by Larry Bond
A pincer from both directions, once Hanoi was cut off. The south was the real prize, and it lay nearly unprotected.
So what would I do if this were Red Dragon?
Slow the tanks down. That was the first job. Make the Chinese take their time. Even if meant steering them directly toward Hanoi. Hanoi was a battle that the Vietnamese were prepared to fight. They might not win, but they at least had defenses in place.
Or send the Chinese into Laos. Easy pickings, but it would upend their timetable. The roads there were even worse than in northwestern Vietnam, especially in rain. Plus, they wouldn’t be able to hide behind the PR line that they were invading Vietnam only to ensure their own safety.
As if anyone would believe that anyway. Anyone outside the UN, that is.
He needed a bottleneck, something more than just a road.
“General, I didn’t expect you here tonight,” said Christian as General Perry came into the room.
“Well, I am. Zeus, how are you?”
As the general walked across the room, Zeus flinched involuntarily. He started to salute, then realized Perry wanted to shake his hand.
“Good to have you aboard, Zeus,” added Perry. “Win has filled you in on the details?”
“Yes, sir,” said Zeus, though it had sounded more like a statement than a question. “I’m coming up with a strategy for the Vietnamese.”
“You have the problem solved yet?”
“If I could get some A-10As over there, sure.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to work.” Perry’s smile disintegrated into a frown.
“No, sir.”
Did generals have to turn in their sense of humor when they took their first star? Or did the promotion board limit its review to candidates who never got a joke?
Christian was smirking behind Perry, as if to say, You idiot; now you’re on my turf.
That burned Zeus. Really burned him.
“I, uh, did have a little bit of an idea,” he told Perry.
“Let’s hear it.”
Zeus looked down at the map, hoping inspiration would strike.
“They’ll come down this way, the main attack, right down Route 6 to Moc Chau. All the intelligence points to it,” said Zeus.
Perry looked at the map. Zeus stared at it as well, hoping it would spark his imagination. It didn’t.
“How are the Vietnamese defenses there?” Perry asked.
“About on par with their defenses everywhere else except Hanoi,” said Zeus. “Almost nonexistent. But I don’t think they should take their stand there.”
“No?”
“They’d get creamed.”
“You’re not suggesting they run away, are you?”
“If it would work, definitely. But, uh, what they have to do is, uh, slow the tanks down, try and get some of the momentum back—they have to stop the tanks temporarily and get the Chinese commanders to have to think on their feet. The um, Shock and Awe, which is what they’re trying, is predicated on flexibility. Chinese doctrine isn’t flexible. It hasn’t been. Some units—their commandos are very good. But most of the infantry is very poorly educated and trained. Some of them are just basically farmers and, uh, in some cases criminals.”
“How does this help the Vietnamese?” asked Christian. “How do they stop the tanks?”
“What they should do is flood the plain here,” Zeus said, the idea coming to him as he saw the red line of the highway curling around the reservoirs at Song Da. “Divert the water from Song Da Lake south, destroy the road right before Routes 6 and 15. If they did a good enough job with the water, blew up the bridges, gutting the road—if they do that, the Chinese would have to stop. They’d have to stop.”
The idea blossomed full in Zeus’s mind. He saw the strategy now—cede Moc Chau, give up everything down to the Ma River. Using the water from Song Da—the tanks would be forced through a narrow, slow passage. The Chinese might cut a road through the jungle—or they might do the next logical thing and divert eastward, going after Hanoi. In either case, their plan would be thwarted. They’d need days—maybe weeks—to reorganize everything. Time to get help to the Vietnamese.
General Perry said nothing as Zeus fleshed out the plan, possible strategies popping into his mind. It was all a big roll of the dice, but at this point anything the Vietnamese did was a roll of the dice.
“What’s to keep the Chinese from just blowing through Laos?” said Christian. There was a sneer in his voice. “They can slam right through there, bypass whatever the Vietnamese try setting up at the reservoir, then turn up in Saigon.”
“That’s mountainous terrain, mostly jungle, with even fewer roads than where they are now,” said Zeus. “I mean, they may try it—it may be an alternative for them, especially if they’re not planning an amphibious landing. But getting through those mountains with the tanks—they’ve done okay so far on paved roads, but Laos is a lot worse. Narrower—you can check the intel and—”
“Amphibious landings are not their forte,” said Christian.
“That’s right. But intelligence shows a buildup of activity on Hai Ham.”
“A landing in Vietnam would give them practice for Taiwan,” said Perry drily. “Your thinking is very sound, Major. Do you think the Vietnamese would agree?”
“I couldn’t, uh, speak for them, General.”
“A rhetorical question, son. You’ll come with me to explain it to them. We’ll both find out together.”
“We’re going over to the embassy?”
“We’re going to Hanoi,” said Perry. “There’s an RT-1 waiting for us at Andrews. We’ll be there in a few hours. The Vietnamese want our help. Unofficially, of course.”
17
Northwestern Vietnam
A sharp pain pinched Josh’s chest as he watched the soldiers move across the field. Every muscle froze. He couldn’t breathe.
M tugged at his hand.
“Yeah, we have to go. We have to—go,” said Josh, forcing the words out. He pushed his legs to move, walking stiffly to the next room, which had a wall facing the front of the house. Halfway to the window, he spotted soldiers outside, up near the road. They were just standing there, but they could easily see the window.
“This way,” Josh said, pulling M backward with him. He fought against the panic trying to seize his chest and slipped into the scarred and battered room at the rear corner of the house. The soldiers hadn’t reached the rear yard yet.
Josh grabbed M, holding her under his side as he skirted the hole and then climbed over the rubble. As soon as they were out of the building, he threw himself and the girl down to the ground.
“Crawl,” he whispered. Then he pulled her up and showed her how to go, on all fours, toward the rough grass and weeds a few yards away.
M needed no urging; staying low to the ground, she scampered ahead and disappeared in the brush.
When he reached the grass, Josh turned back around to try and get a look out at the field and see what the soldiers were doing. He couldn’t see much of the barn, or the field in front of the house. He backed up, still on hands and knees, pushing the grass back and forth—a telltale sign, he knew, that someone was hiding there.
Josh froze, then eased his head to the side, looking for a passage where he could crawl without disturbing the vegetation. He spotted one a few feet away. Pressing his stomach into the earth, he moved toward it as wormlike as possible. The earth smelled wet, with a vague manure scent.
His nose started to twitch.
Josh caught the sneeze in the crook of his arm, smothering it. He held his breath, and bit the side of his lip with his mouth. The pain felt almost good, reassuring. It was an easy trade—endure this pinprick of pain in exchange for safety.
But there were no deals to be made with fate. The soldiers began to yell. Once more Josh froze.
Some gunshots.
M!
He started to jump up, rifle poised. He knew exactly what he was going to do: run out to the soldiers, finger press
ed on the trigger of the rifle as he ran. He’d get a small measure of revenge before they killed him. He’d release his anger—not just from the assault by the Chinese, but from everything, from the unfair slaughter of his family when he was a child, from everything.
As he started to spring up, a small hand gripped his side. M’s touch was light, but it stopped him. Josh folded forward.
The girl curled herself around him. He pulled M close, expecting the soldiers to run to them at any second.
But they didn’t. There were more shouts, a little farther away.
Josh smelled smoke. He let go of the girl and crawled forward a few feet, raising his head.
The barn was made of wood. There were stacks of bamboo near the sides. The soldiers had taken these and set fires.
The door opened. Two figures emerged, coughing. Some of the soldiers nearby began firing. The men fell.
They looked like farmers to him. They definitely weren’t soldiers.
There were more shots. From the barn? Josh couldn’t tell.
The soldiers were running, moving toward the barn.
Go, now, while everyone’s attention was there.
He took out his video camera, fumbling with it. There was about forty-five seconds of memory left, part of the file he’d erased the day before. He pressed the button and began shooting.
Go! Get out of here!
Another figure came out of the barn, hands up. The soldiers cut her down as well.
The memory on the camera was full. He turned it off, slid it back into his pocket.
More gunfire. They were firing into the barn now, blindly.
M was kneeling next to him. Rising into a crouch, Josh poked her to come with him. He started moving through the field, gradually rising, moving so fast that he was tugging the girl.
“Come on,” he growled at her beneath his breath. Finally he reached down and pulled her up on his hip, running full speed toward a thick wedge of trees. Just as he reached it, he saw it was bordered by a barbed-wire fence. Afraid he couldn’t stop in time, he plunged down to the side, rolling on the ground and then into the wire.
M began to cry.
“Sssh,” he said sharply.
One of the barbs had gone into his side. He felt it as he pulled away. He pulled the girl up, checked her—she didn’t seem to be hurt, just scared, very scared.
“Through here.”
Josh held up a strand of the wire. M didn’t move. He leaned down, levering the strands apart so the space was bigger.
“Go,” he whispered to M, trying to make his voice sound gentle, knowing that he had to be reassuring even though he felt anything but.
M squeezed through. Josh followed. His stomach hurt as he contorted. His right pants leg caught on one of the barbs, snagged, and ripped as he forced his leg to follow the rest of his body.
Through the wire, he rolled onto the ground, fighting the pain. He forced himself up, then felt a new wave of panic when he didn’t see the girl.
“M.” Her name sounded like a groan. “M!”
He took a step, felt the pain swell in his side. He looked down. There was a black spot on his shirt.
Something moved near him.
“M?”
The girl popped out of the brush. “Kia,” she said, pointing.
He wasn’t sure what the word meant, but he pushed himself forward, glad to see her, still half fearing the worst.
A bicycle was leaning next to a tree. It was almost brand new, obviously parked there very recently, maybe by one of the people in the barn as an emergency escape.
They were on a slight rise; ten yards down the hillside a trail wound through the woods.
Josh grabbed the bicycle and walked it down through the trees to the path. The trail was rough but passable. He climbed onto the seat.
The pain in his side wasn’t that bad. He could deal with it. He would have to.
“Come on, M,” he said. She ran over; he started to grab her but she already knew what to do, climbing directly onto the crossbar.
His side seemed to split open with his first push on the pedal. Josh struggled to ignore it, pushing with his left foot, and then his right.
Go, he told himself. Go!
After twenty yards, the path met a blacktopped road. Josh veered onto it without really thinking, grateful for the easier pedaling and surer balance. It was only after he’d gone a hundred yards that he realized he was back on the road the Chinese must have used to get to the house. But it was too late to turn back. He leaned forward, his chest touching M’s side, putting as much energy into his legs as possible. His torn pants leg flapped against the chain guard, a steady if light drum keeping time as he went.
Another sound rose over it, behind him. A truck.
Several trucks.
Josh veered off the road onto the shoulder. M hopped off; he grabbed the bike and pointed to the trees.
His head was swimming by the time he reached the thick clump of vegetation. He put the bike down and lay down, curling around his wound, trying to get his breath back. M sat next to him, her tiny body on top of his.
The trucks took longer than he expected to arrive. The sound kept building and building. Finally Josh forced himself up to take a look. At first he couldn’t see anything. Then a green and brown blur passed by—a camouflaged command vehicle.
Not much.
Another blur, similar in size and shape.
A lot of noise for just two trucks.
And then a gray truck passed by, a two-part troop vehicle. Then another. And another. A whole parade of them, an endless parade.
Josh sank back in despair.
“I should have shot them when I had the chance,” he said aloud. “Now there’s way too many. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
M looked at him.
“We’re not giving up,” he told her. He made fists. “We’re not.”
She looked at him fearfully. Maybe she thought he was crazy, or was lying. Maybe she knew it was hopeless.
Was it hopeless? If he died, what would happen to the girl? What would happen to the world—the evidence of what had really happened here would be lost forever.
The whole damn world was depending on him—he was a witness.
Josh touched his pocket, making sure the camera was still there.
So was the sat phone.
Josh took the phone out and turned it on. It was still locked.
He dialed the emergency number. The line seemed dead. But he knew it wasn’t—Peter had heard him.
More trucks passed on the road. And something bigger, heavier.
Tanks.
“Where the hell are you, Peter?” said Josh into the handset. “Get us out of here now. I repeat—get us the hell out of here now. Now!”
18
Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China
The division intelligence officer wore eyeglasses with lenses thicker than any Jing Yo had ever seen before. The frames were at least a size too big for his small head, and as he spoke, the glasses worked their way toward the edge of his nose, until finally they seemed ready to fall straight off. Had the briefing been any less serious, Jing Yo would have broken out laughing. As it was, he had a hard time concentrating on everything the man said.
The American scientist who had managed to escape the camp had at least one satellite phone and was using it to communicate with the outside world. He had made at least one call on a civilian network even though China had already blocked calls on the network. The intelligence people suspected that he had received calls through a network used by the American military, and were working on detecting and monitoring them.
“We have aircraft operating in this area here,” said Owl Eyes, pointing to the map. “You see his transmission was in this area, not very far from FOB number two. We have two aircraft crisscrossing the area, listening for transmissions. The next time he makes a call, we will be able to pinpoint it.”
“On the military network or civilian?”
<
br /> The briefer shook his head. “Civilian definitely. Military maybe. There are a number of factors—we may at least be able to find a transmission. Decrypting it—possibly, but there are no guarantees.”
“Good,” said Jing Yo.
Not coincidentally, FOB #2 was the forward operating base where they had met the briefer. It was a former orange grove plowed under for use as a helicopter landing field.
“The electronics aircraft are excellent planes. Canadian Twin Otters.” Owl Eyes continued, telling how the insides had been gutted and then equipped with electronic devices that were at least as good as anything the Americans were fielding. It was undoubtedly an exaggeration, though how much Jing Yo couldn’t tell.
Nor did he really care. He was much more interested in finding a helicopter for his team.
There were plenty outside. The newest ones—Z-10 gunships—were ferocious warplanes but could not carry passengers. For that job they would use Chenyang Stallions, Chinese copies of the Sikorsky S-76. It was a smaller, more maneuverable aircraft than its brother, the more famous S-70 Sikorsky Blackhawk used by America and its NATO allies. The Chinese company that built the helicopters was being sued by Sikorsky for patent violations—a sign to Jing Yo that it had done its work well.
“The American may have several men with him,” said Owl Eyes. “If this is a trap, he will be armed with antiaircraft weapons.”
“Why do you think that?”
Owl Eyes gave him a blank look. “I think that because, because it makes sense.”
“If it is a trap.”
“I would not underestimate them.”
“I don’t.”
But neither did Jing Yo overestimate them. The Americans bled like anyone else. He had dealt with a few in Malaysia, generally through proxies. They were very good, most of them, but human.
The intelligence officer started to tell him a few things about the terrain, how large swaths were being developed for farmland because of the effects of climate change, and how the jungle had become even more unruly because of the increased carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, which encouraged growth. Jing Yo already knew a great deal about all this; he’d had to learn it when planning his original mission. But he let Owl Eyes talk, unsure whether the man was authorized to know about those missions or not.
