Sea Of Fire (2003) Read online

  He preferred being a shark.

  They began by waylaying small pleasure boats, tour ships, and party vessels out of Hong Kong and Taipei. The men didn’t even have to board the ships to rob them. They came alongside and pressed plastic explosives low on the hull. The soft, explosive patties were homemade from concussion-ignited mercuric fulminate—a mixture of mercury, alcohol, and nitric acid—paraffin, and linseed oil to keep the wax pliant. That was a contribution of eight-fingered Clark Shunga, a former demolitions man for the lumber industry. Trees that were too difficult to cut down were blasted down. When he lost two fingers to a faulty detonator cap, he was fired with meager compensation. The Woo See Lumber Company was afraid that he would kill someone by mishandling explosives. He showed them that he could still play the guitar, but they were unimpressed. Clark put all of his severance pay—fifty dollars—toward the sampan.

  The pirates would carefully place the plastic explosives fore and aft, a few feet above the waterline. That would keep them dry. It would also make it difficult for anyone to try to dislodge them with a pole or net. They would have to stand there, on the rocking deck, while the pirates shot at them. After the explosives were placed, the sampan would withdraw to a safe distance of between fifteen and twenty feet. Using a megaphone, they would order that valuables, jewels, and occasionally a female hostage be sent over the side in a rowboat or dinghy. They would enjoy the woman’s company for a short while and then set her adrift. If the orders were not followed, they would turn on the laser sight and fire a bullet from one of the M8 pistols that each man carried. The shot would ignite the explosive. To date, the pirates had never found it necessary to destroy a ship.

  The Celebes Sea was still relatively new territory to Lee and the others. They had been sailing this region of the Western Pacific for just two months, since the Singapore navy increased its patrols in the South China Sea. The shipping lanes were different, and the sea itself was different. The waters did not heave up and down or from side to side like other bodies of water. They pitched you back and then drew you forward, thanks to a very strong and constant undertow. It reminded Lee of something his father once said about life: that it lets you move one step ahead and then knocks you back two.

  The sampan was traveling dark. The cabin lights were off, and even the phosphorescent compass was covered with a canvas cloth, so that it would not be seen when they came alongside. They were headed toward two beacons roughly a quarter mile away, the fore and aft running lights of a yacht. It was an eighty-foot two-masted sailing yacht they had spotted while heading to port the previous day. The men had tracked the low, sleek vessel as it headed southeast. It was on an easy course with just a few people on board. It was probably a weeklong charter that cost some fat Aussie or Malaysian about fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, American. It was the perfect prey. This was the third thing Lee Tong knew well: spotting perfect targets. Since organizing the others on that hot, humid, hard-drinking night in Hong Kong, Lee had never picked a loser.

  Until tonight.

  TWO

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:45 P.M.

  The Inn Cognito was located at 7101 Democracy Boulevard in Bethesda. Paul Hood had never been to the new hot spot, but Op-Center’s attorney, Lowell Coffey III, had given it an enthusiastic recommendation. Hood and his undemanding palate were happy with something less chichi. He could do without TV monitors showing tape of blinking eyeballs and snapping fingers. But he was not here alone. He was with Daphne Connors, founder of the cutting-edge Daph-Con advertising agency. The forty-one year-old divorcée had also gotten a thumbs-up from Coffey, who knew the family of her former husband, attorney Gregory Packing, Jr.

  The name of Daphne’s firm appealed to Washingtonians. Especially to the military. The blond-haired Daphne also appealed to Beltway insiders. She had the stylish poise and intensity of a CNN anchorwoman. In addition to handling various Army accounts, she represented hotels and restaurants, including this one. That was how they managed to get a reservation.

  Daphne was quite a contrast to Hood, whose job as the director of Op-Center demanded quiet, steady leadership. The husky-voiced woman was extremely high-energy. She reminded Hood of the late Martha Mackall, Op-Center’s go-get-’em political liaison. Martha had been confident, poised, and always stalking. He didn’t know what she was hunting or why. He was not sure she did, either. But she never stopped.

  Maybe that’s what Martha was really searching for, Hood thought. Understanding.

  Tragically, terrorist bullets ended the life of the forty-nine-year-old African-American woman. Hood was sorry he had not gotten to know her better. From a strictly managerial point of view, he also wished he could have learned how to harness her intensity.

  Hood tried to keep up with the hard-driving Daphne as she described how she established her agency in college with commissions she earned from selling ad space in university newspapers. She told him how it had grown to a global organization that employed over 340 people in the United States alone. In ten minutes she must have used the words push and drive a dozen times each. Hood found himself wondering how their respective organizations would fare if they switched jobs. His guess was that Daph-Con would end up being sold to some insipid conglomerate and homogenized. Op-Center would probably swallow the NSA, the CIA, and possibly Interpol.

  Well, it might not be that extreme, Hood thought. But he had served as mayor of Los Angeles. He had worked on Wall Street. And eight years ago he had returned to government. Hood was fascinated by the different management styles in the public and private sector. He enjoyed the give-and-take of a team, the challenge of reaching a consensus. The need for self-expression that drove someone like Daphne was foreign to him. It was also a little off-putting—not because he disapproved but because he felt intimidated. His former wife, Sharon, had been introspective and very satisfied to go with the family flow. Even the presidents and world leaders Hood had known found it necessary to be team players.

  “Paul?” Daphne said over her ducksalad appetizer.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been to enough pitch meetings to know when someone’s brain is wandering,” she said.

  “No, I’m here,” Hood replied with a smile.

  She gave him a dubious look. It had playful corners around the eyes and mouth, but just barely.

  “You were telling me about the pro bono work you do for the Native American Chumash in California, so that their sacred caves in the Santa Ynez range are protected.”

  The woman relaxed slightly. “All right, you heard me. But that still doesn’t mean you were listening.”

  “I assure you, I was,” he said. “That glazed, unfocused look you saw was the glazed, unfocused eyes of Paul Hood at the end of a long day of bureaucratic conflicts.”

  “I see,” Daphne said. She smiled now. “I understand. Totally.”

  Still, Hood knew that she was right. Years ago, an actor friend in Los Angeles had taught him a trick of the trade. It was called “floating” lines. It was done when performers did not have adequate rehearsal time. You let words into your short-term memory, where they could be accessed. That left the rest of the brain free to observe, muse, and—yes—wander. Hood used the technique to memorize speeches when he was mayor. Since coming to Washington, he had developed floating to an art by attending endless policy briefings that were anything but brief. He could listen, even take notes, while thinking about what he needed to do when he got back to Op-Center.

  Daphne pushed her plate aside and leaned forward. “Paul, I have to confess something.”

  “Why?”

  She laughed. “Funny. Most people would have asked, ‘What?’ ”

  He thought about that. She was right. He did not know why he said that.

  “I haven’t been on a date in seven years,” Daphne said, “and I’m afraid I’ve turned this into something of a dog and pony show.”

  “If it helps, I’m enjoying what you have to say.”

  “You’re sweet, but
I don’t like it,” Daphne said. “I’m acting like I’m at a client pitch. I’m trying too hard to sell myself.”

  “No—”

  “Yes,” she insisted. “You’ve been very patient for the last half hour.”

  “I told you, I’m interested,” he answered truthfully. “I don’t meet many people who run businesses.”

  “No, you meet people who run countries,” Daphne said.

  “Most of whom are not as interesting as you are,” Hood replied. “And that wasn’t a line,” he added.

  That caught her with her guard down. “Talk to me about that.”

  “Most of them had to sandblast their most distinguishing features, make everything smooth to get where they are,” Hood told her. “What’s left is guided by constitutions or surrounded by domestic and international watch-dogs, constituents, and special interests.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” she asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Hood replied. “It prevents dictatorships. But it also slows progress to a glacial pace. The individual leader can’t move without the entire system moving with him or her.”

  “Still, what they do affects more than the bottom line of a very minor privately held company.” She sat back. “What about you?”

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “How you do it,” she replied. “You don’t seem to be one of those bureaucrats who’s always on the make, looking for access.”

  Hood selected a bread stick from the basket. He dabbed it in a dish of olive oil and took a bite. He was not good at this either. When Sharon used to ask him how his day went, he never said much. There was no point starting a lengthy conversation because there were always interruptions. The phone, the kids, something on the stove or in the oven.

  “I’m interested in having the access it takes to do my job, not in collecting it,” Hood replied.

  “An idealist.”

  Hood shrugged a shoulder.

  “Is that a yes?” Daphne pressed.

  Hood looked at her. Daphne had a nice smile. It started at the eyes and made its way down. “Let’s say I try to do what’s right,” he replied. “When I screw up, it’s not out of malice.”

  “So you don’t possess the revenge gene that most people in big government have,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “Bastards invariably cause their own downfall.”

  “And that really works for you?” she asked.

  “It leaves me free to do more constructive things,” Hood said.

  Daphne laughed. “Lord, we are very different people. I hate SOBs or discourtesy or people who beat me at anything.” She regarded him. “I still don’t believe you have absolutely no bloodlust. Tell me if I’m overstepping some kind of first-date rule with this, but I read about those men who took the children hostage in New York. The ones you and your team killed. Didn’t you hate them?”

  “That’s a good question,” Hood replied.

  Daphne was referring to the renegade United Nations peacekeepers who had seized the Security Council during a party. Several children, including Hood’s daughter Harleigh, were among the young musicians providing entertainment. Hood and his number-two man, General Mike Rodgers, entered the chamber and, in a bloody gun battle, freed the captives.

  Daphne was regarding Hood intently.

  “I certainly hated what they did,” he told her.

  “But not them?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered truthfully. “They lost. Victory cost us something. Life always does. But it cost them everything.”

  “So you see it as a net gain for our side,” Daphne said.

  “I’m not quite that dispassionate about it, but yes. More or less,” Hood told her.

  “You’re more philosophical about confrontations than I am,” Daphne told him. The woman leaned forward again. “I hate my enemies, Paul. I despise them from my nose to my toes. And I track them. I follow their activities in the trade magazines and through the cocktail-party circuit. If they are executives in a public company, I check the stock several times a day. Each time it goes down, I’m a happy woman. I don’t miss an opportunity to cut their hamstrings. In fact, I go out of my way to get them.”

  “Well, that’s business,” he said.

  “No, Paul. It’s personal. I personalize it. I personalize everything. You don’t understand that, do you?”

  “It seems a little obsessive to me,” he admitted. “Or maybe that should be for me.”

  “It is obsessive!” Daphne agreed. “Who says that’s a bad thing?”

  “Well, there will always be more enemies,” Hood replied. “You can’t vanquish all of them.”

  “Probably not,” she said.

  “So I don’t see what the benefit is to an ongoing high-intensity conflict,” Hood said.

  “Living,” she said. “You feel passionate about something every second of every day.”

  “The hate doesn’t eat you up?” Hood asked.

  “That’s the point!” she said. “It only eats you up if it stays inside. I channel it, use it as fuel for other things.”

  “I see,” Hood said.

  Not only did Daphne remind Hood of Martha Mackall, but she would get along terrifically with Op-Center’s intelligence chief Bob Herbert. Herbert hated fast and deep and enthusiastically. Hood admired, respected, and trusted him. But if Herbert didn’t have someone to keep him in check, he would constantly struggle between what was right and what was satisfying.

  Daphne sat back again. “So. Now that I’ve turned you off completely, talk to me about whatever you do that isn’t classified.”

  “You didn’t turn me off,” Hood insisted.

  “No?”

  Hood shook his head as he took another bite of bread-stick. “Some of my best friends are sociopaths.”

  The woman gave Hood a twisted little smile.

  That’s promising, Hood thought. She can laugh at herself.

  Hood answered Daphne’s question as she finished her appetizer. He explained that Op-Center was the epithet for the National Crisis Management Center. It was housed in a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, the nondescript, ivory-colored structure was one of two staging areas for flight crews known as NuRRDs—nuclear rapid-response divisions. In the event of a nuclear attack on the nation’s capital, their job would have been to evacuate key officials to safe command centers outside of Washington, D.C. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the NuRRDs, emergency air operations were consolidated elsewhere. The newly evacuated building at Andrews was given over to the newly chartered NCMC.

  Hood told Daphne no more or less than was described in Op-Center’s public charter.

  “The NCMC has two primary functions,” Hood said quietly. Speaking in a loud whisper was a habit he had developed whenever he discussed even declassified Op-Center business in public. “One is preventative. We monitor intelligence reports as well as the mainstream press for possible ‘hot button’ incidents. These are seemingly isolated events that can trigger potential crises or terrorist activities at home and abroad.”

  “Such as?” she asked.

  “The failure of Third World governments to pay their troops, which can lead to revolution and attacks on American interests,” Hood said. “The seizure of a large cache of drugs, which can spur retaliation against law enforcement officers. We make sure local personnel are aware of potential dangers.”

  “So there’s a lot of profiling, intelligent guesswork, that sort of thing,” Daphne said.

  “Exactly,” Hood said. “The other function of Op-Center is to deal with situations that have already started to burn. I can’t go into details, but it’s along the lines of what we did at the United Nations.”

  “Killing bad guys,” Daphne said.

  “Only when necessary,” Hood replied. He said no more.

  Until eight months ago, the crisis-management process relied heavily on the rapid-response military squad known as Striker. After Strik
er was decimated in Kashmir, Hood decided to rely instead on the surgical insertion of deterrent personnel. This allowed Op-Center to undermine enemies from the inside. It might take more time, but it risked fewer lives. If a military presence were required, Rodgers would call in an outside special ops unit.

  The conversation turned to their private lives. Daphne told Hood about her ex-husband and how he was not ambitious enough to satisfy her.

  “He was a partner in his father’s law firm, a very powerful and high-profile firm,” she said. “But he preferred riding horses to working with cases. I tried to get interested in that, but the smell and the empty shmoozing just drove me crazy. Especially since that was as high as he ever aimed.”

  “Didn’t you know what kind of man he was when you married him?” Hood asked.

  “I was twenty-two,” she said. “I didn’t know anything. I had spent my teenage years building my little advertising business. I thought it would be fun to hook up with a man who knew how to relax and had the means to do so. I didn’t count on losing respect for him.”

  Hood laughed. “I had just the opposite problem,” he said. “My wife wasn’t happy with the way Op-Center monopolized my time. I actually quit for a few days, but I couldn’t stay away.”

  “Did you know it was costing you your marriage?” Daphne asked.

  “Not until the account was overdue,” Hood said. “I knew Sharon was unhappy, but I didn’t think she was that unhappy.”

  “So she initiated it?”

  Hood nodded.

  “How do you get along now?” Daphne asked.

  “Okay,” Hood said. “She’s flexible with visitation and all that. But we were never really best friends. I suppose that was a problem all along.”

  “I agree,” Daphne said. “You have to like someone to be their friend. You don’t have to like them to be married to them. Actually, I’ve developed a simple test for that.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I call it the sandbox test. If you and your potential mate were dropped in a sandbox, could you have fun there for twenty-four hours? Could you build castles or have a little Zen garden or pretend you were on a beach? Could you improvise a game of Battleship or draw pictures? Could you do something other than have sex or wish you were somewhere else? If the answer is yes, then that’s a person you should consider being with.”