bloody sod, I’m not about to moon around in some bloody saloon like a bloody sheep while you perform an illegal search, you understand? And neither is anybody else. This is
Wang’s hand rose smoothly from his side. The sound of his pistol was startling, not much louder than a New Year’s firecracker. As Lee watched, the back of Carstair’s head opened like a flower — red and white; a bahinia blossom. A thick, warm spray hit Lee’s face, and something like a fragment of ivory ticked off his forehead and bounced across the deck.
Carstairs dropped straight down and lay still. The Scotch glass was somehow still clutched in his hand, extended forward.
Lee heard screams, very loud in his ears….
Then came one blur leading into another. Wang marched toward the bow, shouting orders. The guests were herded briskly into the main saloon and forced to sit on the floor.
Some time later, Wang reappeared and said they were free to move about the upper decks, so long as they remained quiet and orderly. As people rushed out of the saloon, McIntyre touched Lee’s shoulder. “I’m going to have a word with our host,” he said. “Wait for me at the stern rail. Wait for me right there, you understand? No matter what.”
So Lee planted himself at the stern rail of the upper deck and stared aft to where the lights of Hong Kong receded in the distance. They looked very far away. The city burned white-hot against mainland China’s black hulk.
Down on the fantail stood a guard, his stance relaxed, his rifle held across his chest like a lover. His gaze never left the upper deck.
“So, Mr. Lee,” a voice said, “where do you think they’re taking us?”
Lee glanced over and saw that Pablo Cheung had joined him. The rest of the guests — more than a hundred of them — clustered near the darkened windows of the main cabin, murmuring nervously amongst themselves. Cheung alone seemed perfectly relaxed. Of course, he was from Macau, and it was rumored that all successful Macau businessmen were members of Chinese triads. Perhaps Cheung was used to having another man’s brains splattered all over his tuxedo.
Lee made an effort to concentrate on Cheung’s question. “I haven’t seen another boat since they let us back on deck. We’ve left the regular shipping lanes.”
Cheung lit a cigarette. “Perhaps they intend to motor all the way to Hawaii. Perhaps they’re defecting.”
Lee barely heard him. He kept thinking about his wife, Lila, too pregnant to come along on this year’s company harbor cruise. She’d been so sad to miss it….
Cheung was looking at him. “Relax, Mr. Lee. Whatever this is about, your boss will fix it. Phillip McIntyre fixes everything, isn’t that right?”
Lee was silent. Two hours ago he would have said, yes, of course, without hesitation. But now…
Where
At that exact moment, a distinct sound came out of the main cabin: slightly muffled, but unquestionably the same sound as the one that had burst Myron Carstair’s head. Lee spun, but there was no movement, no light behind the curtains.
The crowd murmured uncertainly.
There was sudden, complete silence as
Uniformed men began appearing down on the fantail, gathering in a silent group. Lee searched for the gleam of silver hair, but was not rewarded. All he saw were the CDF uniforms, dark hair, gleaming rifles. His stomach tightened. Where was Mr. McIntyre?
“This could be interesting,” Cheung said, and lit another cigarette.
Guests surged to the rail, staring hopefully toward the light.
Below, the patrol boat banged into
A cheer rose from
And mounted in its open rear hatch was a machine gun with a man behind it. As Lee watched, the barrel pivoted.
Cheung said something sharp in Cantonese, but his words were eradicated by a sudden, pounding roar. Flames leaped from the helicopter, and a column of water exploded up from the sea and marched toward
The guests stood staring silently.
Then the screaming began.
“Oh give me a home… where the buffalo roam…” Lieutenant Commander Chris Hanson, call sign “Lobo,” held each note as long as she could, until she heard her Radar Intercept Officer’s groan through the Internal Communication System: “Please, God, make it stop.”
Lobo grinned, even though she knew Handyman couldn’t see her face from the backseat, least of all at night. “Honey,” she said, “before you start praying, remember that there’s only one God up here… and that’s
Through the ICS came a loud yawn. Handyman always made a show of being unaffected by even her most violent maneuvering. A great backseater, Handyman; not a compulsive whiner like so many RIOs.
She eased the yoke forward with leaden arms, rounding out of the climb. Now the reverse occurred: She grew light in her seat, shoulders squeezing against the shoulder restraints of her ejection harness, breasts trying to rise beneath her tight flight suit.
She started as a comet shot past the canopy, whacking Tomcat 302 with an enormous fist of displaced air.
“Jesus, Hot Rock!” Lobo shouted over the tactical circuit. “You want to give us a little clearance here?”
Lieutenant Commander Reginald Stone’s voice was calm. “You want to warn your wingman before you go ballistic like that? How am I supposed to know what’s going on?”
“What were you doing so close in the first place? You’re supposed to be flying loose deuce on me, not sitting on my… tailpipe. Get back where you belong.”
“Rah-jah.” Hot Rock’s F-14, a collection of strobe lights and twin exhaust flames in the darkness, drifted backward and higher, receding to the high position favored by American fighter pilots. Lobo didn’t believe for a
