Gideon's War/Hard Target (4 page)

Until his hand began to tremble.

I can’t, he thought. Not even now.

He let the gun slip from his grip and watched as it dropped into the water, leaving only a ripple, which quickly went still. Although the water couldn’t have been more than a few feet deep, he couldn’t see the gun in the muddy darkness.

The noise was getting louder, the shouts more intense.

What was he waiting for? Time to get out of here. Floating listlessly on the brown water was the map Prang had shown him only a few minutes ago. On it was the location of the t guáon of theown where he was supposed to meet his brother. Kampung Naga. He grabbed the map, shoved it into his back pocket.

Tiny cubes of glass raked his body and fell away as he shimmied through the jagged remains of the window. All the sloshing sounds and shouting were coming from the driver’s side. For a moment he hunkered behind the car, wondering if they’d seen him yet, although he didn’t think they had.

Gideon’s first impulse was to run. But the little computer in his brain—the one that took over when time slowed down—told him that he’d never make it. There were too many of them. And it was a good hundred yards to the edge of the paddy.

As if to confirm his thought, he watched as one of Prang’s soldiers struggled from the wrecked front seat of the car. He was covered in blood. But he still carried his MP5. He fired two quick bursts over the underside of the car, then made a break for the berm at the edge of the paddy.

Before he’d gone five steps, he was hit three times and went down like a marionette that had its strings cut.

One part of Gideon’s mind watched calmly, almost pleased at the confirmation of his earlier analysis, while the other part stared in horror.

What now?

And then he knew. The pipe. The general’s pipe was floating nearby, like a buoy marking a channel. Gideon snatched it from the water. The bowl was still warm from its recent load of burning tobacco as he tore it off, then put the stem in his mouth and slowly, calmly, lay back into the murky water. He pushed himself away from the car, splaying out his arms and sinking his fingers into the slimy mud. He closed his eyes, and pulled himself under the surface of the water.

It was a trick right out of the silly adventure books he’d read when he was a kid—the Indian hiding underwater and breathing through a reed as he hid from the enemy. Was it really possible? Could he get enough air through the tiny hole? Would whoever had just ambushed them be able to see him?

He had no answer to these questions.

He simply concentrated on calming his heart, slowing his breathing. He could hear a soft whistle through the pipe stem as he drew his breath in and out. It took some effort, but he was able to draw just enough air through the pipe stem to breathe.

He could hear the splashing of the assailants. Nearer and nearer. Then a gunshot. Then another. Muffled voices shouting. Another shot.

Then silence.

In. Out. In. Out.

His hands started losing their grip on the mud. If he lost his grip, his body would float up when he took a deep breath and they’d see him. He tried to move his hands as slowly as possible, worming them deeper into the muck.

More splashing. The killers were moving slowly around the car. It was obvious they hadn’t spotted him. Yet. He tried to calm his quickening heart.

In. Out. In. Out.

If his heart beat too fast, he wouldn’t be able to take in enough air and he’d have to break the surface in order to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

to á0em">He began counting. One, in. Two, out. Three, in. Four, out.

The splashing continued. Sometimes moving closer, sometimes farther away.

Sixty-one, in. Sixty-two, out. Sixty-three, in . . .

The splashing continued for a long time. Maybe they were looting the car, taking the weapons. Maybe searching for intelligence material. It was impossible to know.

Gideon reached a count of 2,440 before he realized that the splashing had stopped. He had been concentrating so hard on his breathing that he hadn’t even noticed them moving away.

CHAPTER SIX

AT TWELVE THOUSAND, GIDEON opened his eyes again. Pale light still filtered through the murky water, but the sun was getting lower. He closed his eyes and kept breathing and counting.

At fifteen thousand, he forced his eyes open long enough to see that night had finally fallen. He sat up slowly, concentrating on not making any sound. As his face broke the surface, he looked around. The only light came from a hut at the far side of the paddy. He rose and walked as slowly as he could toward what he believed to be the road.

He was shivering as he climbed onto the berm. He lay gasping on the dry earth for a few minutes before finally rising to his knees. The air was probably close to ninety degrees, but the water had been cold enough to lower his core temperature several degrees. He was shaking so violently he felt as if he might fall over if he stood. But he knew he had to start moving—both to distance himself from the ambush site and to get warm.

Gideon began walking slowly down the side of the road. His tuxedo was soaked and stinking. Manure appeared to be the fertilizer of choice here. Gideon smiled ruefully. Fifteen hours earlier, he’d been sitting on top of the world, at the center of its attention. And now, here he was, creeping around some forgotten part of the world, absurdly dressed and smelling of shit.

What surprised him most was how good he felt. Not just good, but vibrantly, gloriously alive. Why? he thought. Was it just a natural reaction, endorphins running wild after nearly getting killed? Or was it something else? Gideon didn’t have much time to consider the question. Before he’d gone more than a few yards, he heard something moving toward him. A rustling in the tall grass. He sank to his haunches. The sound grew closer. A sentry? A farmer? Suddenly the rustling sound gave way to a ferocious bark. A dog. His heart began to race. The dog sounded like some kind of monster.

He knew that if he ran, it would catch him. Better to prepare to fight. He picked up a fallen branch from a nearby tree and braced himself for confrontation.

From the volume and pitch of its bark, he had pictured some giant slobbering beast, a mastiff or a Doberman. So when he saw the little mutt bursting into the clearing, he laughed. Still, he feared the dog’s furious barking would draw the unwanted attention of some villager.

He crouched down and held out his hand.

The dog stopped, hurled a few more tentative barks at him, then approached him cautiously. Finally it sniffed his hand. One quick sniff, then it quivered all over, as if it was trying to shake off the stink.

“I know . . .” Gideon patted the dog on the head. “I smell like a goat fart.”

The dog ran a quick lap around him.

Gideon decided he’d better keep moving. Although the dog had quieted down to a breathless pant, someone might still come out to investigate. He moved as quickly down the road as he could without making noise. The dog trotted after him. The berm on which the road was situated ran as far as he could see. Which wasn’t very far. But he remembered a tree line in the distance, maybe half a mile down the road. If he could get into the jungle, he felt confident he could avoid being discovered.

Twice on the way down the road, cars passed by. Each time he was forced to slip off the side of the berm and back into the foul-smelling mud of the adjoining rice paddy. The first vehicle just barreled past him. But the second slowed, then stopped. He heard the sound of harsh voices, then someone jumped out of the vehicle.

Click.

The sound of a rifle being cocked. Probably an AK. Jihadis? Probably. Gideon shivered. He still wasn’t close to being warm yet.

Footsteps, moving toward him. Gideon flattened himself against the berm. He considered slithering back into the water again, but he was afraid he might be heard. So he stayed pressed against the warm earth, which stilled his shivering body.

Suddenly the footsteps stopped, replaced by a chorus of raucous laughter. Then a thump and yelp.

It took Gideon a moment to figure out what it was. One of the men had apparently kicked the poor animal. As much as Gideon wanted to kick the man back, he stayed put.

Doors slammed and the vehicle skidded away, throwing up a shower of gravel.

Gideon waited until the engine noise had faded before he climbed over the berm. The dog lay on the ground, whimpering.

“You okay, boy?” He bent over and stroked the dog’s flank. It slowly rose to its feet, licked his hand, then began limping toward the tree line. “You and me both,” Gideon said softly.

The tree line was visible now, the tops of the trees frosted with silver. The moon was starting to rise. That was good. He’d be able to make better progress with some light.

By the time he reached the trees, the moon was visible. A full moon. Bright enough that he could see every leaf on the trees, every stone and blade of grass on the ground.

As he moved into the jungle, the dog followed, limping gamely along after him. He turned, dropped to the ground, and patted its head. “Okay, gimpy, time to head home.”

The dog didn’t budge, looking up at him with pleading black eyes.

“Go home!” He snapped his finger, pointed back toward the village. “Go!”

The dog cocked its head and blinked, st

Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, the dog trotted off into the woods. It was a silly thing, but the moment he realized the dog wasn’t coming back Gideon felt afraid.

CHAPTER SEVEN

KATE MURPHY HEAVED A sigh of relief as the Sikorsky Sea King hit the deck of the Obelisk. She hadn’t slept well on the plane, frazzled from the stress of testifying in Washington and anticipating the major problem she’d been having with her rig. Its motion-damping system was in desperate need of repair. To top it all off, her BlackBerry was still on the fritz.

But the air calmed her nerves. Jet fuel and seawater. Back in Washington, she’d felt frightened and out of place. Here, in the middle of the South China Sea, at least she knew what she was up against.

As soon as she stepped onto the deck of the Obelisk, she spotted the tool pusher, Big Al Prejean, her number two on the rig. He was a bear of a man about twenty years her senior, and right now he didn’t look very happy.

“Did you get my messages, chérie?” he shouted, shielding his face from flying debris with a clipboard. Even with the roar of the chopper, Big Al’s Cajun accent was unmistakable.

The world Kate worked in was an intensely macho one. In all the years she’d worked on oil rigs, she’d never allowed anyone to call her babe or hon. Except for Big Al. He was an exception. He wasn’t just a legend in the drilling business, he was her best friend. So even though she was his boss, she let him call her chérie—the French word for “dear.”

“My BlackBerry died,” she said. “I didn’t get any messages.”

Kate had flown in with some welders who were now descending the stairs with their equipment. Prejean waited until the last one disappeared below deck before he spoke. “I was wondering why you didn’t call me back.”

“Call you about what?” Kate said.

“Don’t you feel it?”

She squinted at him curiously, about to ask him what he was talking about, when she felt the vibration through the soles of her boots. A tremor so subtle that you wouldn’t notice it unless you spent a lot of time on oil rigs. Then it stopped. Then there it was again. Not too strong, but still troubling.

“Yeah. I feel it.”

Prejean pointed at the blue waves rolling slowly beneath the platform. “There’s a typhoon east of the Philippines. Right now, the waves are running eighteen, twenty feet.”

Her face creased with concern. “I need the latest weather report.”

“Forecast says the typhoon’s heading north. The chance of it hitting us is less than five percent, so we should be okay.”

Al’s assurance left her om" t‡ddly unsatisfied. Underscoring this was her creeping realization that something else was wrong. Once the chopper was gone, she realized what it was.

The noise. Rather, the absence of it. There was never a time when an oil rig didn’t have noise, the relentless cacophony of generators and compressors, flame-offs and crane motors. She surveyed the drill deck. One forty-foot string of pipe hung listlessly from a chain, swaying in the wind. The drill deck was deserted.

This was a billion-dollar oil rig with a complement of nearly a hundred personnel. Labor and interest on investment ran forty thousand bucks an hour. Every minute you weren’t drilling, you were hemorrhaging money into the ocean.

“What the hell’s going on?” she said sharply.

“You didn’t get any of my messages?”

She shook her head.

Big Al shifted uneasily. “Visitors,” he said. “Some bureaucrat from the White House is hitting the deck in an hour with an official delegation.”

“They’re coming here?”

“Yeah. For some kind of press conference.”

“I didn’t authorize this.”

“It came straight from the top. From Mr. MacLesh himself.”

Kate winced. Gil MacLesh was the CEO of Trojan Energy. “This rig’s been operating for over a year,” she protested. “We’re already pumping twenty-five thousand gallons a day. Why do they need a media event now?”

“Because of what’s happening on the mainland. Since you’ve been away, the situation’s gotten worse. They’re afraid it could turn into a fullblown civil war. Mr. MacLesh says the president wants to demonstrate his support for the Sultan.”

“By staging a PR stunt on our rig.”

“Something like that.”

Kate made a face of disgust. She’d had her fill of politicians and their reckless manipulation.

Big Al spread his hands apologetically. “I sent you a dozen e-mails.”

She exhaled, resigning herself to the fact that she had no choice in the matter. She ran her hands through her hair and realized how desperately she needed a shower. “Follow me,” she said. “I want you to brief me about this media event while I’m in the shower.”

Big Al smiled. “Let me shower with you, chérie. You’ll be able to hear me better.”

“If I catch you even trying to peek, I’m gonna smite you with great vengeance.”

“You and whose army?”

She punched him in the shoulder. Hard.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said, massaging his bruised muscle.

All the tension Kate had been carrying drained from her as the scalding water cascaded over her head and down her naked boIf �€dy.

“First things first,” she said. “How’s the damper housing holding up?”

Where most oil rigs operated in fairly shallow water, the Obelisk towered eight hundred feet above the ocean floor. Stabilizing a structure as tall as a skyscraper had been a major challenge for the engineering team behind the Obelisk. They’d come up with a novel and ingenious solution—a semicompliant tower designed to sway like a reed in a river, but which also contained active and passive damping systems designed to counteract that sway when currents and waves reached a certain magnitude. Which was great in theory. Except somewhere along the way from theory to practice, something had gone wrong.

“The passive damping system is shit,” Big Al said. “Every time I send a diver down there, they come back with more bad news.”

“I’m tired of hearing thirdhand reports on this thing,” Kate said. “As soon as these VIPs leave, I’m going down there to inspect it myself.”

“Can you spell delegation, chérie? Let the pros dive.”

After her father went bankrupt for the fourth time, Kate had spent two years working as a diver and welder in the Gulf, until she’d saved enough money to pay her way through Stanford. “I am a pro, Al.”

“Not anymore you’re not. You’re the company man on this rig. You need to start acting like one. Stand in the control room and shout obscenities at people.”

She laughed until she suddenly remembered what Big Al had told her. “You said there’s a five percent chance this typhoon comes our way—”

“It won’t,” Big Al interrupted.

“What happens if it does?”

Big Al took a moment to answer. “If these seas get much higher before we reinforce the housing, the whole goddamn thing’s gonna crater.”

As if on cue, another tremor shook the rig. She felt it through the steel bottom of the shower. A year into operation, and the rig was in danger of shaking itself apart.

“One piece of good news is that Cole Ransom is coming out on the same chopper as the media suits.”

Kate had corresponded extensively with the engineer, who was confident that he could come up with a retrofit to fix the passive damper. Ransom told her he had a rough plan, but he needed to scout the location first and run some tests before nailing down the final details. In the meantime, he would direct the welders to make some temporary fixes that would shore up the system until the full retrofit was complete.

Kate lathered her hair and tried to focus. But in her fatigued state, her mind wandered, and she laughed, realizing this was the closest her naked body had been to a man in nearly two years.

“What’s so funny about a retrofit?” Big Al asked innocently.

“Nothing,” she lied, before quickly covering, “I’m just thinking about how ridiculous my time was in Washington.”

“Did you watch the news while you weto �€re there?”

“You know me, Al. I never watch the news.”

“Your hearing got a lot of play. Trojan got bashed. Some guy on CNN basically called Mr. MacLesh a liar. Maybe MacLesh thinks we’ll get some good publicity from this visit.”

“It’s a waste of time and money.” She turned off the water. “Hand me my towel, would you?”

A hairy arm appeared through the gap in the shower curtain, holding her towel. She wrapped herself, then stepped out.

“On a more positive note, though, Bill O’Reilly said you were hot. Although personally, I don’t approve of that kind of sexist remark.”

“Who’s Bill O’Reilly?”

“You really don’t watch the news, do you?”

She smiled at Big Al in the mirror, then started combing her wet hair. “So who’s coming from the White House?”

“Some old boy by the name of Earl Parker. He’s the national security advisor, or something like that.”

“This is an oil rig, not a freaking battleship. Why is the president sending some national security guy here?”

“I told you why. Because of what’s happening on the mainland.”

“Who else is he coming with?”

“You’ve met the ambassador. The Honorable J. Randall Stearns. Didn’t he ask you out a few months ago?”

“Yes.”

“And you said ‘no.’”

“He’s not my type.”

“No one is ever your type.”

“Let’s not talk about this now, all right? I’ll meet you in the control room in a few minutes.”

“You can’t be alone forever, chérie.”

“Out.”

Big Al grinned, then closed the door behind him.