by Larry Bond
At this point, the only possible option was to attempt to fight their way out. The Chinese tanks tried bulling their way back through the damaged vehicles in a bid to escape. Two T-96s became bogged down and were abandoned; another was blown up by a soldier who braved the gunfire and threw a grenade in a hatch.
A pair of tanks finally succeeded in pushing the damaged tank blocking the road, and the three survivors of the battle sped away, soldiers clinging desperately to their hulls.
* * *
The Vietnamese had won a significant battle, surprising and devastating a much larger force. But they had taken serious losses in the process. Colonel Dai had lost nearly a third of his men; most were wounded, but some seventy were dead and another dozen missing.
Dai himself had been hurt, but after being bandaged by a medic, he regained his composure and his command. By the time Zeus reached him on the road below the strip mine, the colonel had started to regroup his forces.
“We have stopped them for tonight,” he told Zeus. “Thank you.”
Zeus, battered and bruised but otherwise unharmed in the battle, nodded. “What now?”
“We move back to Malipo. General Trung radioed fifteen minutes ago. He has taken the city with little resistance.”
“I need a ride to the airport,” Zeus told him.
“Your clothes are covered with blood,” said the colonel. “We will get you something to change into.”
“These are fine for now. I need to make sure the field is secure.”
* * *
Zeus ended up hitching a ride into Malipo ahead of Dai, riding on the back of a pickup truck headed for the temporary aid station with wounded. The aid station was in the middle of the city, in what had been a clinic, though it had few supplies. The sun was just coming up over the hills, chasing away clouds not of moisture but gunpowder.
The small garrison had been taken almost without resistance. There were only sixteen Chinese; they were locked in the basement of the town police station in a pair of jail cells barely big enough for them to fit. About the same number were believed to have fled as the fighting started.
The building next to the police station had been the local army headquarters; its only occupant when the Vietnamese arrived was a major, who had put a pistol into his mouth and fired when the troops arrived.
A number of city residents had fled into the night, but most remained in their houses. The Vietnamese ordered them to stay in their basements, warning that anyone who came out would be treated as an enemy and shot. There was not much to worry about from them; as a general rule, the Chinese did not allow peasants to own guns, and after a precursory search the Vietnamese left the civilians to tend to more important matters.
Trung’s command vehicle was parked near the clinic, but he had taken over the police station as a base, and Zeus found him upstairs in what had been the central office, hunched over a map spread over a pair of desks.
“I have had a report from Colonel Dai,” said Trung, looking up as Zeus approached. “We are grateful for your weapons, and for your efforts. Once more, the tiger has shown his stripes.”
Trung gave him a wan smile before continuing.
“The Chinese were completely taken by surprise,” he told Zeus. “They had barely a platoon guarding the city.”
“The tank division will regroup,” said Zeus. “We didn’t get a third of it.”
“We will be ready.” Trung extended his hand toward the map. Zeus stared at the side of the general’s face. The bottom of his eye lids sagged, running down from the crooked wrinkles that formed a V back into his temple. There, dull brown age marks dotted yellowed skin, as if the flesh along his hairline had been stained by tobacco.
Trung turned to look at Zeus. Though tired, his dark eyes were calm and, together with his upright posture, gave the general an air of certainty and confidence.
More than the situation warranted, probably.
“There is only one highway to the town,” said Trung. “We will have it mined within the hour. If they move up through the side roads, then we will trap them from above.”
“They may come across the way Dai’s forces did,” said Zeus, pointing to the small trails in the hills to the east of the mine where the ambush had taken place. “Then they will come down the highway to the west and get below you. They’ll trap you here.”
“If they try that, we will blow up the hillsides and trap them in a landslide,” said Trung. He pointed to the map. “And there is a bridge here, and one here.”
“Yes.” Zeus looked at the map. Trung’s solution might delay an attack, but the town would remain vulnerable. And if the Chinese swept in from the west, they could easily cut the Vietnamese off from the south.
“How long do you plan to stay?” Zeus asked.
“How long before your mission to Kunming is launched?”
“The plane should be up here by this afternoon,” said Zeus. “I’m on my way to check on it.”
“Are you going yourself?”
“Yes,” said Zeus.
“You are a man of much ambition, Major. May you do well.” He bowed his head slightly in respect.
* * *
Zeus had not, in fact, planned to go. But now it seemed impossible to stay back. He wanted to fight the Chinese; he wanted to kill the general.
It was his plan, his idea. He wanted to see it triumph.
And Anna?
She was still there, still there. He would see her soon.
* * *
Zeus’s anger at Trung had completely dissipated, and he thanked him when he gave him a driver and a guard to take him to the airport. The small facility was located to the east of the city, on the other side of a low, lush ridge, one of the few in the area that had not been attacked by mining machines.
There was a bonus waiting at the airport: a Xian Y-7-100. The aircraft was basically a Chinese-built An-24, a two-engine workhorse used for various transportation duties throughout Asia and Europe.
The flight crew had apparently been in the city when the assault began, and had not been located. But the Vietnamese platoon that took over the small administration building had captured a pair of maintainers, and proudly showed them off to Zeus. Both were old, at least sixty, and while neither was frail, Zeus nonetheless felt sorry for them. They wore sullen gazes firmly clamped on the ground.
There was a Chinese interpreter with the platoon. Zeus enlisted his aid as he tried to question the men about the pilots. Both indicated that they didn’t know anything, mumbling and gesturing.
The interpreter repeated his questions twice, each time his voice raising another notch in volume. He then took out his pistol and swung at the nearest man, screaming at him.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” said Zeus, grabbing the interpreter’s arm. “Don’t bother.”
The interpreter said something to Zeus in Vietnamese—a curse or a putdown, from what Zeus could tell of his expression.
For just a moment he thought the man would take a swing at him, which would have been a serious mistake—Zeus stood a good foot over him, and if his anger was unleashed there was no telling what he might do. Probably realizing he was overmatched, the interpreter shook his head and holstered his weapon, stalking off.
The Chinese workers stared at Zeus, their eyes wide. But if they were grateful, they didn’t offer any show of cooperation, and in the end Zeus left them and went to look at the rest of the building.
There wasn’t much to it: a medium-sized hall with three rows of chairs bolted to the floor, a small office with an empty desk and a folding chair off to the side, and a pair of lavatories. There wasn’t even a control tower.
Two hangars sat near the building. Neither was particularly large. One appeared to be used for maintenance, housing a fuel truck and a white Nissan pickup. A single metal cabinet held tools, and the only thing on the long bench that ran nearly the length of the building was a single oil-stained rag.
The second hangar had a small airc
raft, an older Cessna 172. The plane’s paint was faded and its front tire looked nearly flat. Zeus walked around it quickly, but not being a pilot or an aircraft mechanic he had no idea whether it could fly or not.
Back outside, he took out his satellite phone and called Kerfer to tell him that the airport had been secured.
“You took your damn time about it,” said the SEAL.
“Fuck you,” Zeus told him.
Kerfer laughed. “I’m glad to hear you’re coming over to the dark side, Major. I was just bustin’ your ass.”
“Bust your own ass. When are you getting up here?”
“I’m not.”
“What?”
“I have to do a little something for Uncle. The CIA is going to run this themselves.”
“Shit.”
“He didn’t get a hold of you yet?”
“I haven’t talked to anybody.”
“His name is Setco. Roth Setco. He’s a psych job. But he’s pretty good. Don’t get in his way. As long as the field is secure, you’re good.”
“I’m going with him.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my mission.”
“Talk to Setco, not me,” said Kerfer. “He’ll be up there no later than eighteen hundred. Can your Viets hold out till then?”
“Probably,” said Zeus.
“Oh, that’s positive.”
“It’s the truth. It depends on how long it takes the Chinese to regroup. They got their butts kicked pretty well.”
“Setco will need to be refueled,” said Kerfer. “Otherwise he’s completely self-contained. I gave him your contact information, he should be calling you. He should have done it already.”
“I’m going with him.”
“Talk to Setco. I have my own problems.”
Zeus put his thumb over the end button.
“Hey, Murphy.”
“What?”
“I’d hang back and see the girl if I were you. You don’t need to go with Roth. You’ve done enough. Go home.”
“Screw you.”
Kerfer laughed. He was still laughing when Zeus clicked off the phone.
44
Kunming
General Li Sun stared at the video screen, unable to fathom what the division commander was telling him. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the words—the transmission was clear, despite the encryption and mountainous terrain. It was just that their content seemed completely impossible.
The man on the screen, 12th Armor Commander General Fan, seemed equally incredulous. He pursed his lips, then opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
“You are telling me that the Vietnamese are in Chinese territory?” Li Sun tried to tamp down his voice; he knew he was close to screaming. “That they have a force strong enough to defeat an armored division.”
“Not defeat, merely—”
“Are you telling me you were ambushed above—above—Malipo?”
“General—”
“Get out of my sight.”
Li Sun slapped at the console, punching buttons indiscriminately until he found the one to close off the transmission. The communications aide stood at his side, either fearing to incur Li Sun’s wrath or too shocked by what he had heard to help.
Sun slammed his hand on the desk and rose quickly. A thousand thoughts came to him, all contradictory—he would go there himself, he must keep this from his uncle, he would hurry the infantry …
This simply could not be real. The Vietnamese were beaten. There was no way they could come over the border and attack.
Attack! A good portion of the 12th Armored had been laid to waste. General Fan—not the brightest commander, but still—reported that his men were disillusioned and disorganized. Fan wanted to retreat to Wenshan and reorganize there. His tanks were spread out now in the mountain roads and he claimed it would be days—days!—before he could reorganize.
This was beyond unacceptable. This was insane.
And impossible.
“Niu!” said the general, calling for one of young captains he had taken as an aide. “Niu—what are you doing?”
The captain came quickly. “You told me to stay in the hall, general.”
“Get me the latest satellite data.”
“It’s a day old, General.”
“Get it!”
Niu walked over to the computer and sat down. Typing furiously, he soon retrieved a series of images from the area that had been taken the previous evening, before the battle. Even at maximum resolution, Li Sun could see nothing to indicate the Vietnamese were in the area, or even near the border.
Certainly, it could not have been a large force to hide and then move so quickly. And yet only a large force—a massive force, with weapons that the Vietnamese did not possess—could have defeated two Chinese tank companies and sent a third scurrying for cover.
It was impossible.
Li Sun looked at the area where General Fan had been surprised. Fan had been foolish to let himself get trapped there.
Li Sun had warned him! Surely he had warned him. And still he was trapped.
The general slid back in his seat, considering the situation. It had to be reversed quickly. Immediately!
“Where is General Chan?” Li Sun asked Niu.
“In his office.”
“Have him come here.”
Niu left. Li Sun resumed his pacing, his mind feverish. He needed to send reconnaissance flights over the area, but doing so might alert the air force to the disaster. They’d see the tanks littering the field, and who knew what else?
Other generals would hear. His enemies would tell Beijing.
What would his uncle say? He’d been here for only a few days, and already he had disaster.
Where else were the Vietnamese? What would they do? Would they pull back now that they had bloodied his nose? Or would they take territory and hold it?
There were a number of cities and towns nearby. Malipo. Had they gone there?
He needed reconnaissance. It was an absolute necessity.
“General?”
Chan stood at the door. Niu was behind him.
“Come,” said Li Sun. “Captain Niu, you may stay as well. We have a grave problem.”
“I know, General,” said Chan. “Fan allowed his forces to be ambushed. He is a fool.”
“Do we have contact with the garrison commander at Malipo?” asked Li Sun.
“No,” said Chan. “The telephone lines are down. They have been for a few hours.”
“Try them again. Now.”
Chan walked to the phone. He pulled over a small directory from the rack beneath the unit and looked up the contact number before dialing.
“There is still a problem with the circuit.”
“Does he have a secure video connection?” asked Sun.
“Not there. That is a small outpost, on the edge of the mountains. They’d never be worth the equipment, even if they were trusted.”
“Have you tried the radio?”
“It’s useless in the mountains.”
Slowly, Li Sun told the others about Fan’s situation. He had lost about two-thirds of a battalion of tanks, with heavy casualties among the mechanized infantry traveling with him. He still had two more battalions, but they were a good distance away. More critically, the entire division was disorganized and discouraged—they had been surprised on Chinese soil, thrown back by what should by all rights have been an inferior force.
“Our 12th Armor were north of Malipo when it was attacked,” said Li Sun. “We must assume the city has fallen as well.”
The others stood in stony silence as Li Sun spoke. Explaining the situation somehow calmed his anger. It was the first step toward solving the problem.
Too late, perhaps.
“We will organize a counterattack immediately,” said Li Sun. “I will lead it myself.”
Niu nodded, but Chan objected. His manner was extremely submissive—one didn’t speak too boldly to comman
ders, whatever their rank, and Li Sun had already proven that he was not a man to be dealt with lightly. But one of the reasons the general liked Chan was his determination to speak what he believed. It was a trait he saw in himself.
“General, with your permission.”
“Speak.”
“Your division commanders won’t have the intelligence reports you can get here. In the field, we won’t be able to download the satellite data or reconnaissance to you. And you won’t have communication with the air force—”
“I don’t need the air force,” snapped Li Sun.
“That would be up to you, sir,” said Chan. If he was going to say anything else, the words died stillborn—Li Sun’s retort had taken away a bit of his verve.
Which was regrettable, thought Li Sun. And yet he couldn’t help himself—he was angry and he had to fix this.
His chief of staff was right. While the army possessed sophisticated communications gear, very real fears that it could be used to organize a coup had restricted its use. And setting up a sophisticated field headquarters with a mobile command center would take several days, even if he could locate all of the necessary equipment.
But deep in his heart, Li Sun knew he should go. Every instinct was telling him—go. Go!
A commander lived by his brains, not by instinct. Yes, he needed to make the sweeping command gesture, he needed to play the right odds. But he also needed to direct his troops.
He would have Fan regroup and attack immediately—nightfall if not sooner. And he would get the infantry commanders moving. Moving!
And find some way of breaking this to his uncle.
Impossible.
“Your point is well taken, General,” he told Chan. “Get the maps of Malipo.”
“Right away.”
Li Sun turned to Niu. “Send an alert to all posts in our area. Tell them that they are to double the guard, and be alert against saboteurs.”
“Even here, General?”
They were some three hundred kilometers by air from Malipo; there was no way the Vietnamese could attack this far north, no matter how audacious their commander.
