Seawolf Class

13

Garrett walked onto the main concourse of Hong Kong's airport, feeling a bit dazed. The place was titanic, everything built on a scale of giants, as if to make ordinary mortals feel even smaller and more helpless than they were.

It was a place of superlatives. He'd heard that the Chep Lap Kok terminal was the largest single airport building in the world, and the world's largest enclosed public space — an area of 500,000 square meters, or ten times the size of Wembley Stadium in the United Kingdom. Someone had told him that the baggage claim area alone was the size of Yankee Stadium in New York City. The place was supposed to be handling eighty million passengers a year in another decade or two, making it the busiest airport in the world, as well as the world's largest.

As he passed into the East Hall, he entered what was touted as the largest retail space in any airport, dozens upon dozens of shops, restaurants, cafes and snack shops… even public rest rooms, which were in shockingly short supply throughout Hong Kong itself.

The place seemed curiously empty at the moment, however. With the Taiwan Crisis in full vigor, many flights into Hong Kong had been cancelled, and many more were coming in almost empty. Those passengers visible in the concourse were huddled in tiny knots about various shops and counters. The majority appeared to be business people trying to book flights out of the country as quickly as possible.

War, Garrett thought wryly, can be very bad for business.

At the security checkpoint, they weren't allowing nonticketed passengers through to the gate area. Even the PRC was clamping down at its airports, guarding against what had so far been primarily a scourge in the West — the use of hijacked airliners as guided missiles in the War on Terrorism. PLA soldiers and militia, in red-trimmed olive uniforms and with AK assault rifles slung over their shoulders, stood at key access points around the concourse and at the security gates, scrutinizing everyone who passed — especially the non-Asiatics. Garrett was stopped twice by soldiers and asked to produce his papers; his Navy ID let him pass each time, but the hassle was annoying.

He thought it intriguing that, though the Taiwan Crisis was turning into a face-off between China and the United States, he wasn't being stopped because he was American, and in the military, albeit in civilian clothing. They were looking for terrorists, and stopping him because he was foreign, even though he didn't fit the profiling guidelines.

And no matter what his race, nationality, or occupation, they would not let him through the security checkpoint without a ticket.

So he found a comfortable place to wait, taking a bench where he could watch the trickle of people flowing in from the Y-shaped gate corridors beyond. It was fortunate the crowds were so light. The arching entranceway was broad enough that it would have been tough to pick out an individual in the usual mobs that filled the place in more relaxed times. A bank of flight information monitors reassured him that the JAL flight from Tokyo was on time.

And, just thirty-five minutes after her flight was due in, there she was, walking out of the gateway in her trim, dark, flight-attendant's uniform, trundling her small suitcase on its casters behind her. He rose from the bench and went to meet her.

"Tom!"

He grinned as he took her in his arms. "Konichiwa, beautiful."

"K-Konichiwa yourself. I wasn't expecting you to meet me!"

"Thought I'd surprise you. Things were squared away on the boat and they didn't need me as OOD, so… " They kissed.

The kiss started as a quick smooch, but swiftly degenerated into a long, comfortable hello, with rich promise for later. Garrett pulled back when he realized a number of people in the concourse were staring at them.

"Uh, we might need to find a place more private," he said.

She laughed. "There you go, Tom, frightening the locals again!"

"Well, watching's free."

"Uh-huh. And maybe we should take this show inside."

He looked around. "We are inside."

His eyes met those of a Chinese man standing near the security checkpoint, perhaps twenty yards across the concourse. It was hard to read the bland expression, but Garrett thought he saw disapproval there, and possibly anger.

Different people, different customs. The Chinese tended to be conservative and traditional. Expressions of public affection between men and women were frowned upon, though allowances were made for foreigners, who were automatically thought of as a bit crazy to begin with. It was the same in Japan, actually. Kazuko was so thoroughly western in her attitudes, beliefs, dress, and speech that it was easy to forget and give her a hug or a kiss or simply walk with her hand in hand, and garner disapproving stares from the local people. "Frightening the locals" was their private, joking term for it.

Kazuko noticed the watching man. Others in the concourse were looking at the two of them as well, openly staring, but only the first man seemed to be doing so with open hostility. "I think that guy doesn't like gwailos."

"Let's get out of here. Have you eaten?"

"Actually, yes. At the airport in Tokyo, before the flight." She gave him a sidelong look. "You?"

"I'm fine. What I want to eat doesn't involve food."

"Oooh, I was hoping you'd say that. Come on, Lion. Let's check into my room, and we'll see about dessert."

Arm in arm, they walked across the East Hall toward the airport hotel.

The entire group, American and Russian, was steadily sinking deeper into a buzzing, light-headed whirl of inebriation. The Russians clearly had the head start in that direction, but the Seawolves were coming on strong. Ken Queensly alone maintained a reasonably clear head… clear, at least, of alcoholic fumes. The strangeness of the evening, the surroundings, and the company, plus the promise of things to come, however, had him feeling a bit drunk himself, and he'd had nothing stronger than a succession of overpriced soft drinks.

"We should get over to the Fuk Wai," Larimer said at last, slamming an empty glass onto the tabletop with an air of finality. "Have to teach Queenie what… what life is all about!"

"Suits me," Toynbee said. "Much more of this panther piss and I'm sozzled."

"Sozzled?" Ritthouser said. "Chief, you were sozzle — sozz — sozzelated an hour ago."

"That's what I said, isn't it? You ready, Queenie?"

"I'm… not so sure about this, Chief."

" Sure y'are! We got a fund goin', the guys an' me. Guarantees ya an A-number-one time."

"What is this Fuk you are talking?" one of the Russians asked. He was a burly michman, the equivalent of a warrant officer in the Russian Navy, and his name was Dimitri. Queensly hadn't heard a last name.

For some reason, that made the other Americans at the table crumble into gales of laughter. "It's this place up the road," Queensly explained to the bemused Russians as the others fought for breath. "A, um, brothel."

"No, not a brothel!" Toynbee managed to say, gasping past the laughter. "Not quite! This is a high-class joint. A hostess club. But, um, if you have the money, you can make special arrangements with the girls…."

The Russians found this most fascinating, and for several moments they spoke among themselves in rapid-fire Russian, punctuated by bursts of, "Da, da, da!"

"Why don't you guys come along, Dimitri?" Larimer asked. "Make this a truly international party?"

"In spirit of comrades and — and good friendship, da!"

They paid their tabs and made their way out onto the street. Somehow, they ended up walking arm in arm up the middle of Hankow Road, past the shops and kiosks and garishly lit bars, with the Russians singing the "Internationale" and the Americans, who knew the tune but not the words, humming along in ragged chorus.

The Fuk Wai was on Hankow close to the intersection with Peking Road, with an almost invisible door tucked in between a tattoo parlor and an electronics store. Narrow and rickety steps led up to a larger, gold-painted door with an ornate, dragon-headed knocker. The sailors were admitted by a tough-looking fireplug of a man in a pinstripe suit and dark glasses who looked like the perfect parody of a Hong Kong gangster film.

Inside was an odd mix of bar and lounge, with comfortable sofas, garish lighting, and tons of crimson gossamer curtains. A stage and runway at one end provided the venue for a pair of naked women bumping and grinding away to the thump of rock music. Other customers were scattered about on the sofas or at tables, most in the company of attractive young women wearing high heels, jewelry, brightly colored panties, and nothing else.

A quartet of topless women met the sailors as they gathered in the entranceway. "Ooh, I want this one," one of them said, running her hands over Toynbee's beefy arm. "He so strong!"

"Thanks, baby, but why don't you spend some time with my buddy Queenie, here?" He winked. "There'll be a good tip in it if you treat him extra nice!"

"You got it, sailor. You come with me, Queenie…."

"Uh… it's 'Queensly.' "

She made a face. "That what I say. You like Hong

Kong?"

The next half hour was one of the stranger periods of time in Queensly's life. The woman, who said her name was either "DeeDee" or "TiTi" — even Queensly's sharp ears couldn't quite cut through the thick layers of her accent — led him to a table where she ordered drinks. He tried for another Coke, but she wanted him to order a mao-tai. "You try! You try!" she insisted, then leaned over and nibbled on his earlobe for emphasis. "You like lots, you see!" she whispered, and the sensation that sizzled up his spine was like a lightning bolt, guaranteed to make him agree to just-damn-about anything.

TiTi seemed like a nice girl to him. They talked about this and that… the sights in Hong Kong, the pleasant weather, the mao-tai—which, when it arrived, was colorless, odorless, and slightly greasy — but his tentative first sip went down with a sudden spurt of raw flame that left Queensly gasping for air and brought tears to his eyes.

"No, no, you drink all, drink quick," TiTi told him. "Gon bui! Gon bui!"

He drank the rest quickly, marveling as he did so that the second swallow wasn't quite as vicious as the first. TiTi ordered another round for them both; she was drinking something dark and sweet, which smelled like tea. He wondered why she wasn't drinking mao-tais.

After his second drink, that didn't seem to matter, much.

They continued talking, with TiTi leaning close on folded arms that framed and nicely accentuated her naked breasts. He learned that she was from a village in the interior of Guangdong Province called Lian-ping, and she claimed to be just seventeen years old… though the crow's-feet showing through the makeup at the corners of her eyes made him suspect she was exaggerating on the low side for the tourist trade. She was fascinated by his stories of growing up in small-town Ohio and seemed dismayed that Ohio had neither rice fields nor sugarcane.

The idea, he assumed, was to have sex with this woman eventually, but she didn't seem to be in a hurry. He was embarrassed about not knowing the rules of the game and even more embarrassed about not knowing how to talk to this woman about it. He had had sex… once… two days before he'd reported to Great Lakes for boot camp. That had been with Tricia Brown in the backseat of his dad's Chevy, in the driveway of Trish's suburban home. Trish had never taken off anything but her underpants, though, for fear that passing drivers would see the two of them grappling in the car, and the exercise had been awkward, clumsy, and conducted almost entirely by touch. TiTi was wearing nothing but bright green thong panties, little more, really, than a tiny delta of silk and some string, and the sight of her small, perfect breasts transfixed him to the point where he was having trouble looking up at her face.

Damn. The closest he'd ever been to a woman's bared nipples before had been in the pages of Playboy. These nipples were large, erect, and appeared to be rouged, and there were tiny silver sprinkles adhering to the skin of her breasts. He wanted to reach out with his fingertips and see if the glitter came off… but still wasn't sure about the rules for such things.

For her part, TiTi chattered on in her accented singsong English, talking about this and that, but without any real erotic content to the conversation at all, which confused him. A third mao-tai appeared at the table… or was this the fourth? He couldn't remember. And by then TiTi was pressed up against him in a most arousing manner, her right hand kneading his thigh while her left rested on his shoulder or playfully stroked the back of his neck and ears.

"I… think I've had enough," he said. He felt strange, woozy and light-headed, unwilling to even try to stand up. He had doubts about whether he would be able to stay standing if he did.

"No, you finish drink, yes?" she said. "Gon bui!"

"What does 'gon bui' mean?"

"Is like…empty your glass. Drink up! Be happy!"

"I'm happy. But if I drink another of these things, I'm not going to be happy."

"You feel… sick?"

"No. I'm not feeling much of anything right now. Sort of like I'm dead."

"Okay, then, sailor. You rest now." She got up, picked up her drink, and walked away, buttocks twitching enticingly around her thong panties. He struggled to sit upright. Had he said something wrong? TiTi was joining three of the Russians and another topless hostess at another table, laughing vivaciously.

After a long time, he decided the need to use the rest room was overcoming his need to stay safely and immobilely seated. He managed to find the toilets, but a beefy guard demanded twenty Hong Kong dollars for the privilege of using them. By the time he made it back to the main room, an argument was in progress.

"Nyet! Nyet! Is not fair!" Dimitri was towering over one of the women, shouting at her. She was standing toe-to-toe with the Russian, staring at him defiantly and shouting right back in bursts of staccato Chinese.

Queensly joined Toynbee, Larimer, Ritthouser, and Bennett at one of the tables. "What's going on?"

"I think our Russian friends are a little bent about the bar tab."

"Hell," Bennett added. "I don't blame them! Do you know we're paying just for the privilege of talking to these girls?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Here's yours," Toynbee said. "They brought it out while you were in the head."

He studied the slip of paper for a moment, with dawning horror. If he was understanding these figures right, he was paying for five mai-tais, five "specials," whatever those were, and an hour of "companionship," plus a cover charge for the stage show, and tip… the total came to nearly HK$2,500.

The current exchange rate was about eight Hong

Kong dollars per U.S. dollar, but still, over three hundred dollars for a few drinks and a discussion about why you couldn't grow sugarcane in Ohio seemed a little steep.

"I don't think I had this many drinks," Queensly said, frowning.

Ritthouser looked at his tab and shook his head mournfully. "I had a different notion about what it meant to come here and get screwed."

"So did the Russkis," Toynbee observed. "Heads up, people. We've got trouble."

A pair of the tough-looking, gangster-stylish thugs had appeared, incongruous in their Hollywood-image dark glasses. One was the fireplug who'd met them at the door. The other was overweight and belligerent, but young, possibly still in his teens. They were confronting several of the Russians, shouting at them in broken English and rapid-fire Chinese. "You pay!" was the most intelligible refrain. "You pay and get out!"

"You know," Toynbee said, "I think the management of this place has changed. They didn't used to be this unfriendly."

The rest of the Russians were gathering around their shipmates, followed by several of the hostesses. Queensly saw with surprise that Haskell and Shaeffer were with them, enthusiastically joining in with the argument.

"We'd better get those two out of here," Larimer observed.

"Who's going to get us out?" Bennett said. He nodded toward another couple of teenage bouncers who'd just appeared behind them, blocking the way out. Both kids had their hands theatrically inside their jackets, as though drawing hardware.

"You make trouble, too?" one demanded. "You pay now!"

"You guys have a lot to learn about good public relations," Toynbee said. He reached for his wallet….

Queensly wasn't sure who threw the first punch. The fight appeared to break out among the Russians, but in an instant Ritthouser and Larimer had tackled one of the nearer thugs, and Toynbee and Bennett were wrestling with the other. Behind him, one of the Russians was flying head first across the bar as hostesses shrieked and scattered. Glass exploded. The naked dancers on the stage screamed and ducked behind the curtains.

A semiautomatic handgun skittered across the parquet floor. Almost without thinking, Queensly scooped the weapon up, fumbled with the safety, then pointed the muzzle toward the ceiling. "Attention on deck!" he screamed, his voice a little too shrill. He squeezed the trigger. But nothing happened. Two more bouncer types had entered the room, guns drawn. They didn't seem to notice that Queensly was armed, though; he dragged the slide back and chambered a round, then fired at the ceiling again.

The pistol banged, the noise impossibly loud in the curtain-draped room. "I said attention on deck! You guys, drop 'em!"

The bouncers, eyes masked by their sunglasses but jaws agape, dropped their pistols and raised their hands. The fistfight ended as suddenly as it began, and Russians and Americans were disentangling themselves from the Chinese.

What the hell am I doing? Queensly thought wildly. This is getting way out of hand! "Let's get out of here!" he shouted. One of the bouncers took a step forward, and Queensly fired a second shot into the ceiling, sending glass spraying from a crystal-dripping chandelier. That stopped the advance, but two of the Chinese had the Russian who'd gone over the bar in their grip. The Russian sailor appeared to be dazed or unconscious. Two of his buddies started toward him, shouting at the bouncers.

That started another fight, and a wild struggle over the dazed man's body. Larimer and Ritthouser joined the fray then, knocking the Chinese away while one of the Russians slung their buddy over his shoulder and started for the stairs.

"Time to get the hell out of Dodge!" Toynbee shouted. "Come on, you guys!"

And that, Queensly thought, was an excellent idea.

But one that came too late. The Americans and Russians were moving together toward the front door when the shrill squeal of whistles sounded from outside and in the stairwell. A moment later a mix of Hong Kong police and PLA militia were spilling into the lounge, all of them with drawn weapons, their response time a little too quick to be believed.

Bennett collided with a PLA militia man, and the two struggled at the front door. The bouncers charged again, one of them straight into a chair swung roundhouse-style by Dimitri.

Someone shrieked something in Chinese, and Toyn-bee added, "Queensly! Drop the gun! Move slow!"

Queensly was suddenly aware that a half-dozen men were standing around him in a ragged semicircle, guns drawn, every weapon pointed straight at him. Moving very slowly, he put the pistol on the floor, then straightened up, hands in the air. The police closed in.

And something hard connected with the back of Queensly's skull in an explosion of light and pain and swiftly expanding darkness.

Garrett lay in bed next to Kazuko, savoring the warm, moist fragrance of her body, the warmth of her skin, the perfume of her hair spilling across the pillow. Their lovemaking had been enthusiastic and repeated, and they both floated in the pleasant, warm afterglow of close, loving sex.

"Again?" she asked him, her hand restlessly caressing.

"Jeez, give a guy a break, will you? I need some recovery time here."

"And here I thought you American sailors were always ready!"

"That's the Boy Scouts."

"No, they're always prepared. We're going to have to fortify you, give you vitamins."

"I'll give you vitamins." He nipped her playfully on the neck.

"Ah! I know. There's a drink you have to try," she told him. "An Okinawan variety of sake."

"Oh?"

"Very good for impotency."

"Hey! Who said I was impotent? I just came three times!"

"Who's counting?"

"You are, evidently. What's this Okinawan sake? I'm not much of a drinker, you know."

"Oh, you would like this. You take sake… place within it the body of a small, dead, poisonous snake—"

"Whoa, babe! You just lost me, right there! No snakes, dead or otherwise!"

"— and let it ripen for one month. The snake is completely dissolved except for the skeleton."

"And I thought doing the worm with a bottle of tequila was disgusting!"

"Doing the worm?"

"Never mind. This stuff cures impotency? I'd think it would kill you!"

"I suppose you could call it kill or cure…."

Someone pounded on the hotel room door, a heavy thump-thump-thump demanding entrance. A sharp voice barked something in Chinese outside.

"What the hell?" Garrett said. He sat up in the bed, reaching for the light.

The door opened and a small mob poured into the room. All were in civilian clothing, but their close-cropped hair and hard eyes gave them the look of military personnel. One was waving a Makarov pistol that looked government-issue, and the others had Chinese-model AKs. A maid was with them, wide-eyed and crying and holding a set of room keys; one of the men shouted at her and she fled.

Garrett rose to confront them, furious, "What the hell are—"

"Quiet! You stand! Up hands! Back of head! Now!"

Two men dragged Kazuko from the bed kicking and struggling; Garrett lunged forward, grappling with the man with the pistol. "Let her go!"

A rifle butt slammed into Garrett's back with a dizzying explosion of pain, knocking him to his knees. The one with the pistol kicked him viciously in the side. "You stand! You stand!"

One of them hit Kazuko in the face, then slammed her up against the wall, pinning her there. Rough hands dragged Garrett to his feet and shoved him into line next to her. The one with the pistol — the leader, Garrett thought — jammed the muzzle of his weapon hard up under the angle of his jaw.

They were forced to stand there, stark naked, side by side, their hands clasped behind their heads as two of the intruders proceeded to empty Kazuko's suitcase on the floor, paw through her travel case in the bathroom, and pull every drawer out of the dresser. One then produced a knife and began slicing the lining of her suitcase, ripping open seams and tearing out the pockets.

They were looking for something, obviously. Drugs? Hong Kong was the center of a flourishing trade in heroin, opium, cocaine, and most other drugs. Sometimes the Beijing authorities cracked down on the trade, but since they received a hefty share of the profits in taxes and payoffs, they more often looked the other way. Besides, Hong Kong's economic activities were supposed to be off limits to Beijing for the next forty-four years. What was their interest in a Japanese flight attendant?

And that raised another question. Who were these guys? Hong Kong police? PRC militia? PLA? Or even Intelligence? The civilian clothing argued against their being local police, and that wasn't good.

They might also be unconnected with the government at all… triad gang members engaged in a quick hit-and-run raid on some vulnerable-looking foreigners. But foreigners, Garrett knew, rarely encountered the triads unless they deliberately ventured into Hong Kong's criminal territory, getting involved in prostitution or gambling or one of the local rackets.

"What is it you want?" he said, trying to keep his voice level against the cold pressure of the pistol barrel. "Money?"

"You quiet!" the leader snapped.

"If you'll just tell us what—"

One of the other men whirled and slammed his rifle butt into Garrett's stomach. Garrett doubled over, retching. Kazuko dropped her hands from her neck and grabbed his shoulders, shouting something at the invaders in Cantonese.

Someone grabbed Garrett and hauled him upright, shoving him back hard against the wall, then ramming the muzzle of an AK against the side of his head. Another man shoved Kazuko back, holding her arms. The leader was screaming into Kazuko's face now, a barrage of Cantonese unintelligible to Garrett except for the primal message of raw fury. These guys weren't there to rob them, he realized through a haze of hurt and nausea. And this wasn't some sort of haze-the-for-eigner hassle. These guys were damn well pissed….

Kazuko tried answering in Cantonese, but the leader shouted her down. Reaching out, he roughly grabbed her left breast, squeezing hard until she yelped and swore.

Despite the gun on him, Garrett stepped forward. "Leave her alone, damn you!"

The rifle butt caught him on the back of the head this time, driving him facedown into the carpet. He heard Kazuko scream, but far off, through a black haze of red-shot numbness that threatened to engulf him.

He fought the darkness, the pain, the dizziness, trying to roll over, but he was aware now that two of the intruders were hammering at him with their rifles. He tasted the sharp, salty tang of his own blood.

Suddenly, the blows stopped. Squinting through the pain, he could make out one of the men showing something to the leader… his military ID, it looked like, and Kazuko's passport and JAL identification card, pulled from her pocketbook. The leader scowled as he thumbed through cards and papers, then barked an order.

The one holding Kazuko didn't like the order. He snapped back, and slid his hand between Kazuko's thighs. The leader slashed out with his pistol, catching the man on the side of the face and spinning him away.

Kazuko crumpled to the floor next to Garrett, holding him. The leader stared down at them a moment more, as if trying to make up his mind…then whirled and strode for the door. The other three followed.

Garrett tried to say something comforting, but his brain was no longer working.

Helpless, he sank into oblivion….