by Larry Bond
The most logical thing to do would be to find another airport.
“Is there an airport south of here?” he asked Hyuen Bo.
“Vung Tau?” she suggested tentatively. “It’s small.”
Vung Tau was on a small peninsula that jutted out from Ganh Rai Bay. Some years before, it had been a tourist area, but the discovery of oil offshore had altered its complexion. Large platforms lined the shallow waters near the shore, extending well into the ocean. The airstrip at Bai Sau was not a large one—it didn’t appear on many maps—but it would be big enough to accommodate a propeller-driven aircraft or a helicopter.
It was a destination at least. He would follow down the river, and if he didn’t see the ferry, he would head in that direction.
~ * ~
20
Aboard USS McCampbell
“Cruiser is increasing speed, skipper. New speed is fifteen knots.”
Commander Silas glanced around the ship’s combat information center. Not one head was turned toward him; every sailor in the compartment was working his or her gear.
Absolutely as it should be.
“Their distance?” Silas asked.
“Fifty-two miles,” said his executive officer. “On that heading, they should be within sight in two hours. If they keep their speed up.”
“I’ll be on the bridge,” said Silas, making his voice firm and sharp, if not a little curt.
He could feel the adrenaline starting to build. They were in the open water, and there was no reason for the two Chinese ships—besides the cruiser, there was a smaller frigate about a quarter mile to the northeast— to challenge them, much less fire on them. But Silas sensed they would. He knew it the way he knew how to walk.
So maybe the old ways weren’t completely dead.
His orders from fleet were to avoid conflict and to remain in international waters. Those were his only orders—the request to pick up the CIA officer had not been passed on through official channels.
Which could be interpreted in many different ways, unless you were an old Navy hand, in which case there was only one way to see it: the admirals didn’t want to get caught with the splatter if things went wrong.
~ * ~
21
Hanoi
Quach Van Dhut took a long drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke out in a cloud that engulfed his head. “Eight Zodiac boats is the entire inventory,” he told Zeus. “You are lucky that they are all here.”
“Eight?” Zeus couldn’t believe it. “The Vietnamese navy has only eight rigid-hulled boats?”
“They are marine boats,” said Quach. “The navy has none.”
“You’re sure?”
Quach turned to the colonel whose unit had been assigned to supply the manpower for the mission and said something to him in Vietnamese. Quach, a short, thin man in his early fifties, was a member of the intelligence service, and unlike the others, was dressed in civilian clothes. He hadn’t given his title, but he clearly had status—Zeus had noticed how even the senior officers straightened when he walked by.
But status wasn’t what they needed at the moment. Zeus, tired—he’d been working on this all night, and it was now nearly dawn—rubbed his forehead and looked back at the map. It was roughly 120 miles across the Gulf of Bac Bo to Hainan; while the water was generally calm, that was a long way to go in the small open boats. They weren’t the largest models, either—barely seventeen feet long, the tiny craft were designed for seven men and were intended as utility boats, the sort of little runabouts that might be used off cabin cruisers or maybe to host a diving party. The debris that Zeus needed to bring—the entire reason for the mission—would add considerable weight; even divided up among the eight boats, there’d only be room for two or at most three people aboard each.
“The colonel assures me there are no other boats,” Quach told Zeus. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
Zeus glanced around the conference table. The colonel had brought three aides to the meeting; besides them, there was an officer from the general staff and another member of the intelligence service. The room stank of tea and cigarette smoke. Ordinarily, Zeus didn’t like tobacco of any kind, especially the stale remains of cigarettes. But right now he was glad for the stimulant.
“They have done exercises like this before,” said Quach. “And I have been put ashore from one of the craft. I believe they will work.”
“I guess they’ll have to.”
The inflatables weren’t the only limitation. The marines didn’t have night glasses, short-range radios, or GPS systems. Zeus had a satcom he could use to get intelligence from the data that was being sent to Vietnam’s army headquarters, but he’d have to use it sparingly, on the assumption that the Chinese would be able to detect, though not decrypt, the signal. Just knowing someone was in the middle of the gulf might increase the alert status on Hainan; everything depended on things remaining calm there.
Still, it was doable. The marines had Chinese police uniforms, which might come in handy. And the unit had received considerable training in infiltration and sabotage.
They worked for a bit longer, sketching out contingencies.
“We’re going to need a contact here,” Zeus said. “A contact at headquarters I can talk to directly if the shit hits the fan.”
“Shit?”
“If there’s a problem,” Zeus told Quach. “Someone who can stay on the phone with me. And get things done.”
“The colonel,” suggested Quach.
“He’s gotta speak English.”
Quach and the colonel spoke again in Vietnamese. Finally, the colonel turned to one of his aides. The aide seemed to be arguing, but then finally put his head down.
“Tien will be happy to help,” said Quach. “His English is very good.”
“Why is he frowning?” Zeus asked.
Quach said something in Vietnamese to the captain. Tien shrugged. Quach said something else. Tien looked toward the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Zeus asked Tien, deciding that if he spoke English, there was no need for a translator.
Tien rose, bowing his head slightly in what impressed Zeus as an overly subservient display. “Working as your translator here means I cannot go on the mission,” said Tien.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No one else on the staff speaks English,” said Tien. “It is unfortunate.”
“Well, maybe Mr. Quach can act as the coordinator here,” said Zeus.
“That will not be possible,” said Quach. “I am going with you.”
Zeus looked at Quach. He was perhaps five four, and weighed no more than 110. And that was counting the packs of cigarettes he had in his shirt pocket.
“I don’t know,” said Zeus.
“I speak Chinese, and have been to the island many times. We will have one other of my agents with us,” added Quach. “This is a difficult plan as it is, Major. You would not do well without people who know the island and can speak the language.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Zeus. “But you’re—”
“Old?”
“Well—”
Quach smiled. “That is not considered a handicap in Vietnam.”
“It may be, out on the water. We have to swim to the ships to set the charges.”
“I believe you will find that when the time comes, I will perform adequately,” said Quach. He pulled on his cigarette, right down to the filler. “And if we find ourselves too much in the water before we reach the harbor, there will be other problems to worry about greater than my age.”
~ * ~
They broke up the meeting a half hour later. Zeus waited to speak to Tien.
“I know what it feels like,” he told the captain. “I’d rather be with my men.”
“We all have a role,” said Tien stoically.
“Your English is good.”
“Thank you. I have studied since I was eight.” Tien took out a cigarette and offered the pack
to Zeus.
“No thanks.”
“You Americans invented cigarettes,” said Tien. “Now you give it up.”
“Funny, huh?”
“We are very grateful for your assistance,” Tien said. “Your strike at the dam was legendary.”
“I didn’t hit it myself,” said Zeus. “I just came up with the idea.”
“Vietnam is grateful. You saved us.”
The praise made Zeus a little uncomfortable. The strike had stopped the Chinese advance, but surely that wouldn’t last.
As for this operation . . . the odds of success were stacked very much against it.
Still, there was no sense dashing the captain’s hopes or enthusiasm. They spoke for a few minutes about what Zeus might need. Tien gave him some pointers about working with the marines. He also suggested that he look at the boats himself.
“Just because they say they are there does not always mean it is so,” said Tien. “I would go myself and make sure.”
“All the way to Hai Phong?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
“One of my sergeants would be able to drive you,” offered Tien.
“I’d have to leave soon,” said Zeus. “Right away if I could. I have a lot of other things to do.”
“The sergeant will be at your disposal.”
“Great.” Zeus stuck out his hand, deciding he would leave right away. Then he remembered Mara Duncan’s cell phone. “Damn.”
“Major?”
“I need—one of my friends may need some help. Probably not at this point.”
Zeus explained that he had a cell phone. He was as vague as possible, saying only that his friend was trying to get out of the country, and he had promised to give her information on the Chinese advance if necessary. But he couldn’t do that if he wasn’t in Hanoi.
Tien offered to help.
“Nothing classified,” Zeus said. “But if she needs to find an open airport or highway or something.”
“I would certainly help a friend of yours,” said Tien, taking the phone.
~ * ~
22
Soi Rap, near Dong Hoa, southeastern Vietnam
The Ne River was a calm, meandering stream, gradually widening as it made its way to the ocean. It took them nearly six hours to get down to near Soi Rap and the delta. Mara spent much of the time walking back and forth across the top deck, watching for other ships. As they approached the coast, Kerfer called her down to the bridge to listen to the radio. A Vietnamese navy patrol boat was challenging vessels near the mouth of the river. Which gave Mara an idea.
The SEALs rigged the ferry so that it would continue to sail on its own at about six knots. Then they took the lifeboats and, after veering temporarily toward the eastern side of the river’s mouth, snuck off the boat, taking advantage of the lingering dawn’s early shadows. They paddled away as silently as possible, hoping to escape notice, at least until the patrol boat approached the ferry.
Kerfer was the last one off, waiting until the others were away and then steering the ferry back to the middle of the channel. He made sure it was headed directly for the patrol boat before going off the side. The current pushed him toward the life rafts, which had stopped near the dark part of the shore to wait for the Vietnamese ship to take the bait.
Kerfer had to swim a considerable distance, and for a while Mara fretted that he wouldn’t make it. A jittery anxiety took over. She felt her hands shaking as she dipped her paddle into the water, holding the small raft steady.
It was ironic, she thought—he’d been almost a total jerk toward her since they’d met, yet here she was, actually worried that he was dead.
Of course, she thought; he was part of the team, and she would be concerned about all of the members of the team.
But it was more than that. And as much as she wanted to distance herself from any sort of sexual attraction—the idea was revolting—she still felt exhilarated when she spotted his head bobbing in the waves thirty yards from their boat.
“This way!” she called.
He gave a wave and continued swimming, not toward her boat but to the other, which was a little closer to shore and farther from him.
She felt disappointed.
“All right,” she told the others in the boat. “Let’s move south along the shoreline. Hold off the motor until we’re beyond the patrol boat.”
“How long before we get to the airport, you think?” asked Josh, who was sitting across from her with Mạ.
“If we can get across the bay before daylight, we’ll be less than a mile,” Mara told him. “If we have to put into shore before then, it may take longer. We’re going to make it, Josh. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“I’m not worried.”
“How’s your stomach?”
“Good.”
She could tell he was lying. “Are you okay to paddle?”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. He put his paddle into the water, making a show of pushing off.
“You’re not sneezing,” Mara said.
“Yeah, I’m not allergic to seawater, I guess. I’ve never had problems with that.”
She put her hand against his forehead. “Your fever’s gone,” she told him.
“Fear,” he said. “Miracle cure.”
~ * ~
Josh felt the coolness of Mara’s fingers on his forehead long after she had taken her hand away. He tried to focus on the water in front of them, avoiding her gaze. He was definitely attracted to her, but of course the circumstances made that completely inappropriate—impossible, really.
His body still ached, though not as badly. Soon they’d be the hell out of here, he thought.
Then what?
Then he’d be talking to the president of the United States, telling him what the Chinese had done.
And would he tell him about the Vietnamese soldiers they’d killed? Or the men in the hotel?
The men in the hotel had been Chinese agents. He was pretty sure of that. They definitely had meant to kill him. So killing them in turn had clearly been justified.
But the soldiers, the Vietnamese . . .
What would he tell God, if he died now?
It didn’t work that way, not like the old-fashioned books claimed, where you stood in front of Saint Peter or God himself and answered for each sin.
Mạ shifted against him. The poor little girl was so tired she was sleeping again.
He’d have to find her a home. Maybe his uncle would adopt her.
So what would he tell God about the soldiers? If it did work that way, if he did have to account, metaphorically or literally, what would he say?
I didn’t kill them.
That was true. But not exactly the entire story.
Those men deserved to die so that I could live?
So that Mạ could live.
Don’t blame it on her.
What of the soldiers he had killed? The Chinese captain whose head he’d bashed in?
Were the extra blows justifiable? Were they relevant at all?
“Zoning out on us?” asked Squeaky.
“No, I’m here,” said Josh, realizing that he hadn’t paddled for several minutes. He pushed his oar back into the water.
“You do a J-stroke, right?” said Squeaky.
“I guess.”
“You know what I’m talking about?”
“Kinda. If we were in a canoe, we’d be steering it.”
“Exactly.”
“I was a Boy Scout,” said Josh. “For a little while.”
“There you go.”
“Mind if I ask you a question?” said Josh.
“What’s that?”
“When you shot those people—does it bother you?”
“Which ones?”
“The guys in the train.”
“Better us than them,” answered Little Joe, who was in front of Mara.
“Yeah,” said Josh.
“It’s true,” said Squeaky.
“I had to—I killed a couple of the Chinese soldiers behind the lines, before you guys got to me,” said Josh. “I think it was the right thing to do.”
