What was the word for please? 'Broad!
Broad!'
The driver's face worked for a moment, then he gave a reluctant nod.
Tombstone sank into the tuk-tuk's seat with a grateful sigh. 'Kawpkun,' he said.
With its tiny engine popping, the vehicle wheeled back into traffic, threaded onto a side road, then turned north.
Commander Stephen Marusko enjoyed standing night watches as Officer of the Deck. It was peaceful, especially when the carrier was in port. So far this evening there'd been only two departures from routine… a fight in the crew berthing spaces and a fire and security watch reporting that his relief had not shown up, both incidents best left to the MAA duty watch-standers.
There was some continuing activity on deck. The four ships of MEU-6 had steamed into helo range that afternoon, and several big Marine Sea Stallions were parked on the roof. So, too, were two of Jefferson's four KA-6D tanker aircraft. One had just trapped; the other was being readied for launch at 2100 hours to refuel Jefferson's CAP.
A flash of light to the east caught Marusko's eye. He paced to the starboard side of the ship and used his binoculars to scan the shore toward Sattahip.
Odd. The buildings belonging to the naval base were still blacked out.
When the lights had gone out a few hours earlier, he'd ordered the incident logged but assumed the Thais were simply suffering from a local power outage.
Several minutes later, all phone connections with the shore had been lost when the radio station receiving Jefferson's ship-to-shore radio calls had gone off the air. So far, there'd been no explanation, but most likely it was some sort of technical glitch. Marusko had reported the incident to Captain Fitzgerald ? loss of local phone services would mean inconvenience for those of the battle group's crews who were ashore this evening ? but there'd been nothing else to do but watch and wait.
That flash could have been gunfire. Marusko thought again of the rumors floating around about a coup attempt ashore. Suppose the loss of phone service, the blackout at the naval base, were part of an attack by rebels?
Marusko had just decided to call Fitzgerald when the bridge batphone rang. The duty bridge watch-stander held the headset out to him. 'Sir? They want the OOD.'
'Thanks.' He took the handset. 'Officer of the Deck.'
'Bridge? This is Chief Paulsen down in CATCC. Are we expecting any VIPs aboard tonight, sir?'
'Negative. What have you got?'
'Two bogies inbound, sir. Range five miles. They say they're Royal That Nueys.' Marusko's eyebrows rose. 'What do they want?'
'Ah, sir… they're requesting clearance to land. They've got the proper frequencies and protocol.'
Strange. Some That VIP probably needed to talk to the admiral. Marusko wondered if this had anything to do with the trouble ashore.
'Okay, Chief. Tell 'em to come on in, and pass the word to the Air Boss to give them plenty of room.'
'Aye, sir.' He heard Paulsen chuckle. 'I'm not sure I trust these local drivers.'
Marusko hung up the phone, then decided the event was out of the ordinary enough for him to call the Captain.
It had taken nearly an hour to reach their destination, and the tuk-tuk driver was not happy about the change in his travel plans. The sounds of the riot were no more than a few blocks away. Worse, Tombstone had no money, That or American, and the outraged little man was advancing on him, arms waving angrily and voice shrill when someone came up behind the aviator and put a hand on his shoulder.
Tombstone started, then turned to see an American Marine in camouflaged helmet and fatigues. 'May I help you, sir?' the Marine asked. Tombstone saw that he was a gunnery sergeant, that he was wearing full combat kit and that a magazine was plugged into the receiver of his M-16.
'Lieutenant Commander Magruder, Gunny,' Tombstone said. He suddenly felt very tired and was having trouble speaking. 'CO of VF-95, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson. I need to talk to the boat.'
The Marine grinned. The black skin of his face was glistening with sweat. 'Yes, sir! I'm Gunnery Sergeant George Johnson. I'm off the Jeff too.'
Tombstone tried to focus on the Marine. 'Jefferson? What… you doing here?'
He put an arm around Tombstone's shoulders, supporting him. 'All hell's bustin' loose all over Bangkok, Commander. And we've got a few thousand American tourists out there caught in the crossfire. C'mon. Let's get you inside.' When the That driver started to follow them, still shouting what could only be curses and demands for payment, the sergeant bellowed at another Marine standing close by. 'Palmer! Pay this man!'
Guided by Johnson, Tombstone stumbled into the brightly lit interior of the embassy. He was suddenly aware of how filthy he looked and felt, the grimy feeling accentuated somehow by the pristine interior of the mansion.
Several That servants watched wide-eyed from across the marble hall, while two Marines in dress Class-As snapped to rigid attention.
'Looks like you've been through the wringer, sir,' Johnson observed.
'Got… to call Jefferson,' Tombstone said. He was so tired he could barely stand. His burns and bruises throbbed and chaffed beneath his clothing making any movement at all an agony.
'Right in here, Commander,' the Marine said. He helped Tombstone through a door labeled 'Communications.' Inside, other Marines and several civilians were manning computer keyboards and radio consoles. 'We've been having some trouble with the phones down there, but we can patch in a direct radio hook-up. We'll fix you right up.'
Minutes later, Tombstone was talking to a communications officer on board the Jefferson.
'They're hostile!' Marusko barked, hanging up the phone. 'Sound General Quarters! All hands to battle stations!'
The shrill rasp of the klaxon blasted from the 5-MC.
'CIC, Bridge!' he snapped. 'Are you tracking them?'
'Yes, sir,' the CIC watch officer replied. 'Two bogies, bearing zero-nine-five, range now four-one-zero-zero yards, speed one-three-five nautical miles per hour.'
Marusko thought hard. Those helicopters could be what they claimed to be, their refusal to stand off the result of communications failure or misunderstanding. But Tombstone's warning moments earlier still rang in his mind: the coup leaders were planning something against the Jefferson, probably an approach by something involving one or more helicopters.
For many years, security had been a major concern of U.S. ship captains and carrier group admirals in every ocean of the world. Aircraft carriers were large, expensive, and extremely tempting as targets. During the Lebanon crisis of the early '80s, serious consideration had been given to the possibility that Syrian-backed terrorists might try to take out an American carrier patrolling off Beirut. Washington had worried about everything from speedboats or Piper Cubs packed with explosives to suicide commandos flying hang gliders, a tactic promptly dubbed 'Cruise Druze' by the men forced to stand watch at.50-caliber machine guns mounted along the walkways outboard of the flight deck.
A helicopter loaded with explosives, or bomb-wielding commandos… They wouldn't be able to sink the Jefferson. but they could cause her a hell of a lot of grief.
