USAFRICOM C-21, Atlantic Ocean
November 11, 10:30 P.M.
It was dark outside the windows of the giant aircraft, and both Williams and Breen were asleep in their seats.
Grace and Rivette were not. They were sitting together, studying maps of the two islands where they were bound, and checking stats about temperatures—both air and water—winds, and poisonous flora and fauna. Grace downloaded the digital images and data into her smartwatch. Yemen had been an on-the-fly operation against loosely organized bands. Prince Edward was a mission against the Chinese military. She wanted to be thoroughly prepared.
With some regularity, they would receive updates from the Defense Logistics Agency, no sender ID, but very little that pertained directly to their assignment. They were mostly interested in up-to-the-minute weather reports and temperatures. Since both martial arts and marksmanship were not well served by ice or other slippery substances.
“Couple of unoccupied sheds on the tiny island, military outpost on Marion,” Rivette said.
“We should reconnoiter the outpost first,” she suggested. “It would have communications the Chinese would have to control.”
“Agreed. What kind of landing party would they use?”
“A large one, which is why we should approach with caution. They’re not making a secret of their presence so they’ll probably have lookouts.”
“In those temperatures? That wind?”
“They’ll fight for the privilege,” Grace said. “Manhood, nationalism—they’ll want to show ‘face.’”
“Like a goddamn gang back in L.A.,” Rivette said. “Well, at least we’ll get to see the countryside,” he joked.
“Have you ever been to South Africa?”
“Not even ancestrally, far as I know. Pretty small percent of Cajuns have that. We’re from North Africa via France, I’ve been told. You been there?”
Grace shook her head. “Nor the subantarctic.”
“You did cold-weather training, though.”
“Alaska,” she said.
“Same here. Probably not the same as what they got down south.”
“Wondering how they plan to get us over,” Grace said.
“Way we barged into Trinidad, I don’t think they’ll want to chute us in.”
Grace smiled. “I liked that, though.”
“You hit the deck butt-kicking,” Rivette pointed out. “A big-ass island, that’s something different. They’d see us coming.”
“My guess is they’ll put us in with the civilians working on the wreck. If anything else is happening on that island, the perps will want to avoid the investigators.”
“True. We also have the toxin to worry about,” Rivette went on. “Working with gas masks is a pain.”
“And it’ll be dark,” Grace said. “Most of the glass in those things is tinted. We’ll probably fall into the sea.”
“I swam with seals at the San Diego Zoo once, so I’m good with that,” Rivette joked.
Grace looked at him. “Was that something you were supposed to do?”
“Nah. Good training for this though, right?”
He had a point. Grace had never played by rules other than her own. Growing up in New York’s Chinatown, she used a devastating roundhouse kick to make her way into the male-centric world of kung fu. As a girl she would insert herself into the pick-up-style competitions in Columbus Park, getting thrown and leopard-punched—and learning, from that, how to fall. Then she figured out how to use her smaller size and speed to avoid being hit. Then she studied the techniques of using her core energy and technique to overpower anyone who relied on muscle.
When she finally enrolled in classes at age ten, in a Mulberry Street walkup, she was known as Big Yin—a tribute to her strong female center.
An update from Matt Berry reached the devices of all the Black Wasp members. It showed images of a Chinese presence on both Prince Edward and Marion Islands.
“Shit. You speak Chinese?” Rivette asked.
“Mandarin.”
“A dialect?”
“The official language of China,” she replied. “As opposed to Cantonese, which is regional.”
“So you’ll be able to talk to anybody we run into,” he said. “Make like I’m your prisoner or something in case we’re caught.”
Grace marveled at the way their age difference and upbringing gave them radically different views on life. Lance Corporal Jaz Rivette confronted the world as if it were a movie. Everything was a scene or an act or a con.
“Do you think you’ll have trouble fighting them?” Rivette asked.
“Chinese? No. I don’t see faces, I feel the negativity from the dontian, the ‘cauldron.’ Mindless aggression. It’s difficult to explain.”
“I don’t understand what you just said, but I dig that you’re in close—I’m not. And I think about that sometimes. Daylight, night vision, telescopic—I see them. Unless they’re an active shooter, I wonder if I would hesitate to put them down.”
“I hope so, but not for that reason. They may have intel. Anyway,” Grace went on, “with the hazmat masks I won’t be looking into anybody’s eyes. I’ll be trying to maneuver them so the sun is smack on the visor.”
The conversation was interrupted by another message from Berry. This was one thing that Grace loved about Black Wasp. Williams had age on them, Breen had rank, but everyone got the same updates for their own tactical evaluation and application.
Both young members read it. It was about the attack on Batting Bridge and an estimate of the numbers of dead. And something more:
SA Navy Sp Op being dispatched, details to follow.
Aggressive status anticipated vs. China.
“My concerns just became real,” Rivette said.
“I was just thinking that.”
“No, I mean really real,” Rivette said. “I was reading about the African leaders during lunch. Rear Admiral Mary-Anne Pheto came up during apartheid, did her share of subterfuge when she was ten. We get caught in the middle, we better think about who we’re willing to take out.”
Grace saw the weapons she had tucked into the backseat in front of her: the two hilted knives, one serrated; the hip packet of throwing stars; the short escrima sticks she used as batons.
“I can dole out ‘unconscious’ if I want,” the lieutenant said. “Anything you do spills blood.”
“Hey, I asked for tranquilizer darts but you know what I was told? Just what you said. ‘That’s James Bond.’ They offered me a .40-caliber poison-dart air gun if I wanted to make less noise. Point missed.”
“By who?” Grace asked. “You render an enemy unconscious, you’ve got to transport them or wait till they come around to interrogate and then kill them. You can’t leave them behind to talk.”
“Padre Hill, back at Pendleton, told me my intentions were good. That I had the heart of a missionary.” Rivette looked at his own arsenal, which sat in a leather gym bag at his feet. “I wonder if there was ever a killer missionary?”
“On the way home, read up on the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon,” Grace said. “The Knights Templar. You’d’ve fit in, sort of.”
“A knight?”
“Sort of,” Grace repeated. She turned back to her tablet. “I want to read up on the SAN—see what kind of tactics the DOD has on video.”
“Probably SOP,” Rivette said.
“Wouldn’t bet my life on them being standard,” she said. “I met a sifu who invented a style called kung fu zu. He was from Harlem, had learned Zulu fighting and dancing techniques in Africa and merged them with his own Shaolin style. Alternately solid and flowing. If these guys have had even a smattering of that, I want to know it.”
Rivette snorted. “Maybe there’s something to be said for point-and-shoot after all.”
The two continued their studies in silence, though each quietly marveled at two things. First, how she and the lance corporal were a perfect balance of aggressive male yang and subtler female yin. Second, the uncommon wisdom and courage the military had shown by putting them together. They were the perfect balance of the forces of the universe.
They were, she believed more than ever, the future of perfect, proficient, minimalist combat.