by Larry Bond
“They’ve put troops in Lang Son, Bac Giang, and Quang Ninh provinces on alert in the last hour,” said Walter Jackson, the national security director. “They appear to believe the main thrust will come from the northeast.”
“Don’t you?” asked Knox.
“No. Admittedly they have troops there. But my Southeastern Asian expert thinks this is their main attack. The intelligence is still inconclusive.”
“There are a hell of a lot of troops in southeast China,” said Knox. “More than three times what Vietnam can field in the region. And they’ve made a show of moving there over the past several hours.”
“Exactly,” said Jackson. “They want them to be seen.”
“The units in that area are all undermanned,” said Frost, the CIA director. “And there’s no armor to speak of.”
“They attacked sooner than we thought,” said Knox. “And they’re moving faster. Frankly, we’ve been underestimating them.”
You have, thought Greene. The rest of us haven’t. I haven’t.
Greene’s thoughts flew back to his year in the Vietnamese POW camp, and then to the day of his release at the very end of the war. He could feel the hot tears that welled in his eyes—the first tears that he’d cried since the early days of torture. Tears of relief—and the vow that he would one day get revenge.
This was his opportunity, wasn’t it? Yet his duty demanded precisely the opposite.
Irony.
“Will they let us help them?” Greene said abruptly, turning to the secretary of state.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Knox.
“What did you have in mind?” asked Jackson.
“Intelligence for starters,” said the president. “Let them at least know what they’re dealing with.”
Greene rose. He had too much energy, physical as well as mental, to stay still when considering a problem. “We can’t just let the Chinese roll through Vietnam,” he added.
“Putting American troops into Vietnam—even I know that’s political suicide,” said Knox.
“We’d never get anything there beyond a token force anyway,” admitted Jackson. “And that’s if the Vietnamese even accepted our help.”
But the problem wasn’t Vietnam, it was China. Greene had known for years this day would come: the moment when China decided it no longer needed to play by the rest of the world’s rules. He hated parallels to the past, and was especially wary of comparisons to the years before World War II—they were too easy, too glib.
But if ever a situation looked like a replay of Hitler’s invasion of Czechoslovakia, this was it.
Or maybe the annexation of Austria. At least Czechoslovakia had generated some outrage. Early indications were that this would barely draw a yawn at the UN.
And forget about the American public’s reaction.
“We can’t just let the Chinese roll through Vietnam,” insisted Greene. “They must be stopped.”
“A weak show of force would be worse than no show of force,” said Jackson. “I agree with the Chiefs on that.”
“We could talk to the Vietnamese under the guise of preparing the protest to the UN,” said the secretary of state. “And give them intelligence that way.”
“Good,” said Greene. “That’s a start.”
“The Chinese have been working the justified-strike angle hard already,” said Knox. “They’re claiming they were attacked first.”
“What a bunch of horse shit,” said the president.
“The photo intelligence is ambiguous,” said Knox. “It’s possible—”
“None of the other intelligence backs that up,” said Frost. “Besides, the Vietnamese aren’t that stupid.”
“Enough people will pretend they believe what the Chinese say,” said Greene. “That’s their goal. Make it hard to pass a resolution condemning them. Keep public opinion on their side, or at least paralyzed.”
This was the way war was fought in the twenty-first century, Greene thought—with one eye on world opinion and the other on the battlefield. But hadn’t it always been that way? Roosevelt, fighting the most popular war in American history, had worked tirelessly to make sure the voters remained supportive of the war effort. Even George Washington had staged his most famous—and desperate—attacks at Trenton and Princeton to convince his fellow countrymen that the war could be won.
“We just have to prove the Chinese are full of crap,” said Jackson.
“Easier said than done,” admitted Greene.
14
Bangkok
Peter Lucas bent forward as he rose from his chair, trying to unkink the knots in his back.
“This guy is a witness to a Chinese massacre,” Lucas said, addressing the image of his boss, CIA DDO Harold Park, projected on the flat screen in front of him. “He’s a scientist. He has a video. A video. That’s gold. More than gold. You saw the bulletins coming out of Beijing. They all make it sound as if Hanoi pushed troops over their border. The Europeans will buy it. Because they need peace. They don’t want China canceling contracts and withdrawing deposits because they voted the wrong way in the UN. Unless things are so obvious, so criminal, that they have no choice. That’s what this guy represents.”
The media campaign had started, and it was a good one, with terse reports to the official press, and several off-the-record remarks on the situation to the resident AP and Reuters correspondents, all indicating that Vietnam had unexpectedly crossed the border. Chinese troops were rushing to respond.
Hanoi had yet to comment. If the NSA intercepts were any indication, they had only a vague idea of what was going on. One of the CIA analysts had said they seemed to be in denial about what was happening.
“Where is this guy?”
“His last transmission was about ten kilometers from the science camp, a little more than five kilometers south of the border. We think we know which village he was referring to. It’s a Hmong settlement, very small. We’ve set it up for long-range surveillance by one of the Global Hawks. It looks to be right in the area where the Chinese advanced.” Lucas pressed closer to the video camera. “I’m sure this is just the tip of the iceberg, Harry. I’ve been looking at what the Chinese did in 1979, as they withdrew from Vietnam. They burned everything down. They hate the Vietnamese. You know what the rhetoric is like. I could see them doing this easily.”
“I have no doubt,” said Park bitterly. “What if the Chinese find your man first?”
“They may.”
Park stared at the camera broadcasting his image. It was more scowl than stare; Lucas knew he was working out the different possibilities in his head.
Then suddenly his face relaxed—the sign that he had made his decision.
“What do you need?” Park asked.
“SEAL Team Two.”
“Off limits.”
“Why?”
“We won’t get military personnel in. No U.S. personnel. I won’t even bother asking. I’ll only be shot down.”
“Just—”
“Negative. U.S. military personnel are off limits.”
“All right. The hostage rescue team.”
“No. Same reason.”
“I’ll use my own people.”
“No American fingerprints, Peter. I don’t want anyone else going into that country.”
“Not even for this?”
“Especially for this. It’s too dangerous.”
“All right. The company from Korea we used in southern China last year.”
Park was speaking from a secure situation room at Langley; at least four other people were working nearby, though the system prevented Lucas from seeing anything more than shadows. One of them apparently said something to Park off camera. He turned away from the screen for a moment.
“Can you get them into Vietnam?” asked Park when he came back.
“Yes.”
“Quickly?”
“Yes.”
Lucas wasn’t sure how quickly he could get them there—or even if t
hey’d take the job. But uncertainty wasn’t the way to win Park over.
“They’re expensive,” said Park.
“They’re worth it. And so is MacArthur. And his video.”
“Do it.”
“Thanks.” Lucas reached for the switch to kill the communication.
Park started to say something, but someone to the right of the screen caught his attention. Lucas watched as he bent over and conferred with an aide whom Lucas didn’t recognize. When Park came back on camera, his scowl had deepened.
“The Vietnamese won’t be able to remain in denial for very much longer,” he told Lucas. “The Chinese have just launched an air attack on the port facilities at Hai Phong.”
15
Northern Vietnam
The spare can of gas Mara had strapped to the seat was only three-quarters full, and the gas sloshed every time the motorcycle hit a bump. The whole can shook and bounced every time she hit a bump, even though she’d stopped twice to make sure it was secure. Now it even bounced on the flat macadam.
Compared to the roads they’d taken out of Nam Det, Highway 2 was a superhighway. Not only was the road well paved—at least by Vietnamese standards—but it was also comparatively straight, which made it much easier to follow Tom. It was only two lanes across, but even during the day the road would have been empty for vast stretches, as it was now.
Mara had given Tom the motorcycle with the headlight, figuring that it made more sense for him to have it, since he was the one who knew where they were going. The problem was that he kept roaring ahead, and she had trouble staying with him. When they went through Vin Tuy—a small village on the outskirts of the Cham Chu Nature Reserve—she nearly missed the turn the highway took in the middle of town, guessing the way only after stopping and realizing the more logical choice was asphalt, not hard-pressed dirt.
Vin Tuy was tiny and quiet. So was Tân Yên, a slightly larger village about sixty kilometers farther south. The buildings looking like empty movie sets as she roared past.
Mara took the eerie quiet as an ominous sign. From what Lucas had said, the Chinese had launched an all-out invasion. Yet there was no sign of a response. The military and police checkpoints Mara expected were nowhere to be seen. Vietnam seemed to be sleeping through its incoming devastation.
Small farms dotted the jungle on both sides of the highway as she continued south. The global climate changes that had altered Vietnam’s rainfall patterns had encouraged more farming. This was especially evident in the central highlands and the south, where large swaths of jungle were being reclaimed and smaller plots were being consolidated to accommodate modern farming techniques. In the north, while the ground was just as fertile, the rugged hillside made development more difficult. It might be years before most of the uncultivated land was plowed under for farming.
Mara remembered the fields of her own childhood, paved over rather than plowed up as suburban sprawl marched inexorably across the American landscape. Now it was going back the other way—her uncle, who lived in a distant Philadelphia suburb, had just sold his tract house to a European agribusiness that planned to turn the development into a cornfield.
Roughly twenty minutes south of Tân Yên, tall shadows loomed on Mara’s left. For a moment she thought she saw a missile launcher in the black space beyond the road. There were two, five, but no activity around them.
Then she realized she was looking at a strip mine operation, an open pit where bauxite was extracted. She had mistaken the harmless machinery for something much more lethal. They were getting close to Tuyên Quang, a city about seventy-five kilometers north of Hanoi, nestled in the valley between the Con Voi and Tam Dao mountains.
It was also the place where they had arranged to stop and refuel their bikes. Houses began to appear close to the road, in ones and twos at first, then in clumps, then in solid rows. Mara found it harder and harder to keep up with Tom; her bike was slightly less powerful than his, but more important, the shadows and her fatigue ate at her confidence, and she couldn’t force herself to drive any faster. Finally she lost sight of his dim red taillight, the road taking a twist before entering town.
This would have been the perfect spot for a military or police sentry, but there was none. Mara slowed, mentally rehearsing the words she would use if she was stopped. But the main street was as deserted as those of the small villages farther north. It was only as she was leaving town—with Tom’s brake light finally ahead in the distance—that she saw an army transport. It was parked on a side street. The tailgate was up, but she could see someone moving near it as she passed.
Tom stopped at the side of the road about a kilometer outside of the city limits. He’d already filled his tank and thrown away his gas can when she drove up.
“You turtle,” he laughed. “Me hare.”
“Don’t forget the turtle wins in the end,” said Mara.
When she got off the bike, she realized that the rusted top corner of the can had sprung a leak. It was minuscule, but enough gas had spit out to wet the back of her shirt. She squeezed the liquid from her shirt and pants, but the odor seemed to get stronger.
The Clear River bent close to the highway; she could see it as she emptied the gas can into her tank. Some of the smaller tributaries near the road were dry, but there was still a sizable pond a dozen meters from the road. Mara went down to it, stripped off her shoes, and waded in, dunking herself in a vain attempt to rinse the smell away.
“You crazy lady?” asked Tom as she climbed back up to the bike.
“I felt like taking a bath.”
“Hanoi two hours,” he said, kicking his bike to life. “Less if you drive fast like me.”
“Wait!” yelled Mara.
She wanted to go over again how they would deal with anyone who stopped them, emphasizing her status as a journalist, but Tom had already launched his bike. She went to hers, got it going—the kicks got easier with practice—and set off after him.
Route 2 crossed the river near Viet Triv. Fish farms had been built in the delta formed by the river and its tributaries; the pennants that marked the underwater fences fluttered in the moonlight as they passed. The land flattened, with large communal farms gradually giving way to a real city—Vinh Yen, the provincial capital and the headquarters for an infantry division.
The army base lay on the northern side of the city, away from the highway and most of the civilian population. Lulled by her earlier experiences, Mara was surprised to find the road ahead blocked by a pair of jeeplike vehicles. Two soldiers, one with a rifle slung over his shoulder, the other with a set of traffic flags, stood in front of the trucks.
Tom was nowhere in sight. Mara had her passport with her, and a credible cover story, but with only a second or two to make up her mind, she followed the instincts that told her not to stop if she could possibly help it. Hunkering down near the handlebars, she squeezed the throttle and shot by the soldiers.
Her burst of speed made it much harder for her to keep her balance as she ran across a series of bumps a few meters beyond the trucks. The bike vibrated worse than a bronco on a cold Texas night. Easing off the throttle, she saw an army truck up ahead—another checkpoint.
If she was going to avoid one, she was going to avoid them all. Spotting a street to the right, Mara turned down it, nearly ditching the bike as the pavement changed from macadam to dirt.
Mara tucked left with the road, found another intersection, and turned back to the right, following the general direction south and hoping Highway 2 would appear soon. But the road took her into a maze of low-slung apartment buildings, new housing for government workers lucky enough to win selection in the bureaucratic lottery—or more likely, perceptive enough to find the right person to bribe. She went left, then right, then left again, finally running out of roadway and crossing a field rutted by trucks. Seeing what she thought was the road to her left, Mara started to lean and accelerate, only to find herself flying headfirst over the handlebars.
The gro
und came up too fast for her to react, let alone think. She smashed her nose hard, felt her left shoulder crash and give way. Her body twirled hard left as she slid another six feet.
“Shit, that hurt,” said Mara, pushing her hands under her chest and lifting herself up.
Her cheeks had been scraped so badly they felt like they were on fire; her nose felt soft, full of blood. She pushed the dirt away from her eyes, then spun quickly, sure she was about to be grabbed by the soldiers. But there was no one there, only the bike, groaning as it circled in the dust, its rear wheel still engaged and propelling it in a crazy arc.
Mara grabbed the handlebars and pushed it upright, trying to mount as she did. But the throttle had jammed, and the wheel was moving too fast for her. She fell back on her butt, just barely managing to throw the Honda off to the other side as she went down.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” she told herself, willing her body to get itself back on its feet. She grabbed the bike and killed the engine. Back upright, it took only a kick to get it restarted, but the transmission had gotten stuck in fourth gear, and as soon as the clutch engaged, it stalled. She pushed forward to a little hill, started moving downhill, then restarted the engine. The bike jerked and bucked as she let go of the clutch, but didn’t stall; she worked the controls and unjammed whatever had tied it up.
Her nose was bleeding. Blood trickled down, a few drops at a time, to the left corner of her mouth. Her cheeks burned where she’d scraped them, and hurt more with the wind as she rode. She didn’t dare try to peek in the mirror to see what her face looked like.
It took Mara nearly a half hour of zigging and zagging to find Route 2. There was no sign of Tom on the road; if he’d made it through the checkpoints, he could easily be halfway to Hanoi by now.
Mara drove in dull numbness for the next hour and a half, her mind in a state of semishock. It was far from the most dire situation she’d ever faced—not even in the top three—but still, her body needed to recover from the pounding.
