by Larry Bond
Mara used the computer to read the synopses of the analysts’ predictions about the Chinese assault, then examined the photos one more time before disconnecting and wiping the computer’s memory clean.
She was ready. So where the hell were her “helpers”?
Climbing onto the hood of the truck, Mara put on her night glasses and scanned the night sky. Slightly thicker than prescription sunglasses, which they were modeled to resemble, the glasses had a resolution of 64-721p/mm, with an adjustable brightness gain over 3000/fL/fL—in layman’s terms, their magnification and night vision were the equivalent of military-issue Gen III night monocles but much smaller, lighter, and easier to use and conceal.
The sky was empty. Mara leaned back against the window of the truck, the AK-47 in her lap, waiting. Twenty minutes later, she finally heard the drone of a small plane approaching.
“About time,” she muttered, slipping to the ground.
The plane was an American-made Cessna, a single-engine Skywagon. Flying at treetop level, it dropped abruptly onto the runway, charging all the way to the end before slowing just enough to turn around. It trundled back and turned once more, prop still turning. The door on the side of the aircraft opened. Four figures emerged, each hauling a pair of rucks. They ran quickly off the end of the field, hunkering down.
Mara flashed her small LED flashlight: two greens.
Someone on the team flashed a response: three greens. The man closest to the runway rose and circled his arm. The plane’s engine revved and the Cessna shot down the field, airborne in seconds.
As soon as the plane was away, the men rose and began stalking over. Even though they’d just gotten the all-clear signal—and knew that the plane would have been the first target in an ambush—they nonetheless moved across the field with guns ready, scanning back and forth as they came.
All except the last man, who sauntered over as if he were walking down the boardwalk at Atlantic City after hitting a double jackpot.
“Hey, CIA,” said Jimmy Choi. “You must be Mara.”
“You’re Choi?”
“My friends call me Jimmy.”
“What do your enemies call you?”
“Enemies? Enemies all dead.”
Jimmy laughed and stuck out his hand. He was tall, and not just for a Korean. He squeezed her hand; she squeezed back.
“So, you find yourself trouble here, huh?” said Jimmy.
“No. I’m getting somebody out of trouble.”
“Ho-ho. You don’t worry now. Jimmy Choi here. We get you out and gone before you can sneeze.”
“Ah-choo.”
“Ha-ha, funny, funny. This our truck? Good. Get in. I drive.”
“I’ll drive, thank you.”
“Jimmy good driver.”
“No doubt. Who’s who here?”
“Eenie, Meanie, Moe,” said Jimmy.
“Ha-ha.”
Jimmy laughed, but it turned out that two of the mercenaries were named Meanie and Moe. Meanie was a short but unusually wide Korean, whose right cheek was intersected by a thick and jagged scar. Moe looked to be a Russian or maybe a Mongol. Neither man said anything when they were introduced, nor did they add their full or real names, which was just as well—Mara really didn’t need to know.
The last mercenary was an American, though Mara wouldn’t have known for certain had Jimmy not told her he was a countryman. His name was Jeb and he had a chiseled light brown face that made him look even thinner than he was. He had an East Coast accent.
“Where you from?” Mara asked.
“Eritrea.”
“What state is that?”
“It’s in Africa. My mother’s American. Most of my life I grew up in Africa.”
“Well, glad to be working with you.”
She shook his hand. His grip was soft, barely there.
“We go now,” said Jimmy.
“Hold on. I have to run down the situation for you,” said Mara.
“I know situation.”
“You know where our subject is?”
“General area.”
“I’ve already mapped out a route. Let me show you.”
“Show on way. I drive. We’re waste of time here,” he added in his funky English.
“I drive,” said Mara. “Get in.”
As soon as the others had their gear in the back, she started out, going as quickly as she dared in the dark. Even with the night glasses, it was hard to see the edges of the road, and she found herself constantly hitting the brakes. It didn’t help that Jimmy kept interrupting her as she tried to lay out the game plan.
“Easiest way to get there, we go over border, come back around,” he said.
“What border?”
“China.”
“That’s crazy. We’ll never get across,” said Mara.
“I cross the border all time. Very, very easy.”
“We’ll do much better in Vietnam,” she insisted. “We go where troops aren’t.”
“Ho-ho. Suit self.”
“I will. And it’s yourself.”
“Jimmy very suited. Thank you.”
Mara drove for roughly an hour, heading southwestward. Jimmy Choi was quiet, occasionally consulting a small clamshell computer. Mara thought it was a GPS unit until Jimmy gave her directions.
“Have to change your road,” he said. “Troops on road to south.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know where troops are,” said Jimmy. He tapped his clamshell.
“That’s a computer? What are you looking at? You have your own satellite?”
“Ha-ha, very funny,” said Jimmy. But he didn’t explain where the image came from. Mara guessed that he was hacking into someone’s system, probably the Russians’.
“Can I see that?” she asked, reaching for the computer.
He pulled it back.
“You ask questions, I answer them. You go to 178—”
“I’m not going north. It’s too dangerous, and we’ll be too far from where our target is,” snapped Mara.
“Okay, okay, don’t have cow. We go it your way.” Jimmy laughed. They could have been deciding on what restaurant to try. “Tell me route. I check.”
The route, at least according to Jimmy’s photos, was still clear. They made it across the Chay and then the Hong, speeding through the small village of Pho Lu before seeing the first signs of the war—a huge crater that blocked the roadway about a mile out of town. Trees on both sides had been knocked down by the blast.
“Ho-ho. We fix,” announced Jimmy Choi. “Quick, quick.”
He leaped out of the truck. Seconds later, two chain saws started up. In five minutes, there was enough of a path on the right side for Mara to squeeze past.
“It’s going to be light soon,” said Jimmy when he got back into the cab. “We should stop and rest until they have the spot.”
“I want to make the Hoang Lien Son Mountains first. We’ll be safer there.”
“Hour drive. Maybe more.”
“We can make it.”
“We change into Chinese uniforms there,” declared Jimmy. “Closer to their lines than the Vietnamese.”
“You have one for me?”
“Ha-ha, we find you one, too.” Jimmy took out his little clamshell computer and began fiddling with it. “Turn left at next road.”
“Why?”
“Need pit stop. Yes?”
“Yeah, all right.”
“There, dirt road.”
They were almost on it. Mara had to hit the brakes to make the turn.
“Park here. Quick. Pull off.”
Mara pulled onto the shoulder. Jimmy Choi jumped from the truck and ran into the back. Mara climbed down and was surprised to see the mercenaries scrambling into the jungle.
“Hey! Hey!” she yelled, charging after them.
The men were moving at a good pace, and Mara felt a stitch start in her right side. She ducked through the trees, gradually losing ground. Finally she sto
pped. There was no sense chasing them.
“Hey!” she yelled after them. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.”
What the hell was the sense of coming all this way into Vietnam to desert her?
Unless they were setting her up for an ambush.
Mara spun around, then dropped to her knee.
Now what do I do?
Mara took a deep breath, listening. If it was an ambush, the Chinese would have surrounded the truck by now. Not seeing her there, they’d be fanning out in the jungle.
Or maybe they’d just wait for her to come back.
No wonder Jimmy Choi didn’t want to show her the satellite images, the bastard.
Mara took the night glasses out of her pocket with her left hand, still holding the rifle ready with her right. Even though it was no longer dark, the glasses were powerful enough for her to see anyone hiding in the nearby brush.
No one. She folded them back in her pocket, then took a half step sideways in the direction of the road. As she did, gunfire began reverberating through the jungle.
11
Northwestern Vietnam
Josh ran until he couldn’t breathe. Legs shaking, he sank to his knees. The girl clutched him as tightly as she could, her fingers wrapped into the flesh at the back of his arms.
“I need to rest for a minute,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you.”
He gently pried her grip loose.
“It’s okay,” he repeated. “Just let me get my breath.”
He knew she couldn’t understand his words, but he hoped his tone might reassure her. As soon as he rose she grabbed his leg, clamping her arms around him.
Josh listened for a moment, trying to hear if the Chinese were following him. If they were, they either were moving very quietly or were a good distance away.
“Come on,” he told the girl. “Let’s go.”
He pushed forward gently, trying to move her. She shuffled back a step, absolutely locked onto him.
“Hold my hand,” he told her. He gripped her left hand with his and gently pushed her to the side. It took several strides before she was willing to walk rather than be dragged. Both of her hands were welded to his.
It was like walking with a weight attached to him.
Why did I help her? Why did I think I had to save her?
I didn’t think—that was the problem.
I’m in survival mode—I have to save myself, not someone else.
Leave her!
Even as the words formed in his mind, Josh felt repulsed.
He did what he had to do. And what he had to do now, for both their sakes, was to move more quickly. He scooped her up and began trotting again, willing strength into his legs.
Josh went on like that for another half hour, running and walking, trotting and catching his breath, until finally no amount of urging could keep his legs moving forward. He slipped down against a large tree, all but collapsing on the ground. The girl sat beside him, silent, eyes open wide as if they might let in his thoughts.
The sparse overhead canopy allowed most of the early evening’s moon rays through. Josh could see between ten and twenty yards all around him.
He’d forgotten to turn his phone back on. Remembering it now, he pulled it from his pocket and turned it on. There were no calls waiting, and no indication that Peter had called. But of course it was still locked, on emergency only.
So how had he gotten the call? Because it had happened; he hadn’t imagined it. It was real.
Damn! How had he forgotten?
He pounded the ground, then looked up. The girl was still staring.
“What’s your name?” he asked. He struggled to remember the Vietnamese words. “Tên em là gì?”
She didn’t respond. Em was the term you used for a child.
He tried again. The girl squinted, as if she were trying to figure out what he was saying.
“My name is Josh,” he said. “Tên tôi là Josh. Josh. Josh.”
He tapped his chest several times, repeating the Vietnamese words. He wasn’t sure of his accent, and most especially the tones, but he’d used the phrase several times, and knew he was at least close.
“M,” she said finally. “Tên tôi là M.”
Her name, or nickname, was M. Josh knew the word; it was Vietnamese for seedling.
“A good name,” he told her. “A very good name.”
The sat phone, still in his hand, began to vibrate.
Josh’s fingers trembled as he reached for the Receive button. “Hello?”
“Josh, where have you been?”
“I’m conserving the battery,” he said, not wanting to admit that he’d left the phone off. His voice was dry.
“Okay. I can understand that. Listen, I have people on their way to you. They’ll be with you by tomorrow night at the latest.”
“Where are they meeting me?”
“Josh, we know where you are, and they’re going to come get you. Just stay where you are now.”
“I can’t stay here. I have to move.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t.”
“I can’t stay here,” he told him.
“All right, Josh. Calm down. We’ll work this out.”
“Give me a number that I can call. Unlock this phone.”
“It’s not going to work that way.”
“Make it.”
“Josh, I can’t explain the technicalities right now. And frankly, I don’t know all the tech stuff anyway. You have to trust me on this, all right? We’ll get you out. All right? Josh? Josh?”
“All right. But we can’t stay here.”
“What do you mean, we? Who’s with you?”
“A girl.”
“A girl?”
“The soldiers were going to shoot her. Or something.”
“There are soldiers where you are?”
“A couple of miles away. I’ve been running for a half hour, an hour—”
“Is she there? Can you give her the phone?”
“You don’t trust me?”
“You don’t speak Vietnamese. I have someone who does, who speaks it very well. I can speak it—”
“How do you know I don’t speak Vietnamese?”
There was a slight pause. “It’s not on your curriculum vitae.”
“What are you, checking up on me?”
“I wanted to make sure I was talking to the real Josh MacArthur, yes. I did research you. Yes.”
“You have files on me?”
“Josh, don’t get angry with me. I’m trying to help. I know you’re going through a lot.”
“You have no idea what I’m going through, mister. No fucking idea.” Josh looked over at M. She looked worried, as fearful as he had seen her with the soldiers. “I have to go,” he told Lucas. “Call me back in two hours. No, three.”
“Will you leave your phone on?”
“It will be on in three hours.”
“It would be more helpful—”
Josh slapped the phone off and put it in his pocket.
“Come on, M,” he said. “Let’s find a better place to hide.”
12
Northern Vietnam
Mara ran toward the gunfire, AK-47 poised. The gunfire had a very familiar ring to it—a thick, almost bell-like sound that she associated with the Chinese Type 99 assault rifle, the upgraded bullpup-style gun China had developed and “sold” to the rebels in Malaysia.
Not good.
Her muscles tensed, her vision narrowed. She sprinted from cover to cover, ducking behind large trees, staying as low to the ground as possible. There was another road through the jungle ahead, maybe thirty meters away.
By the time Mara slid in behind the broken trunk of a large tree near the road, the shooting had stopped. She waited there for a moment, ducking her head left and right to see, trying to find an angle that might reveal what was going on.
Nothing.
Mara eased forward, finger edging a
gainst the rifle’s trigger, resting there ever so lightly.
Something moved on the left. She spun, dropped to her knee—and just barely kept herself from firing.
“Ho-ho, you take time catching up,” said Jimmy Choi. “All the excitement done.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Mara’s curse only made Jimmy laugh harder.
“What the hell is so funny?” she asked. “I could have shot you!”
“You’re a professional. You wouldn’t shoot.”
“Goddamn it.”
“Come on. We have something for you.”
Still seething, Mara followed the mercenary out of the jungle onto a hard-packed road. A Chinese EQ2050 Hanma—the Chinese version of the Hummer, also known as a Mengshi or Dongfeng Hanma—sat just off the road. Four Chinese soldiers had been killed in the field. Jimmy’s men dragged the dead bodies into the jungle.
“One of us not a good shot,” said Jimmy, pointing at a body that was stained with blood. “Bad luck for us. We have only three uniforms.”
“You did this for the uniforms? You took off, took all this risk, for the uniforms?”
“Hanma big bonus. Chinese Hummer. Voom, voom.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. No. No. You have to tell me what the hell you’re doing. Don’t you understand? You work for me.”
Jimmy Choi laughed.
“Don’t laugh at me. Damn it—you don’t just take off like that.”
“We get job done.” Jimmy shrugged.
“Sure, if they don’t stop us.”
“Bad luck for them they stop us.” He pointed to one of the bodies. “Those would fit you. You try. We close our eyes.”
They took the Chinese Hanma as well as the troop truck, threading their way north with help from Jimmy Choi’s images. Except that it squeezed her boobs, the uniform fit fairly well. She didn’t look very Chinese, however, and the general strategy was to avoid getting very close to the Chinese army if possible.
Soon after they stole the truck and the uniforms, Lucas called in with another update on the Chinese situation. They were continuing to concentrate their efforts farther south and west; the only units in Mara’s area were small scouting parties, probing defenses and looking for resources that might be useful.
He gave her a precise location for the scientist—two miles from a Chinese forward operating base being constructed in Lai Châu Province.
