Shadows of War

by Larry Bond

  “Tell her it wasn’t her fault,” repeated Josh.

  19

  Bangkok

  “You’re going to have to give me a better fucking location than that,” growled the stubbled face on the video screen. “I ain’t jumping into a six-mile-square box.”

  “I’ll give you a precise location,” said Peter Lucas. “You’ll have real-time data down to the millimeter when you’re in the air.”

  “I fuckin’ better.”

  Lucas pushed his chair from the console. He liked working with the SEALs because they got results. But there was always a price to be paid in terms of ego. The most easygoing SEAL held anyone who was not another SEAL in contempt.

  The man on the screen, Lieutenant Ric Kerfer, was hardly easygoing. Kerfer wasn’t civil even to other SEALs.

  But he was absolutely the man to rely on in this sort of situation. Lucas had worked with him before, with excellent results. There were even indications that Kerfer liked working with him—the high cuss count, for example.

  Still, he was one grouchy and disrespectful SOB.

  “You arrange exfiltration yet?” Kerfer asked.

  “At the moment, you’re going to have to walk out,” said Lucas.

  “Fuck that.”

  “I can’t get a helicopter in there,” said Lucas calmly. If he had been able to get a chopper, he wouldn’t need the SEALs. “I thought maybe you’d be able to steal local transport.”

  “You just told me the area was evacuated. What did these people use to get out of there? You think they just left their vehicles parked around? Hell no, they drove. Or fucking walked. What’s my solution?”

  “I don’t know, Kerfer,” said Lucas, finally losing his patience. “You tell me what your goddamn solution is.”

  For the first time since he came on the videoconference line, Kerfer smiled. “Bicycles.”

  “Bicycles?”

  “We ride them out of there. I did something like that in Pakistan,” the SEAL lieutenant added. “Almost like a picnic.”

  Lucas reminded him that there was a little girl with them.

  “So we get her a little bike.”

  “If you think bikes will work,” said Lucas, “go for it.”

  “All right. Get them to the drop area.”

  “Me?”

  “Helicopter picks us off the sub in half an hour, Petey. We fly straight to Okinawa and leave as soon as we get there. You either get the bikes aboard the jet, or get them there yourself. Your call.”

  “All right. They’ll be on the jet.”

  “I ain’t biking all the way to Hanoi. It’d be okay for me and my boys, but your people are going to crap out. Arrange a truck to meet us somewhere halfway.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Maybe he could find a Vietnamese national to leave a truck somewhere. He could use the embassy.

  Not that he trusted them worth shit, as Kerfer would have put it.

  “We’re set, Petey?”

  “Yeah, we’re set,” said Lucas. “And don’t fuckin’ call me Petey.”

  “Always a pleasure, Petey,” said Kerfer, laughing as he killed the connection on his side.

  20

  Northern Vietnam

  Jing Yo’s unit had to return to the forward air base so the infrared searching gear could be installed. The device itself was relatively small—it fit on a long spar at the side of the helicopter, making it look a little like a catamaran with a rotor on top. The control panel, however, was the size of a small desk. Two had to be loaded into the helicopter, each with its own operator. The gear, less than three months old, was considered so valuable that four soldiers had been sent to guard it. They had insisted on flying in the Sikorsky with the operators. That cramped the small helicopter, forcing Jing Yo to put his men and Sergeant Wu in a second helicopter. It also lowered the size of his assault force, limiting him to just two other regular army soldiers instead of the entire squad he’d had earlier.

  The operators were a pair of sergeants from Beijing who went about their work very quietly, communicating with each other rarely, and then mostly by nods and an occasional one-word question. Jing Yo leaned over them, watching as they finished calibrating their equipment.

  “We can take off anytime,” declared the lead operator as a loud tone sounded from his panel. “We are prepared.”

  Jing Yo picked up the microphone on the helicopter’s interphone headset and told the pilot to take off. Within minutes, the aircraft was pushing forward across the field, tilting slightly to the right as it rose.

  The main display screen looked very much like a standard television display, except that everything was shaded blue and red. The color scheme was preset to toggle through several variations, each one keyed to a different range of temperatures. The system automatically notified the operator when it found something within a specified range—in this case, roughly the temperature range of a human body. The operator could then “zoom” in by switching to a more sensitive heat band.

  The infrared system was not magic. It had trouble “seeing” through thick jungle canopy, though it was better than most commercially available systems at filtering through the trees and brush, even from a distance. It also couldn’t “see” in the rain—a problem shared by all infrared systems.

  The forecast called for rain. So far it had held off.

  A yellow cursor opened around a red squiggle at the bottom left of the screen. The operator circled it with his index finger, then put the tips of his fingers on the screen and pulled up. The image inside the circle expanded, then changed to a collection of muted greens and blacks.

  “What is it?” asked Jing Yo.

  “A man,” said the operator.

  Jing Yo went over and looked out the window toward the ground. The sun was setting, and there were long shadows everywhere. All he could see were the tops of the trees, puffy patches of black punctuated by shadow.

  “Is that our target?” he asked.

  The operator smiled. “A soldier, having a cigarette by the side of the road,” he said. “A half kilometer from the field. He’s a guard.”

  “You’re sure?”

  The operator double-tapped the screen. The image expanded again, once more changing color, this time to yellowish brown.

  Except for the tip of the stick that jutted from the yellow blotch. It flared red, then went back to orange.

  “Very good,” said Jing Yo. “Let us get to work.”

  21

  Noi Bai Airport, Hanoi

  “What do you say we have a beer?” Zeus asked his pilot after they landed and were trundling toward the parking area at Noi Bai Airport.

  “I like it,” replied Captain Thieu. “You pay.”

  “You got it.”

  In the two hours since they had been gone, dozens of antiaircraft guns had been brought onto the airport property and lined up opposite the hangars. There were also two mobile missile batteries out on the edge of the apron area, older Russian ground-to-air missiles that Zeus guessed would not be any more effective than the launchers on the perimeter that had failed to strike the intruders the night before. But the Vietnamese had to do something; a second strike at the airport would almost certainly be launched, and if it was half as devastating as the first, the field would have to shut down indefinitely.

  Thieu turned the jet around at the far end of the cement, parking it about thirty yards from another Albatross. That one had holes in its wings, and the tail fin looked as if something had taken a bite out of it.

  “Are you coming, Lieutenant?” Thieu asked, popping out of his seat as the canopy rose. “I’m thirsty for my beer.”

  “Aren’t we getting a ladder?”

  Thieu laughed, then jumped to the ground. Reluctantly, Zeus unstrapped himself, gathered his gear, and followed.

  His binoculars slipped from his vest as he landed. He fumbled for them awkwardly, managing to grab them before they hit the ground.

  He dropped them as the pilot slapped his ba
ck.

  “You did all right for a soldier. Maybe you should learn to be a pilot,” said Thieu.

  “Thanks.”

  Zeus scooped up the glasses—fortunately not broken—and followed Thieu toward the hangar. They were still about ten yards from the entrance when a jeep came charging around the corner of the building. General Perry was in the passenger seat.

  “About time you got back. I need you, Zeus,” said Perry. “Get in.”

  By the time Zeus and General Perry arrived at General Trung’s headquarters, the U.S. had established a link that allowed real-time satellite data to be displayed on a pair of computer screens. The link came to the barracks via a landline that was strung from the embassy, a precarious arrangement that used up a good portion of the capital area’s available fiber-optic cable. But the real challenge was finding power for the two screens. Though they were relatively small and drew very little current, the electric lines to Trung’s headquarters were still down. A portable generator had been sent over from the embassy; the computer system taxed it severely. In an attempt to balance the load, the lights in the command room, dim to begin with, were completely shut off. The glow of the screens barely illuminated half of the conference table at the middle of the room, and when the image changed, the room temporarily went black.

  Still, seeing the pictures was better than hearing the situation described over a phone. Zeus pressed closer to the screen, looking at the satellite photos of the air base at Na San, and of the now clogged road south. A squadron of A-10As, and he could have wiped out half the Chinese armor in a day.

  There would still have been a lot left. Swarms of tanks and men were pouring in over the border to the north.

  One of the Global Hawks—there were now three on continuous station overhead, authorized by the Vietnamese—streamed live video from the Da River valley. The video showed that the Chinese had not yet adapted to the problem in front of them. They were moving forces down along Route 6 as if the way south were clear, sending very small teams to the east to either probe or act as pickets in case of attack.

  “You can turn these off for a while and pop on the lights,” Zeus said after he finished going over the images.

  The room plunged into darkness as the gear was unplugged and the lights were reenergized. Zeus felt a little like he was with the American army of 1812, trying to stop the British from ravaging the country while equipped with a thousandth of their resources.

  When the lights came on, General Trung nodded at him, encouraging him to continue.

  “The Chinese haven’t adapted yet. They may try and cross the reservoir. We know that’s not going to work,” said Zeus. He pointed to the map on the table. “The Chinese are stopped here, for the moment, along Highway 6 before the intersection with 15. They have two choices—they go into Laos, maybe try coming all the way down to Highway 217, or they change their game plan. Which do you want them to do?”

  “An attack against our neighbor is always preferable to being attacked ourselves,” said Trung soberly. “As lamentable as it is. But if they try that way, they will face much difficulty.”

  “We have cut off the passes at the border, General,” said one of his aides. “It will be a grave for them.”

  “I would suggest you alert the Laotians,” said General Perry.

  “It has already been done,” said Trung. “The evacuations have begun.”

  “Eventually, they’ll come for Hanoi,” said Zeus.

  As if on cue, an air raid siren sounded. Zeus gritted his teeth and looked at General Perry. Perry simply folded his arms.

  “Continue with your thoughts, please,” said Trung.

  “Hit them along the road while they’re stalled, the more often the better,” said Zeus. “Hit and run—Vietnamese style.”

  Trung smiled broadly. Zeus suspected that the attacks were already being launched, since he had seen some activity on the Vietnamese side of the line in the Global Hawk video.

  “What they will probably decide eventually is to use 113 as a conduit for an attack,” Zeus said, pointing to the east-west highway south of Na San. “It’s the best road in the area, given where their forces are collecting. It’s not as narrow as the others.”

  Trung’s staff started talking among themselves. Zeus felt frustrated—Perry’s translator had not been allowed into the room, and in fact it was clear that the Vietnamese really didn’t care to discuss the situation with him; they only wanted him to give them intelligence. Trung tolerates my ideas, he thought, primarily out of politeness.

  “General, I have another idea,” Zeus told Trung. “The Chinese haven’t taken Route 109 behind the airfield at Na San. You could get the hills back, and they’d be sitting ducks down there. Just like the French.”

  Trung smiled faintly. “Diem lost the battle at Na San.”

  “Only because the French could bring in reinforcements and supplies from Hanoi and farther south. Look how far the Chinese will have to come. And you could sit in the hills with shoulder-launched SAMs.”

  Trung nodded. It was hard to tell, though, if he was just being polite.

  As the Vietnamese staff’s discussion grew louder and more animated, General Perry rose. “General, it would appear that your staff would like to work on these problems without us,” Perry told Trung. “Perhaps my major and I could go and get some dinner.”

  “By all means.”

  “Put yourself in their position. Would we be taking advice from an old enemy?” Perry asked Zeus as they made their way back to the jeep.

  “They already did,” said Zeus. “They should hit the airstrip. And cut off 113. They have to harass the enemy, hit his supply lines—”

  “One thing I would guess about the Vietnamese,” said Perry. “They know how to run that sort of war. They did it before.”

  “They haven’t been on this side of it. And the intelligence is a hell of a lot different now. Communications—”

  “War’s war, Major.” Perry stopped in front of the jeep. “You’re a damn bright kid. I wish I was half as smart as you. But I’ll tell you something—Trung has the whole thing in his head already. I could see it in his eyes. You have to learn to read people. Especially if you’re trying to help them.”

  A few blocks from the embassy, Zeus saw a red glow to the north of the capital. The Chinese had struck at the airport again, this time starting a fire in the underground fuel storage tanks.

  The embassy perimeter was guarded by Vietnamese soldiers as well as American marines, and even though Perry and Zeus were in uniform, they had to show their IDs to three different people before being cleared into the compound itself. By then Perry was in a bad mood, and Zeus thought he was going to bite the head off the Marine sergeant who came up to the jeep. The marine calmly explained that he was under orders to make a positive, personal identification before allowing anyone through.

  “Is this positive enough for you?” asked Perry, leaning from the vehicle and putting his face into the marine’s.

  The sergeant stepped back and snapped off a salute, waving them in.

  Major Christian met them in the vestibule. “General, I need to talk to you.”

  “Talk.”

  Christian glared at Zeus, clearly not wanting to say whatever it was he had to say in front of him. Zeus decided he’d hold his ground; he’d had enough of the jackass.

  “The CIA has a problem, sir. They need to get a truck up to Tuyên Quang.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Perry.

  “I know where it is,” said Zeus.

  Tuyên Quang was about seventy-five miles north of Hanoi. Still controlled by Vietnam, the city had not been bombed or attacked by the Chinese.

  The truck, Christian explained, was needed to rendezvous with a group of SEALs who were helping an American scientist and a CIA officer escape from behind enemy lines. They were supposed to be there by dawn or a little after.

  On bicycles.

  “Bicycles?” asked Perry.

  “Dumbshit SE
ALs,” said Zeus.

  The others looked at him.

  “I’m sorry, sir. When I was in Special Forces, I mean—they were always pulling some idiotic stunt. Why don’t they just take a helicopter? Or motorcycles?”

  “We have a truck?” Perry asked.

  “We have a panel van,” said Christian. “But we don’t have a driver. Uh, using one of the locals is a real bad idea.”

  “What about the marines?” asked Perry.

  “There are only six and—”

  “I’ll drive,” said Zeus quickly.

  “Actually, I was going to volunteer,” said Christian.

  Perry wasn’t particularly keen on either of them going, even though the city was clearly in Vietnamese control. But Christian had already been asking around. The marines were short of the people they needed for security, and if he—or Zeus—didn’t take the van, they’d have to give the job to one of the civilian embassy employees. Or the Vietnamese.

  “See the thing is,” Christian explained, “this has to be as quiet as possible. They don’t want the Vietnamese involved, if possible. Because the person who’s coming back has sensitive information. The Vietnamese aren’t supposed to know he’s out there. Or the CIA agent—they didn’t tell even me that much.”

  “All right,” said Perry. “You and Zeus head up there. Report in every half hour.”

  “Every half hour?” said Zeus.

  “Try every fifteen minutes,” answered the general.

  22

  Northern Vietnam

  Late that evening, China declared northern Vietnam a no-fly zone for commercial aircraft, complicating the SEALs’ game plan. They hastily switched from the original blueprint, which called for a jump from the rear door of a leased 727 flying at thirty-five thousand feet, to a contingency plan using a Hercules MC-130J at very low altitude. Before approaching the Chinese early-warning radars near the Vietnamese border, the Hercules would dip low to the ground, allowing it to escape detection in the ground clutter. As far as the SEALs were concerned, the switch was no big deal.