A man less tired, more on the ball than Willem would have counted the hisses and multiplied by four to estimate the total number of troops the Chinese had dropped. But it was too late, he had long since lost track. There were at least a hundred just on the grounds of St. Patrick’s. Presumably more at other key points—the bridges, the airport, the barge port on the river. And now, as the sky grew brighter, he began seeing parachutes as well: big triple
chutes dropping cargo pallets at the airport and on the floodplain, and paragliders carrying individual men, spiraling down into areas that the skyhook guys had already secured.
A chopper came in. It descended vertically from a great height, maybe to avoid small-arms fire. If so, an unnecessary precaution, for the city had grown quiet, except for a few localized bursts of intense fighting. Willem was expecting this thing to have Chinese military markings. But it was a Brazos RoDuSh helicopter, probably just flown down from the mine.
T.R. emerged from the elevator. In tow were a couple of his senior staff and Amelia. She was pulling her wheeled bag with one hand and Willem’s with the other. Willem strode over to join them. T.R. saw him coming. “We got word,” T.R. explained. “Wheels up in fifteen. After that the airport’s gonna get real busy.”
Once they were all in that helicopter, it took all of sixty seconds to reach the airport. They set down near a business jet parked at the south end of the runway, lights on, engines running, pilots and flight attendant waiting for them at the foot of the fold-down stairs.
There was a minute’s delay while the bags were taken by the pilot, one at a time, and stowed in the jet’s luggage compartment. Willem had positioned himself at the end of the short queue of passengers so that he could snap a selfie to send to Remi. For Remi would be getting ready for bed in Leiden, worrying about the latest reports from Tuaba, and he’d sleep better if he had a picture of his husband about to board a plane that would take him to a more stable part of the world. Or to Texas at any rate.
He saw an opportunity to frame the shot more perfectly by walking a short distance away from the plane and positioning himself with the plane behind him and a spectacular Pina2bo dawn behind that.
“May I?” someone offered. One of the Chinese guys who was hanging around. A senior military officer who had broken away from his claque of aides, just to come help Willem with his selfie.
“Thank you,” Willem said, handing him the phone.
“Is this for Remigio?” Bo asked, maneuvering around and trying to figure out how the zoom feature worked.
“The uniform suits you,” Willem said. “Much better than the tank top.”
“I had it tailored in Hong Kong,” Bo explained. “The standard issue are rubbish.” He was tapping the shutter button over and over. “Off to Texas?”
“No,” Willem decided.
“No!?”
“I’m going to stay. Keep an eye on you guys.”
He realized Amelia had come over to collect him. She’d heard.
“It has been great working with you,” Willem said and held out his hand.
Recovering her poise quickly, Amelia reached out and shook it. “Back to Uncle Ed’s for you?”
“Too gritty for a prolonged stay. I can’t see Remigio coming to visit me there. No, I’m going to check into one of the hotels Bo hasn’t blown up yet.”
“Terrorists did that,” Bo demurred. “Believe me, the Sam Houston was no great loss. Black mold and bedbugs everywhere. I recommend the Mandarin.”
“T.R. likes you,” Willem said to Amelia. “Maybe he’ll offer you a gig.”
Amelia’s face reflected skepticism. “Ehh, I’ll bet there’s openings in Netherworld.” She was turning to leave.
“Defense minister. I’ll put in a word for you.”
She looked back over her shoulder. “You going to visit?”
“This place is going to need a foreign policy now that it has been . . . liberated.” Willem nodded into the southern sky above the end of the runway. Lined up on approach, still miles out, were the lights of an approaching airplane. Behind that, another. Behind that, yet another. Like a train in the sky.
“We have to leave now!” shouted T.R.’s pilot through cupped hands. Amelia took off at a run. They didn’t bother stowing her bag, she just heaved it up above her head and pounded up the stairs. The cabin door closed right behind her. The jet was already rolling. It made a turn to get lined up on the runway. Framed in one of its big oval windows was the head of T.R. Schmidt. He