“Mr. Tong, you were the only member of the sampan crew to survive the explosion,” the woman went on. “We will need you to testify about the nature of the firefight. Whatever you remember, we want to know.” The woman took several steps around the edge of the bed. “But that is not why I came to see you. I know what you were doing out there. We cannot prove you did anything wrong. However, I would like to keep you from doing anything illegal in the future. When you are released from the hospital, I would like to see you about a civilian job with the navy. There are a number of defense technical positions and administrative support positions for which you can be trained. I hope you will consider them.”

Lee Tong was awake. He knew that because he felt queasy. But he thought he heard the woman say she wanted him to work for the navy. He had neither the education nor the kind of background recruiters sought. No one in his family had served in the military. It did not make sense.

“Why . . . ?” he asked weakly.

“Why do I want you?” Loh asked. “It took a great deal of skill to navigate a sampan that far out to sea. We can always use talented men and women, and I don’t just mean the navy.” The woman smiled under her mask. “I heard someone use the phrase ‘the good guys’ to describe us today. I like that. I want you to be one of them, Mr. Tong.”

He looked at her and smiled back weakly. He nodded once. The nausea was worth it.

The woman nodded back and left.

The navy, Tong thought. Even in a civilian capacity, naval service would give him the kind of respect his father had always wanted for him. His only regret was that his shipmates were not here to collect their share of respectability. They were good men and loyal friends. He would miss them.

The young man’s eyes blurred again, this time from tears.

As he slipped back into sleep, Lee Tong’s last thought was that he no longer had to dream of happier times. He could imagine them.

For they were no longer behind him, but ahead.

EIGHTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 6:29 P.M.

EIGHTY-ONE

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 6:29 P.M.

Paul Hood was about to leave his office when the phone beeped. The caller ID identified it as Bob Herbert. He picked up.

“Lowell went on to participate in what’s left of his conference in Sydney, then decided to hang with the hostess and her husband,” Herbert said. “But I’m coming home. I’m flying commercial later in the afternoon. First class.”

“I hope you’ve got the frequent flier miles for it,” Hood laughed.

“Nope. Op-Center’s treat. I don’t think chasing Darling’s plane earned me enough to upgrade,” Herbert said.