Vasilii watched all this, then turned to him. “Would be best if you found responsible party.”
He nodded. “I agree. It’s the work of an irrational actor. They must be stopped.”
Vasilii frowned, crease lines appearing among the liver spots on his forehead. “I will assist, if possible. I would hate to have done all that for nothing.”
“There has been a setback.”
Huang Lei browsed the report. “Was the primary package delivered?”
“Yes.”
“No matter.” He stood, nodding to himself, and strolled across the immaculate tile work of his penthouse office. He stopped to admire the painting on the wall… a painting that cost a small fortune… by the painter Zhou Fang. It was a representation of the Great Emperor of Jade, dating back to the Tang Dynasty and it provided him great comfort. He turned back to the monitor. “The plan continues.”
Liu Kong said nothing, his face unreadable. Huang Lei could tell his young apprentice was troubled. He had noticed the signs as their work progressed. “You have concerns?”
“I do not like the idea of killing so many innocents.”
“As well you shouldn’t. We are not like the Americans. We do not kill for the spoils of war. We do not kill to establish a global hegemony. We only wish to restore China to its rightful position. If the American empire were to disappear, what chaos would ensue? There would be an upheaval like the world has never seen. They have provoked nation after nation with their imperialist meddling.” He paused, overcome with rare emotion. “I ask you, is it better to let the world continue down its current path? Is it the right thing — the noble thing — to sacrifice one million lives, precious though they may be, to save one billion lives?”
Kong could barely meet his gaze. “You are correct. I lack your wisdom.”
“You are a loyal student.” He cared for the young man. The last thing he wanted was Kong to feel guilty. “You credit me with more than I deserve. I, too, detest these measures. If there were another path, I would gladly follow it. No, we do what we must, no matter how distasteful. Our endeavor shall succeed and someday they will tell stories of our sacrifices.”
John relaxed on the bunk, staring at the rack above his. Dawn had finally come, just as they boarded the Peleliu, and the men were grateful to be alive. The Operators huddled together in the ward room, writing down their after-action reports, and Deion was busy speaking with the Captain.
That left him alone with nothing to do. The pain medication was wearing off and his arm and leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The doctor onboard had checked him out and cleared him for duty, with a warning to mind his wounds for signs of infection.
He looked down at the fresh gauze and tape covering his arm. They had been astounded to learn the wounds weren’t even forty-eight hours old. Both his arm and leg itched maddeningly, like a thousand mosquito bites, and he scratched at the gauze. The more he scratched, the more it itched. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt that way, and when he asked Doctor Elliot about it — after the disaster in New York City — Doctor Elliot told him either put up with the itching and reduced pain, or heal slowly.
He shrugged. It wasn’t really a choice. They were going to feed him the drugs whether he wanted them or not. Knowing that, it still didn’t stop the maddening itch.
He replayed the mission in his mind. Everything had gone as planned. They were in and out of Ely before the villagers could mount a serious defense, and they had achieved their objective.
Until the bomb detonated.
He tried to put the copilot of the Sea Knight out of his mind. An entire Sea Knight was lost, Operators who had fought with him in Ely just minutes before, but it was the face of the copilot that haunted him.
As soon as the Doctor on the Peleliu had cleared him, he had pulled the man’s jacket. Roger McHugh Thirty-six years old. A wife and three kids back in McKinney, Texas. McHugh was lost, because of him. Gone because he hadn’t acted fast enough to pull him from the sinking helicopter.
That’s not true. It was an accident.
He had tried his best, but ultimately had saved his own life over that of McHugh. It was the right decision. The OTM had billions invested in the StrikeForce technology.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t wish away the gut-wrenching sense of guilt. He tried again to wipe the image of McHugh out of his mind.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment. His body was heavy, so very heavy, and exhaustion finally crashed down on him. McHugh’s face drifted away in a thick fog. He’d pushed himself hard, farther than his body could compensate.
His eyes were only closed for a moment, but in that moment he saw another face, a middle-aged Arabic man, glaring at him. He watched the man’s eyes widen, the face going slack and he looked down to see his Kabar knife sticking in the man’s stomach. He yanked on the knife and it came away with a terrible sucking noise. It took all his waning strength to pull it from the man’s body, then plunge it in, again and again.
Abdullah the Bomber stared at him. The anger and hate were gone, replaced by a look of surprise, then Abdullah spoke for the last time. “I miss my wife.”
“John.”
The voice woke him from his slumber and his eyes snapped open. He jerked up, only to ram his head into the rack above his, then collapse back onto the bunk. “Sonofabitch!”
“Jesus,” Taylor’s voice came from his left. “What’s wrong with you?”
He grabbed his head and rolled to the side. Taylor was standing next to his bunk, smirking. “What happened?”
“I just came in to wake you,” Taylor said. “You were moaning and kicking. You okay?”
He nodded. The images from his dream faded. He shivered, suddenly cold. “I feel like I just closed my eyes. What time is it?”
“You’ve been down about six hours.”
“Six hours?” He shook his head, dazed. “It felt like a few minutes.” He crawled out from under the bunk and stood on rubbery legs.
Taylor grabbed has arm and steadied him. “Relax. It’s time for your briefing. You’ve got another mission.”
Surprised, he turned to Taylor. “Already?”
Taylor sighed. “I wish you had more down time, but you’re going back to Ely.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He followed Taylor from the berthing to the mess. He passed an open hatch and noticed the sun setting, a vivid purple sky that stretched beyond the horizon. They had arrived at the Peleliu just after dawn, but by the time they had debriefed and stowed their gear, it had been late afternoon. “God, I just want to go back to sleep.”
Taylor turned to him. “What?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Didn’t realize I was talking out loud.” He struggled to keep up with Taylor’s long strides. He felt slow, his movements disjointed.
The mess was larger than he expected. Mark and Redman were sitting at the table and nodded to him as he entered. He grabbed a tray and piled it with food, not paying attention to what he was placing on the tray, grabbed a cup of hot coffee, then made his way to join them.
“Feeling okay?” Mark asked.
He shook his head and took a bite of a roll he snagged from a basket on the table. It was hot and yeasty and surprisingly fluffy. “Tired,” he sputtered around the crumbs, then took a sip of coffee. “Why does everything taste so good?”
Mark smiled. “The Navy does a good job of feeding their men. And, you’ve been eating MRE’s for the past two days.”