45 - Bullet Time

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Bullet Time by David A. McIntee

'Whenever truth conflicts with legend, print the legend.' -William Randolph

Hearst

I shall not be the cause of disharmony among my sworn

brothers by spreading false rumours about them; if I do I shall

be killed by a myriad of swords' -traditional Triad oath 23.

Prologue

They say that history is written by the victors, but that's not strictly true.

History is sometimes written by appointees of the victors, or followers of the

victors. Even fans of the victors. Sometimes it's written by those hoping to

cash in on the victors. Whichever is the case, it's almost always - at least

while the victors are still in control of things - written by people who don't

know all the best, juiciest secrets of how the victors got to be that way.

Victor or not, everyone who spoke of it agrees that this story began at five

to one, on a mild November night aboard a Ticonderoga-class guided missile

cruiser&

The USS Westmoreland's dog watch was usually quiet, even in the red-lit Combat

Information Centre. Most of the senior officers would be catching dinner, or

doing paperwork, while a few promotion-hopefuls kept an eye on the computers

and radar screens. You didn't expect to see much beyond logging in the regular

passage of scheduled airliners overhead.

That was usually. On that night, the CinC was bustling when Captain Davis

answered the summons to duty. The late call-outs from his cabin had died out a

couple of weeks into the cruiser's tour of duty, as her crew got used to the

Aegis radar and weapons systems, and to recognising elements that combined

into false alarms. That suggested to him that tonight's call was for something

more likely to be serious.

Davis exuded an aura of calm as he walked in. Despite the speed with which he

had responded to the call, his uniform was perfectly neat. This was all

showmanship on his part; all part of the example that he liked to set to his

crew. 'What's all the fuss, lieutenant?'

Lieutenant Jones, the Duty Officer for the night, used a light pen to circle a

radar track one of the screens. 'This one, sir. Inbound bogey with no IFF

signal, about twelve miles out, altitude three miles.'

'An airliner?' Three to five miles was the usual altitude for commercial

flights, and they had certainly tracked enough of them.

Jones shrugged. "That's what we thought at first, but at fifteen miles uprange

she was five miles high. I don't think it's a coincidence that it's

descending.'

Davis, like the rest of his crew, doubted that this was anything more than a

civilian flight, but he wasn't stupid enough to ignore the possibility that it

might not be. 'Have we picked up any comms traffic from them?'

Jones shook his head. "That's the other thing I don't like about this: they're

maintaining a radio blackout. No transmissions to or from them. If it was an

airliner, there would always be something.'

'Try and get in touch with them on the local commercial frequencies. Ask for

confirmation of the ID and flight plan.' Davis turned to a nearby ensign. 'Get

in touch with shore. Have them check civilian schedules, and find out if this

track matches any filed flight paths.' He squinted at the radar display. 'How

far is the nearest carrier group?'

'Too far, sir. The unknown will get here before an F18 could.' While the

ensign worked, Jones was back at the radar track. 'Inbound bogey now ten miles

uprange.'

'Any response to our requests for identification?'

'Nothing. Maybe they didn't hear.'

'You kidding?' But, there were rules for these kinds of days. 'Repeat the dema

-' Davis stopped himself. 'Repeat the request, for ID. Try every frequency you

can think of, civilian and military'

The ensign was back a few moments later. 'Sir, there's no scheduled flight

plan on file for any civilian traffic on this course tonight.'

'Keep trying.' Even as he spoke, he willed whomever was flying that thing to

respond. He guessed that pretty much everybody else was too, except maybe

Hennessy. Hennessy thought Captain Rogers of the Vincennes was a role model.

He'd grown up in the white South, being raised on tabloid news. Davis wasn't

sure which scared him most.

'Range now seven miles,' someone called out. The CinC was beginning to feel a

lot more cramped and oppressive to Davis, though no-one else had entered.

'Come on,' he muttered. 'Even telling us to go to hell would make more sense

than this.'

'Six miles. Descending steadily'

Davis nodded to Jones, 'Light them up.' He hoped that the shock of being

targeted would prompt some kind of response from the pilot. Within three miles

of the ship, any unidentified aircraft would be considered hostile, and could

be attacked at the commander's discretion. Davis admitted in his after-action

report that he would rather not have been put in that situation, but nor would

he endanger his ship or crew by not responding appropriately.

'Arm a Standard missile.' He went over to the Ensign's station, and picked up

a microphone himself.'Unidentified aircraft, this is Captain Davis of the USS

Westmoreland. We have a radar lock on you, and a missile armed. Identify

yourself and alter your heading immediately, or we will be forced to fire upon

you.'

The seconds passed, until Jones announced, 'No response. Two-and a half miles,

altitude decreasing.'

Davis sighed. It was said that war became easier as the distance between

killer and killed increased over the centuries, but it didn't feel easy for

Davis. Everyone else in the room was as calm as clerk in a bank, working at a

spreadsheet instead of a weapons system, but they didn't have to choose

whether to kill or not.

'Fire.'

The flash of the rocket launch momentarily lit up the ship, like a cinematic

lightning strike. Then it was gone with a roar, and only the radar would

indicate that a missile was in flight.

On the radar screen, the missile's track was running true, directly for the

unidentified aircraft. The unidentified aircraft's blip wasn't even trying to

evade the missile.

Even so, Davis wasn't taking any chances that night. 'Arm a second missile.'

Three miles northeast of the Westmoreland, the missile hit as true as anything

ought to, with that amount of development dollars behind it. It rammed home

into a gleaming silver expanse of metal, and burst through. The blast blew out

a ragged exit wound on the other side of the target, which immediately began

to bank, trailing blue fire. The metal began to shake, as it lost flight

stability, and plummeted earthwards.

The smaller blip on the screen converged with the larger one in a textbook

example, and vanished. Less than a second after the radar screen showed the

impact, the larger blip quivered, as if to break into smaller sections, then

vanished.

'That's a confirmed kill,' Jones reported. 'Whoever it was has gone down.'

Davis merely nodded, and prayed that his target had indeed been hostile.

Bangkok, March 1997

It was gone noon when Sarah Jane Smith flagged down a taxi on Thanon

Prachitapai. The mud-coloured interior felt like an oven and smelled like an

old patent-leather shoe. She had to wind the window down even as she was

giving the driver directions in badly pronounced Thai straight out of a

tourist phrasebook. When the car set off, the open window didn't help much

more than psychologically. The wind flooded the car with spices and sweat,

fruit and dust, pollution and heated paint. Somehow it managed not to be

unpleasant; it was exhilarating rather than repulsive. It was air with

character.

The trip to the airport wasn't too unbearable, though the heat made Sarah feel

uncharacteristically car-sick. When she got out, it was a blessed relief. The

airport was pretty much like any other she had travelled through over the

years; a polished rat-trap filled with hectic, sweaty masses going nowhere

fast, and falsely smiling vendors looking to sell them overpriced designer

labels before they got there. It was the modern world in a nutshell, with

branches all over the globe.

At least Sarah didn't have to exert herself with heavy luggage, as she was

there for a strictly local jaunt. She passed through the Don Muang domestic

terminal, to the helicopter taxi lounge.

The difference between the hectic main terminal and the lounge mostly seemed

to be that the latter was more what she'd call 'executive'. Smart suits and

immaculate casual, with nary a rumpled, sweaty tourist in sight. Sarah was

less at ease here for some reason; she identified more with the weary tourists

than with anyone who was able - or willing - to power-dress for travel before

breakfast.

The few people waiting, reading their English-language papers with a fortified

morning coffee, were split into two types. The Suits were clearly businessmen

- most likely in the tourist industry - waiting for short hops to the resorts

or plantations they managed. The uniformity of their business garb made her

think of yuppie stormtroopers on a battlefield where nothing was ever quiet on

the Exchange front. The rest were like herself: freshly-pressed slacks or

combat trousers, baggy shirts, and all with a press pass stuffed somewhere in

wallet or handbag.

'Ah, the star in our midst,' someone said as Sarah entered. The Suits all

looked up as one, then returned to the financial pages.

'Hardly that,' Sarah protested to the woman who had spoken.

Someone from Singapore TV, if Sarah remembered rightly.

'Modest as well,' a black American man said. He wore a loose casual suit and

looked like he worked out now and again without being a fitness junkie. He

looked about five years younger than he probably was, if Sarah was any

judge.'Like it or not, you're today's star of the Press Corps.' He handed over

a newspaper with a grin that Sarah immediately liked. 'Syndicated worldwide

this morning.'

It was a copy of today's Bangkok Post. The headline was 'Sex Tourism Launders

Golden Triangle Harvest'. Below the bylines that proclaimed some of the

publications the article would appear in - the Washington Post, LA Times, Hong

Kong Star - was a small stock photo of Sarah with curlier hair and a pink

suit. She hadn't expected the photo. Sarah had never sought that kind of

physical recognition; she was a journalist, reporter and writer, not a news

anchor. If she wanted fame she would have taken up that offer to present

Tomorrow's World. 'Probably the worst picture I've ever had taken.'

'Here for the trip to Phanom Rung? Ms Smith?'

'Sarah,' she replied. 'And yes. A piece about the Khmer monuments for

Metropolitan. Though why I still bother to write for a magazine whose

publisher changes personalities more often than he changes his shirt& Habit,I

suppose.'

'I know the type. My name's Tom; Tom Ryder' He offered a hand, and she shook

it. 'Going out to take a few pictures for National Geographic' His attention

went somewhere beyond her. Looks like you have a great sense of timing.'

"The flight to Phanom Rung,' a voice said behind her, 'will be leaving in

twenty minutes.' It was a balding man with a Thai Helo Services ID tag on his

blazer.'But the helicopter is ready if anyone needs to board early.'

'Time for one last drink,' Tom said, with an expression that made the line a

tempting invitation.

'It's a little early for me, thanks. Actually I'd like to go and get aboard.

You never know what stories you might get from the pilots. New leads, places

they've been; that kind of thing.' 'I'll catch up with you in twenty minutes,

then.' Sarah nodded, and went towards the door to the helipad. The man with

the Helo Services ID fell into step with her. 'Welcome aboard, Miss Smith. I

trust the flight will be pleasant.' He gestured towards Sarah's ride. It was a

red and white executive helicopter, the sort of thing that shuttled Richard

Attenborough and company around in Jurassic Park. The pilots were visible

through the canopy, doing whatever it was that pilots did before takeoff. 'How

many of us are there for this flight? Is it full?' He shook his head. 'Just

the six of us today' Sarah stepped aboard. Though the helicopter had looked

small from the outside, there was plenty of legroom, and Sarah suspected that

it could probably fit in twice as many people. The seats were soft and

comfortable, with a large floorspace in the centre. A couple of red parachutes

were strapped to the rear bulkhead.

'It looks pretty cosy, actu -' Sarah's words were cut off as the man clamped a

chemical-scented pad over Sarah's mouth and nose.

The last thing Sarah remembers of that day is slumping against his chest, and

only then noticing that the picture on the ID was of a totally different

person from the one wearing it. From then on until she woke up in an

ambulance, she knew no more.

Fran a police wiretap:

22/04/97.

13:12 (local tine)

"cringing tone>

Respondent: 'What?'

GaUer: 'It's little Erarfa.'

Respondent: 'This had better be important. You're interrupting filming, and

these girls charge by the hour.'

Caller: 'We've just acquired the gift you 't«anted.'

Respondent: 'Ah. Where are you?'

Caller: 'Still at the airport. We rave a .. little extra.'

Respondent: 'Extra?'

Caller: 'fn American, looking to unwrap your gift for himself.'

Respondent: 'Who cares? Take him with you. Drop them off where we agreed.*

Caller: 'CK.'

To hear Tom tell it, in a Wanchai bar that was trapped in a fifties echo, he

was more athletic and resourceful than James Bond, Arnold Schwarzenegger and

Jackie Chan put together. To hear him tell it, he was a Hero, and you could

hear that capitalisation in his tone. To hear him tell it, you had to endure a

half-drunk shout, desperate to be heard over the scratchy voices of the locals

playing mah-jong on the dented formica tables.

He had come out of the lounge a couple of minutes after Sarah, bringing her a

cold bottle of Coke to try to smooth the way with her. When he reached the

chopper, he saw that she seemed to be asleep. Then he noticed the white pad in

the attendant's hand, and realised otherwise.

'What are you doing?' he demanded, trying to check Sarah for a pulse, and

wishing he was armed. The attendant just swore in Thai, and pulled a gun on

him. Tom waded in, trying to disarm the man. Tom was quite strong, and

memories of his college boxing days came back unbidden to give him the upper

hand. Then something exploded in the back of his head. The next thing Tom

knew, he was slumped in a seat next to Sarah, and the chopper was vibrating

with the effort of clawing through the air.

Opposite him were the attendant and another man, carrying a Kalashnikov. It

didn't take Sherlock Holmes to work out that the Kalashnikov's butt was what

had put him down. Sarah was still out cold, and he wondered how long the drug

they'd given her would last.

Tom wasn't allowing himself to be scared, of course. He had a damsel in

distress to protect, so this was no time to be whimpering. He was pretty fit,

had boxed for his college, and had seen some pretty scary things in his time

as a photographer in South-East Asia. After the minefields in Cambodia, this

wasn't so bad.

'Where are we?' he asked.

'Over the coast,' the attendant answered. 'Don't worry, you're getting off

soon.' His expression and laugh didn't inspire any confidence in Tom that the

chopper was going to land first.

'Why?'

'You're in the Wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing personal.'

'I meant, why have you kidnapped Miss Smith?'

'She upset somebody she shouldn't.' The attendant prodded Tom's fallen

newspaper with his foot, turning the headline towards Tom by way of

explanation. 'Anyway' he added, as the engine's pitch changed,'it's your

stop.'

Tom glanced out the window, seeing cloudless sky, and a very distant ocean

impossibly far below. The helicopter had taken up a hovering position miles

from anywhere, and Tom knew what must be coming next.

The attendant pulled open the large side door, exposing the passenger

compartment to chilly air. Then he hauled Sarah out of her seat. Tom tensed to

move, thinking that maybe a quick one-two would turn the tables, but the other

man jogged his memory with the muzzle of the Kalashnikov.

Sarah groaned as she was manhandled out of the seat. 'Is it time to - Are we

there already?' She asked muzzily.

'Yes,' the attendant said. 'Time to disembark.' He guided her to the door.'We

hope you'll fly with us again sometime.'

Her legs clearly not yet working, Sarah stumbled forward; at the last moment,

she woke enough to realise the truth.'What the -'

"This'll be a warning to others with long noses,' the attendant snapped. Sarah

screamed, trying to get further back into the passenger compartment, but she

was too groggy to put up much of a fight against the compact attendant.

With a last scream of horror, surely knowing that she was dead, Sarah vanished

from Tom's view.

Tom knew that time was paramount. Instead of trying to catch Sarah, as the

thugs were prepared for, he headbutted his guard, wrenching the Kalashnikov

from his grasp. In under two seconds he tore the parachutes from the bulkhead,

and tossed them out the door.

The attendant and copilot were reacting, but with the expectation that he'd

try to jump them and get to the cockpit. He doubted anybody would have

expected him to go the door's edge voluntarily; not even after he had flung

himself backwards into the sky. Their astonished faces in the doorway were a

testament to that.

Arcing shoulders-first into free-fall, Tom let rip at the shrinking chopper

above, draining the Kalashnikov's magazine in a few heartbeats. With the wind

rushing so loudly in his ears, he didn't even hear the gunfire; just felt the

weapon judder in his hands, trying to throw him off balance and into a tumble.

Every round spent in the shortest of moments, he opened his hands and let the

gun spin away.

His last view of the chopper was one of it descending, trailing vapour. Then

he was rolling onto his stomach, and letting his arms fall back, to give him

more aerodynamic control over his fall.

Ahead and below was the pair of parachutes. Further on was the tiny speck that

was Sarah.

Lining himself up carefully, Tom inclined his head, planing towards the

parachutes. He opened his arms as he swooped upon them, an ungainly hawk

snatching silken rabbits to its breast. It felt more like being brought down

by a quarterback when running at full tilt.

For precious moments, he tumbled head over heels, before managing to stabilise

himself. Below, the distance between Sarah and himself was widening slightly.

Holding onto the parachutes with whitened knuckles, he planed downwards once

more.

When Tom caught up with her, and slammed into her, it probably felt like being

hit by a car. Worse, it probably felt like being hit by a car on a twisty

roller-coaster, as she and the thing that had hit her were now tumbling and

spinning nauseatingly.

He was grabbing at her, and she screamed silently, the sound whipped away

almost before leaving her throat. Limbs were wrapping around her, as if trying

to crawl around her.

He shouted to her to be calm and let him help, but there was no way she could

hear him over the rush of wind. His arms were constricting, and for a moment,

she seemed to think he was taking the world's most inopportune moment to touch

her up; she flinched instinctively, and he just held tighter.

Then she must have realised he was trying to strap something onto her. She saw

the parachute, and forced herself to stop struggling, which he could tell

wasn't easy. He was having trouble forcing the two halves of the main buckle

together.

Tom grinned as Sarah regained control of her hands, and put them over his,

pushing the buckle together until it locked with a click they both felt. Still

terrified, she looked for a sign of success in the man's face. He gave her a

thumbs-up.

Then he released the grip he had on her with his legs. Judging by her

expression, the release was dismaying, not a relief. As they started to part,

he grinned, genuinely, and pulled the ripcord, which was now at her shoulder.

There was a rustle like falling trees, and Sarah was hauled upwards out of

Tom's view. All he had to do then, was strap on the other parachute, and pull

the cord. When he did, a crushing pair of invisible hands grabbed him under

the shoulders and lifted him onto a gentle current of air, which deposited him

safely to the nearest beach.

Chapter One

Life on the Streets

Hong Kong, April 1997

Lots of people were willing to say they had seen Hong Yi Chung standing at the

congee stall opposite a small hairdresser's. Most of them agreed that he was

looking cool in his silk shirt, pressed jeans and shoes polished enough to be

able to look up girls' skirts. Through the window, Yi Chung could see Emily Ko

shampooing some housewife's hair. The girl was slim and had her hair tied with

a red ribbon. She carried herself very confidently, and he liked that.

For all his admiration, he ate his rice glumly, wishing he could at least walk

in and be a customer for her. But the salon was a ladies' place only, so he

had no chance of introducing himself that way.

The car horn he was waiting for sounded from across the street. Ah Fei was

waving to him from the car. It was a new one, and Yi Chung didn't know whether

it was second-hand or just stolen. He didn't care, either.

Why don't you just ask her out?' Fei asked. He was shorter than Yi Chung but

stockier, with a gap-toothed smile. He was dressed much like Yi Chung, but in

a red shirt instead of a green one.

'I can't. I mean, it's a ladies' salon, so I can hardly go in; and what would

she think if I followed her home?'

"Then forget her. What's wrong with that girl you're seeing at Auntie Yee's

place?'

'She gives me freebies because I sometimes get her stuff. It's not the same

thing.' He wanted& He didn't even know what the word was -attachment,

belonging? Something like that, anyway. Fun was fun, but it wasn't everything.

Fei grunted, and shook his head.'It'd be good enough for me.'

Old car or new, the routine was the same: lead-foot it up Nathan Road to Yau

Ma Tei to shake down the food-stall owners and building superintendents for

their weekly payments.

They took a left turn at Waterloo Road, not daring to cross into Mongkok where

others exacted similar tributes. Their first port of call was a small tea

house where the owner was waiting deferentially with an envelope. Yi Chung was

glad; he wasn't afraid of having to fight, but he preferred it when people

showed some respect from the beginning. Either way, it was better than working

in a warehouse or an office.

By lunchtime they had collected money from a dozen different businesses, and

pounding the pavement was beginning to take its toll on both of them. 'Maybe

it's time for lunch,' Fei decided.

'On you?'

'I paid yesterday. It's your turn.'

Yi Chung merely shrugged.

Lunch was a burger with fries, washed down with bottled beer. Yi Chung hardly

tasted it; it wasn't worth paying any attention to it. The pair had sat down

in a booth facing the door, just in case, but no one they knew had come

in.'Who is that girl anyway?' Fei asked.'The one at the hairdresser's?'

'Emily Ko. She was at the same school as me, but in a different class.'

'Didn't you try for her then?'

'I was& with someone else/Yi Chung finished his sentence a little too

hurriedly. Ah Fei clearly didn't believe him, but neither of them thought it

worth mentioning.

'If you've got it that bad, just meet her when she finishes work. There'll

always be someone to look after Auntie Yee's girl.'

'You?' Fei's tone had been unmistakable. Yi Chung didn't care for it,

suddenly.

Fei shook his head.'Only if it's free. I've got some standards.'

They sipped their beers, Yi Chung seeing Emily's face, not Fei's, across the

table. 'What's next for today?' he asked, once he was sure the subject of

Emily was over.

'Back to the car, and down to Jordan Road. Ah Wing hasn't showed up to pay his

debts, so Lefty Soh wants us to chop him.'

'How much?'

'Just his hands. Teach him not to steal from his brothers. Lefty's money

should help pay for your oath-taking.'

Yi Chung rose. 'OK,' he grinned. He put down his empty beer bottle. It rattled

on the table-top until he could place it steadily.

like the backs of so many apartment blocks, this one was tainted with litter

and rats and uncollected rubbish.Yi Chung thought for a moment that he was

going to lose the lunch he had so recently devoured, and doubted it would

taste any better when taking the reverse course.

Ah Fei had brought a couple of household kitchen cleavers with him, and gave

one to Yi Chung. It didn't look that much of a weapon, but could do horrendous

damage to anyone hit with it. Yi Chung held it too tightly, following Ah Fei

as they went up the grimy stairwell rather than taking the residents' lift.

Ah Fei peered out on to the fifth floor, then led Yi Chung along to a door. Yi

Chung's heart raced, though he wasn't sure whether it was the thrill of doing

something bad, or the terror of getting caught. He hyperventilated, twitching

the cleaver so he'd be ready to use it. He felt that would be good; that way,

Ah Fei would see he was one of the boys. As Ah Fei kicked the door open.Yi

Chung worked up a yell to scream at Wing to intimidate him.

Yi Chung's enthusiasm for the job evaporated the instant the door burst open.

The room was peaceful enough, but smelt like a mix of chem-ical lab and

abattoir. A chair and a couple of lamps and ornaments in the apartment had

been knocked over, but the fact that there was no blood didn't make Yi feel

any less queasy.

He'd seen places trashed before, and attended brutal fights and choppings, but

he had never smelt anything like that stench before. With the door open, it

was dissipating rapidly, but even after it was gone Yi Chung could still smell

it. It would haunt him for the rest of his life.

'What the hell?' Both men held their cleavers in shaking hands, moving

hesitantly through the flat. It was a familiar sort of place, the wallpaper

fashionable a decade ago. In the centre, a large patch of carpet was burnt,

and the low coffee table that straddled it had collapsed, its glass surface

blackened and bubbled. 'Wing?' Fei called hesitantly.

There was no answer. Nor was there anyone in the kitchen, bathroom or single

clothes-strewn bedroom.

'I don't like this,'Yi Chung told his friend.

Fei absently tapped the back of his cleaver against his other hand, not

looking any more sure of what to do next than Yi Chung felt. 'If he's not

here, we should wait&'

'I think he is here.'Yi Chung pointed to the burnt patch. Some pale, stick-

like fragments were mixed with the ash. A closer look showed a blackened

signet-ring on the edge of the scorched area. Only then did Yi Chung lose it

and run for the bathroom.

'Oh shit, man,' he could hear Fei say. 'Oh, I&'

Yi Chung was less coherent, but at least he could still stand. As he wiped his

mouth, he saw something glint under a towel rail. Against his better

judgement, he found his hand picking up the object. It was a slim metal box,

the size and shape of a large cigarette case, but the metal felt warm, and he

could see no joins or hinges. He didn't know anything about precious metals,

but knew enough about people to hope that if it had been hidden it might be

valuable. At least then he might get something towards the debt he owed Fei

and Lefty for initiating him into the gang.

In any case, the shock had got to his hands, which refused to open, and hung

on to the new acquisition like a security blanket.

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BulletTimebyDavidA.McIntee'Whenevertruthconflictswithlegend,printthelegend.'-WilliamRandolphHearstIshallnotbethecauseofdisharmonyamongmyswornbrothersbyspreadingfalserumoursaboutthem;ifIdoIshallbekilledbyamyriadofswords'-traditionalTriadoath23.PrologueTheysaythathistoryiswrittenbythevictors,butthat's...

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