Ghost Fleet : A Novel of the Next World War (9780544145979) (23 page)

“Writing? No. You want me to get the corpsman?” asked Teri. “This is not good. How much did you take?”

“It's not the stims,” said Vern.

“I heard there was a bad batch going around. Might have been Directorate tampering; at least that's what the gov feed said. But the smart money says someone's cutting it with laundry soap to make a few extra bucks.”

Chink
. What century was this? How dare they doubt her!

“Here, sit down,” said Teri, more firmly this time. “What's the matter?”

Vern opened her mouth to explain what she was seeing and then clenched her jaw shut. If the power systems failed in combat, the ship and likely whoever wrote that would die. And the power systems depended on this
Chink's
graduate-school science project. It was that simple.

She flung her viz glasses at the spot on the wall. They hit where the graffiti
⁵³
would have been if someone had had the courage to write it in actual blood-red paint.

“Vern?” said Teri. “Take it easy. I'm going to go get somebody; you just rest.”

Vern crawled on hands and knees to pick up her glasses. They weren't even scratched. How she wished they were broken. She pushed the reset button at the temple and waited for them to reacquire the
Zumwalt
's network. She closed her eyes when she put them on. When she opened her eyes, the graffiti was still there.

The sound of heavy footsteps made her get up.

“Vern, this is Chief Simmons,” said Teri.

“Dr. Li, I hear you're not feeling well,” said Simmons.

“I'm just tired of this shit,” said Vern.

“From what I understand, you may be the most important person on this ship,” said Simmons. “So you're part of the equipment, then, and that makes you my responsibility. Let's get you topside, give you some air, feed you, and get you back to work.”

Vern laughed at the notion of her being literally a part of the ship. This world seemed so absurd because it was true.

“More important than the captain?” said Vern.

“Well, that's a complicated answer for me, Dr. Li.” Mike laughed. “I'll just say definitively you're more important to the ship.”

Vern laughed again. Teri gave them both a nervous grin.

Vern studied the old sailor. It seemed he'd never had a day of doubt in his life.

“Teri, I need to have a word alone with the chief,” said Vern.

“Uh,” said Teri. “All right. I'll go grab some water and then meet you by the stern.”

Mike stepped aside to let Teri squeeze past. Despite his heavy footsteps, he had a surprising ease about him on the deck, at least for an old guy.

“So, Dr. Li, tell me what's really going on,” said Mike.

Vern took off her viz glasses and held them out.

“You have to see for yourself,” said Vern.

“Why don't you just show me,” said Mike.

“I am,” said Vern.

“No, I mean
actually
show me,” said Mike.

“I can't. You need to wear my viz,” said Vern.

Simmons held the glasses out in front of him with a mix of disdain and, Vern sensed, fear.

“These won't fit,” said Mike. “How about you tell me . . .”

Vern saw that uncertainty was a rare feeling for him, and that made him even more uncomfortable.

“You've never used viz before, have you?” she asked.

Mike looked down at the scuffed toes of his boots.

“No. I haven't,” said Mike. “I never saw the point.”

“I know you're an old fart, but you're not that old,” said Vern. Her face reddened with embarrassment, and anger flashed across Mike's features. “I'm sorry. That's what they said we were to call you guys. Please. It's important,” she said. “It's about the ship.”

Before he could move, she placed the glasses carefully on his face. She noticed that his right ear was slightly lower than the left and that his nose had been broken at least once. He stiffened and then relaxed once she backed away.

He lost his balance, and she lunged forward to steady him with an awkward hug.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Mike. It was so real. He'd heard it was something about the way they projected a data stream onto your retinas that made it so different from the first-generation Google Glass.
⁵⁴
With these, you weren't so much looking through the glass at the world; it was more like the world was being brought inside your brain. It gave you the sense of not just seeing, but feeling. And it felt damn weird.

Vern led him by the hand to the graffiti. He saw the sticky red that part of his brain said was real, even down to its smell, and that drowned out the other part of his brain whispering that it wasn't real, that it hadn't been there just a few seconds ago.

“What
the hell
is that?” asked Mike. “Blood?”

“Yes. At least, it's supposed to look like blood,” said Vern.

“Who did this, goddamn it?” said Mike. He squinted and slid the glasses down on his nose and then back up. Down, then up again.

“That's the sickest, most cowardly thing I've ever seen,” said Mike. “Anyone else see this?” She noticed his breathing had gotten deeper and the veins were bulging at his neck.

“I don't think so. Just my viz feed,” said Vern, starting to collect herself. “Don't worry about it. This bullshit too will pass.”

Mike stepped back and looked her over.

“No, Dr. Li. I have to do something about it. This bullshit doesn't happen on my ship,” said Mike. “The captain has to be informed. The XO too.”

“Shit,” said Vern. “What if they think I'm some kind of a risk and make me leave? I had to get the FBI to watch my mom's house because of all the threats she got after I disappeared to come work here. People assumed I'd left for China.”

Mike scuffed his boot along the deck and shook his head.

“Actually, Dr. Li, as I understand it, you'd be the last person to leave the
Z
, no matter what the graffiti on those glasses says. Whether you like it or not, you are now part of this ship. And let me be clear: I take care of my ship.”

Directorate Command, Honolulu, Hawaii Special Administrative Zone

The pistol's barrel was pointed right at Colonel Markov.

This is the fourth time I've had to endure this performance
, he thought.

General Yu Xilai shook the weapon slightly, as if he could not understand why Markov had not grasped the gun in thanks. “Did you know I found it with an empty magazine?” said the general. “He fired his very last round right at me.”

“But how did you survive unscathed?” said Markov, taking the pistol, playing his role.

The general sat on the edge of his desk and ran a hand over his freshly shaved scalp. He shifted his body before he began the story, the wooden desk groaning under his bulk. Yu looked the role of a warrior, an image that, like too many generals, he'd traded on for much of his career. He was built like an Olympic heavyweight wrestler: a shaved skull, deep-set eyes beneath a thick brow that presided over prominent cheekbones and a large, sharp nose. But long ago, Markov had learned not to confuse the look of a warrior with actual military ability.

“Like all battle, a mix of skill and luck. This American Marine general was a warrior. Straight from the viz. He knew he could not be taken alive. After all, he was in charge of their Pacific Commands most important base. When I entered the room, there was so much smoke. But I was ready,” said General Yu. “My pistol was drawn. ‘Grenades?' they shouted behind me. ‘No!' I shouted back. ‘No!'”

“And why not?” said Markov.

“Honor,” said General Yu. “He was a fellow warrior who deserved to die fighting. It was so smoky, sparks and a little fire over in the corner where one of those phosphorus grenades had already gone off. Theirs or ours, I don't know. It smelled of burning plastic. The incense of battle, right, Colonel? I could barely see. But I could sense the danger. He fired and I fired back.”

“How many times?” asked Markov, on cue.

“Just once,” said General Yu. “One shot was all I needed.” He put his index finger between his eyes as if to make clear he did not miss.

“General, I am impressed,” said Colonel Markov. He'd had his doubts after the first telling, but the story was actually true; Markov had checked with one of the commandos who'd been with General Yu that day. The weapon had indeed been pried from the dead hands of the Marine base commander killed by the Directorate general himself. But that didn't earn him Markov's respect as a leader.

He passed the SIG Sauer P226 pistol
⁵⁵
back to the general, who might have been good at leading a small unit of men in the heat of a gunfight but who was out of his element in a war that no longer followed his rules. Markov had always thought Americans would make fierce insurgents, so strongly did they believe their national narrative. After the first suicide bomber, at the King's Village shopping plaza in Waikiki, Markov knew he was right. That's why Yu kept telling the damn stories about the opening assault on Honolulu over and over. It was the one day of this war that made sense to him.

“Now to business. We have to deal with the problem at hand decisively,” said General Yu.

“Just like the general you shot,” said Markov.

Yu's fingers twitched and clutched the SIG pistol.

“Exactly. At least he fought with honor. I've lost enough of my men. Every night I record a message for each one's parents, or wife, or maybe a brother. Whoever is left. They deserve to know their loved ones died doing something important. To hear it from me.” The general paused. Markov eyed the massive man, who seemed to grow just a little bit weak at the thought of his nightly ritual. He'd seen it before. Yu was taking the losses from the insurgency personally, a mistake too many tactical leaders made, missing their greater responsibilities.

The huge officer gathered himself and slammed the pistol back on the shelf. “It's time to put a stop to it! To be relentless in our patrols, to follow them where they hide and exact a price for every man of mine they kill.”

“General, my value to you is in my candor,” said Markov quietly. “So let me say that this is all wrong. The people here control our fate; you do not control theirs. It is a lesson I learned the hard way from our own experiences with insurgency. Indeed, even the Americans learned it during their own last few wars.”

“Their lessons of failure are the least we should learn,” said Yu. “We don't need to make friends with them. We need them to acquiesce, and that may require us to show more resolve.”

“And ever more bodies?” said Markov.

“Shanghai is concerned about the optics of these attacks in the run-up to the trade conference with the ASEAN nations. They're sending a high-level delegation to visit the planned locations,” said General Yu.

“Locations? You mean here? A Presidium delegation is coming to Hawaii?” asked Markov.

“Yes, and the son of one of them has just chosen to go missing,” said General Yu. “The idiot's a navy lieutenant, his father's the economics minister . . .”

“All the more reason not to take the insurgents' bait,” said Markov. “You don't need another car bomb or an arson spree right now, not with the delegation coming. Don't provoke the insurgents.”

“Provoke?”
said General Yu. “You fail to grasp the new reality, just as the population fails to see theirs. Let me deal with these criminals my way. Colonel, your job now is to find this lieutenant, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Very well, sir,” said Markov. As he left, he cast a look around the office, taking in the other vulgar trophies from the invasion. A scorched F-35 pilot's helmet sat on a shelf. The American flag that had flown at Camp H. M. Smith was folded in the glass case that also housed the pistol. A cracked gray Honolulu Police SWAT team ceramic vest was affixed to the wall next to a live tactical situation map of Directorate military patrols in the city.

The general had gathered all the totems of his opening-day victory, thought Markov, while failing to see he was on his way to losing a different kind of war.

Pineapple Express Pizza, Honolulu, Hawaii Special Administrative Zone

The first thing Major Conan Doyle noticed was the smell. Warm mozzarella, the sweet tang of tomato sauce, and the pungent funk of fresh Hawaiian marijuana. Her mouth watered, and she clenched her stomach muscles to check the pain in her gut.

They entered through the alley off Ala Moana Boulevard and made their way down to the basement. By the time they reached the bottom step, the food aromas were gone.

“Smells like shit in here,” said Nicks.

“That the dope?” asked Finn.

“Nope,” said Conan. “More likely us.”

The restaurant's owner, Skip, came down a few minutes later with a boar-sausage-and-pineapple pizza. “Can't persuade you to have a broccoli with signature sauce?”

“The last thing my team needs is to get stoned,” said Conan. There were literally a hundred ways to mix marijuana into a pizza. Skip's specialty was infusing it into butter and olive oil, which kept the pungent taste from ruining the tart flavor of a fresh tomato sauce.

“You uniforms are all alike, always stressed out, pills only. But you come back for the house special when the devils are gone,” said Skip. “Got any new footage?”

“Already left it at the dead drop,” she said. “You'll have to wait till you get back Stateside to see it.”

“If that day ever comes.”

“It will,” she assured him and herself.

He handed her a blister pack of red-and-black polka-dot pills. “Ladybugs. For dessert.”

“Thanks, brother,” said Conan.