by Larry Bond
While Perry was still making all of the expected diplomatic noises, Zeus could tell the general was starting to get a little annoyed. This was even more obvious at the next security station, which was down another set of steps. Perry held his arms out with a frown Zeus recognized from their war games; he was probably one bad poke away from losing his patience.
The ambassador made a joke that the security was almost as bad as going to a Washington Nationals game. Perry didn’t laugh.
They were led to yet another set of stairs, these much wider. The stairwell had low-energy fluorescents that gave it a pure white glow, almost surrealistic under the circumstances.
A tall man dressed in a Western-style business suit met them at the base of the stairs. He was the foreign minister, and after greeting them he began talking to Behrens in Vietnamese. Despite the circumstances, both smiled broadly, chatting as they walked down the hall.
A thin industrial-style carpet covered the floor; the walls and floor of the passage were smooth concrete. A single steel door sat at the far end of the hall. A guard, armed with a Russian-made submachine gun, stood at attention in front of it. He moved to the side as they approached, watching the Americans warily.
The room behind the door looked like a staff room, dominated by two large tables pushed together. Simple wooden chairs were arranged around them; the chairs were slightly askew, as if a meeting had broken up a short while ago and no one had had a chance to put them back in place. There was nothing on the walls: no maps, no charts, no whiteboards or projection equipment. The only thing breaking the monotony of the dull white concrete was two doors on either side of the room. Both were solid steel, gray and featureless.
The foreign minister gestured to one side of the table. General Perry and the ambassador took seats at the center. Zeus, Christian, and Candy sat to their left; Perry’s translator and Captain Ford sat to the right. Zeus was closest to the door.
The foreign minister sat opposite them.
“Tell me now why you’ve come,” said the foreign minister. His English was not quite as sharp as the deputy defense minister’s, the accent heavy.
Perry repeated basically the same speech that he had given earlier. He was about halfway through when one of the doors behind them opened.
The foreign minister rose; the Americans followed his lead. Zeus turned and saw Vietnam’s premier, Lein Thap, shuffling around the side of the room, walking slowly to the Vietnamese side of the table. He was an old man, well past seventy, and his gray hair and stoop made him appear almost ghostlike.
Perry began recounting his offer, this time beginning with the president’s pledge. Their translator went to work, putting each of Perry’s sentences into Vietnamese. Thap raised his finger after only a few words.
“Yes, sir?” said the general.
“I know of your president, and have met him,” said the premier, speaking in Vietnamese. “He was our prisoner during the war.”
“Yes, sir,” said the general after the words were translated.
“The United States has been China’s ally for many years now.”
“America is a trading partner with China,” interjected the ambassador, first in Vietnamese and then in English. “Just as we are partners with Vietnam. We have no defense or aid agreements with the Chinese.”
The premier let the comment pass. Perry continued, laying out what the U.S. could do, gesturing toward Zeus to say that a series of suggestions had been prepared as well as intelligence.
“The strategy has been extensively gamed,” added Perry. “We are confident of its success.”
Zeus winced internally at the exaggeration.
“What does “gamed” mean?” asked the Vietnamese foreign minister in English. “The translation is … difficult.”
“Tested. By computer,” said Perry.
The foreign minister leaned close to the premier, whispering the explanation in his ear. If the premier was impressed—or even moved at all—it didn’t show on his face.
If the Vietnamese turned down U.S. assistance, what would happen next?
Zeus hadn’t even thought that possible. Surely the Vietnamese wanted help. But as he studied the premier’s expression, he realized that they might not.
If the Vietnamese were overrun, every other country in Asia would think there was nothing to be gained by opposing the Chinese at all; capitulation would at least spare their people immediate pain.
And then Zeus realized they might be overrun in any event. What happened then?
“It is a strong man who can help those who were once his enemy,” said the premier finally. He looked at Zeus. “You will speak to General Trung. If he believes he can use your help, he will do so.”
4
Northwestern Vietnam
Josh walked behind Mara and M, urging them on as gently as he could, until finally he decided that they were far enough away from the road and possible pursuers that he could lead the way. He slipped between them, carrying M for a few hundred meters before setting her back down and urging her to keep up.
Pulling Mara away from the burning wreck seemed to have given him new energy. Or maybe it had restored his pride, weakened by the ordeal in the mine shaft. He’d been ready to die there—he hadn’t cared anymore.
Despair was the one unforgivable sin, he’d always thought; he hadn’t despaired that day long ago when his parents had been murdered. It was the most important lesson he’d gained, a hard-earned one. But now it seemed the line was not precise—one moment of weakness did not eliminate the sum of who he was and what he did. He was a survivor, not a victim, a man who tried to do something rather than giving up. Even when it had seemed hopeless, he had tried to go out with action rather than lying down. And that was a better, more precise measure of real despair.
The jungle closed in as they walked, until the vegetation became so thick that the stream was nearly impossible to see. The water gradually turned from a narrow channel perhaps six inches deep to a mushy, widespread marsh marked by a few rocks and dead trees.
Bugs swarmed thickly over the narrow swamp. Josh had become so used to the insects that usually he barely noticed them, but these swarms were impossible to ignore. They got into his eyes and nose, his mouth when he opened it. Finally, he decided they had no choice but to leave the soggy ground. This wasn’t easy—pushing through the weeds and brush felt like pushing through a foam-filled room. A bush would give way to a thicker bush; a momentary hole would lead to a tree trunk. Once they were away from the worst of the insects, Josh tried to move parallel to the stream, but after a while had to give it up and go where the jungle was thinnest.
“We stop here,” said Mara when they finally broke into a small clearing around three large intertwined trees. “Rest.”
“We have to keep moving,” said Josh. “They’re probably following.”
“We stop and figure out where the hell we are,” she told him. “And we need to rest.”
Josh looked down at M. She had a vacant expression on her face, a desperate blankness.
“You’re right. We should stop,” he said.
He crouched next to M and gestured that she should sit. He sat down against the nearby tree, patting the ground next to him, but M remained standing.
Mara leaned against the tree, looking upward. “I think I can climb this,” she said.
“I thought you were tired.”
She frowned but then started upward, slowly at first but gradually gaining speed.
Josh recognized her type—college jock, probably played soccer, a tomboy who felt like a fish out of water once graduation came around. She’d probably looked into joining the army, then settled on the spy business. Maybe she was gay. Most likely.
Not that it was an issue. He wasn’t attracted to her in any event.
He looked at the bushes, examining the leaves. If it had been a different time of year, they’d be full of berries and there’d be nuts on the trees—they’d have something to eat.
“There’s a hill about a half mile that way,” Mara told him as she slid back down to the ground. “There are a lot of trees. The ground should be a little easier to move through.”
“Are they following us?”
“I couldn’t see them. Doesn’t mean they’re not.”
“Do you have your phone?”
“That’s about all I have.”
“Are you going to call for help?” Josh asked.
“The only help we’re likely to get was shooting it out with the Chinese back at the road,” said Mara. “And if they were homing in on you, they may be able to home in on me. Come on—if they’re following us, it will be easy for them to see the trail we cut through the brush.”
“We didn’t cut a trail.”
“The vegetation was pushed to the side. Look—it’s pretty easy to see the way we’ve gone.”
She was right. Josh got up and took M by the hand, following as Mara led the way to the hill she’d seen. For a while, the brush was just as thick as before, maybe even thicker. But after nearly twenty minutes they began moving uphill. As the incline steepened, the vegetation began to thin out.
The summit was an uneven saddle framed by a group of young trees. The land to the south had been clear-cut of timber within the past two or three years; rotted carcasses of trees that had been taken down but not harvested dotted the new growth. A rutted logging trail meandered off to the southeast.
Mara climbed another of the trees to try and scout the area, but the thin trunk bent before she was high enough to get much of a view.
“All right. I’ll check in,” Mara told Josh after she shimmied down. She took out her phone and walked a few yards away.
Josh debated whether to follow her, and decided he should. She frowned but said nothing to him as the call went through.
“Yeah, it’s me. A whole shitload of trouble,” she told whoever was on the other side of the line. “The Chinese had helicopters. Jimmy’s people got mixed up in the firefight. We split up. I have the scientist. He’s got a kid with him. What can you do for us?”
Josh folded his arms in front of his chest. He didn’t like the way she’d mentioned M, as if he’d been expected to make a business presentation and had shown up with a kid in tow.
Mara turned to him, apparently in response to a question from whoever was on the line.
“You do have the tape, right?” she asked.
“I got it.”
“We’re good,” she told the phone.
She listened some more.
“All right,” she said finally. “We’ll try.”
“What are we going to try?” asked Josh after she hung up abruptly.
“To stay alive. Come on. That trail leads to a road, and there’s a deserted village a mile off it that the Chinese haven’t occupied yet.”
“How do you know?”
“I just had them look at a satellite image. Come on.”
5
Washington, D.C.
President Greene glanced across the Oval Office at a portrait of one of his predecessors before taking the call. He’d ordered the painting of FDR placed where he could see it a few months before. Never a big Roosevelt admirer, he’d come to appreciate the Democrat more and more over the past year.
“Mrs. Prime Minister, thank you for returning my call,” President Greene told Ivory Chatham as he retrieved the British prime minister from hold. “I trust you’re well.”
“Tolerably well,” she told him. “The weather here has been just awful. Even for England.”
“I’m sorry to hear.” Mandatory chitchat finished, Greene plunged into the reason he’d placed the call. “I’ve been speaking to both my secretary of state and my national security adviser about your concerns.”
“I’m going to save you the embarrassment, George,” said the prime minister, cutting him short. “His Majesty’s government is not currently in a position to help you on the resolution.”
Greene stifled a growl. “Why not?”
“I’m sorry, George. The financial situation is very difficult here.”
“You’re not going to succumb to blackmail, are you? This is a critical point. Crucial.”
“I know. The financial situation is very precarious right now,” added Chatham. “And I’m afraid that my government would not be able to sustain a challenge.”
“I hadn’t realized the situation was so … precarious.” Greene shifted in his chair. Part of the problem, he believed, was that Chatham faced a no-confidence vote in the Parliament in a few days. She had barely survived the last, and undoubtedly didn’t want to do anything to tip more votes against her.
“It’s the bonds, George. The Chinese have been very clear that they will withdraw their deposits.”
“They’ve hinted the same to us. It will hurt them more than us. Certainly in the long run.”
“You’re not in the position I am. And frankly, the Chinese have public sentiment on their side. People think the Vietnamese are getting what they deserve. I’m surprised that’s not the case in your country.”
It probably was, though Greene had made it a point to avoid looking at any public opinion polls on the matter.
“People have seen the photos the Chinese have spread around,” added the prime minister. “I know what you’ve said about them, but they’re very convincing. Very, very convincing.”
“What if we had proof that the Chinese staged the entire incident? That the Vietnamese never launched an attack.”
“Of course we suspect that.”
“But if the public had proof. Would it make a difference to you?”
“Well, if we had public opinion on our side, in that case …”
“Then let me ask you a favor. Do nothing. For a few days—take no stand on the resolution.”
“You have proof?”
“We’re working on it,” said Greene.
6
Northwestern Vietnam
Jing Yo had been following the enemy soldiers for nearly ten minutes before he spotted the blood. It was a bright splotch on a long blade of grass. He stopped and crouched, wondering if the enemy had managed to set another ambush nearby. When he saw nothing, he moved forward again, staying as low to the ground as he could.
More blood. A big splotch and a little one.
Two more steps and there were three drops, all very large.
The brush got thicker. More branches were broken as they passed, the enemy’s haste making its path easier to follow.
It might be a trap. They’d been very clever so far.
Jing Yo moved ahead carefully, his eyes straining to see through the brush. There was a shadow ahead.
Stealthily, he crept toward it. It wasn’t until he was three meters away that he was sure it was just a tree.
A few steps beyond the shadow, the scattered splotches of blood became a steady line, thin and narrow, then wider. After a few strides, Jing Yo heard a groan ahead.
He strongly suspected a trap. He circled to his right, moving quietly through a group of trees. The enemy soldier had fallen against a bush and was leaning there, half suspended, facedown.
But he was still alive. His hand was clawing at the ground, as if he were a turtle trying to right itself.
Jing Yo sprang forward, rushing toward the man. The enemy soldier had dropped his rifle on the ground.
The gun was Chinese. He wore Chinese uniform pants and top under a bulletproof vest and a regular-issue camo tac vest.
Was he Chinese? What was going on?
Jing Yo reached him just as the soldier managed to push himself faceup.
He looked Chinese.
“Who are you?” demanded Jing Yo, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him. “Comrade, what unit are you?”
The man grimaced, clearly in pain. His eyes opened and closed. He was barely conscious.
Jing Yo squatted down. The bulletproof vest was not Chinese; it was cut higher and was thinner. The inserts seemed to be made of a thousand spheres rather
than the stiff plates used by the Chinese and most other militaries.
His radio was foreign as well. He had German-made field glasses, unusual in Asia.
Jing Yo’s bullets had caught him in the thigh and groin, tearing apart the flesh. Not serious at first, the wound had been made much worse by the soldier’s exertions running through the jungle. Blood was now oozing out onto his uniform at a steady pace.
“Who are you?” Jing Yo asked again.
The man groaned.
“Tell me your name. What unit are you with? Or are you with the Vietnamese? Tên anh là gì?” he added, switching to Vietnamese as he asked him his name again.
The man didn’t respond.
“You’re American?” Jing Yo asked. “Are you CIA?”
No answer.
“Where is the scientist?”
The man yelled in anguish. Jing Yo reached to his vest and took out his morphine injector. He removed the cap, then plunged the needle into the man’s leg.
“Lieutenant, what’s this?” asked Ai Gua, plunging out of the brush.
“Our enemy is wearing our uniform.”
Sergeant Wu and three other commandos came up behind Ai Gua. Though the explosion had been fearsome, the IED had wounded only two men, both lightly. Wu had left two of his soldiers to care for them.
“Are they Vietnamese?” asked Wu, looking at the man.
“I don’t think so, but it’s possible,” said Jing Yo. Years of intrigue had taught him not to rule out any possibility; though remote, there was even a chance the man was actually Chinese.
“They must have gotten the uniforms from whoever they stole the trucks from,” said Wu.
“Yes,” said Jing Yo. “We’ll continue to pursue them. The best odds are that the scientist is with them, or behind them somewhere.”
“If they reach the road they’ll be gone,” said Wu.
“The helicopters will continue to patrol the area,” said Jing Yo. “It’s the best we can do.”
Ai Gua had dressed the man’s wounds and checked him for identification. He had none, not even a wallet. But he did have money—nearly a hundred Vietnamese five-hundred-thousand-dong notes were wadded in his pants.
