by Larry Bond
“Even here,” said Sun. “We will set them an example.”
Niu bent his head and started to leave.
“Captain.” Sun stopped him. “You can always feel free to speak your mind, as General Chan has. Even when the comments are not welcome, they are deeply appreciated.”
This time Niu bent his head nearly to his chest before leaving.
45
Washington, D.C.
Dickson Theodore, the president’s chief of staff, held up a cell phone as Greene got out of the car behind the restaurant.
“You’re running late,” Theodore told his boss. “You should have given your speech a half hour ago.”
“And you’re supposed to be home with that pretty wife of yours,” Greene said. He patted his jacket. “Remarks, not a speech. If it were a speech I would need a teleprompter.”
“Jablonski needs to talk to you. Very urgent.”
“Billy? What’s up?”
Theodore shook his head.
Even in the midst of a thousand crises, there was one man President Chester Greene would take a phone call from: William Jablonski. Occasionally rude and often unkempt, Jablonski was also the world’s best political operative, a maestro of nuance and infighting. He’d singlehandedly gotten New York to vote for Greene in the presidential race, and could probably take credit for California as well.
Of course, to hear Jablonski tell it, he’d delivered all fifty states and Guam to Greene—an accomplishment that the electoral college, which had only counted thirty-four in Greene’s column, had yet to catch up with.
“Billy, give it to me straight,” said Greene, taking the phone.
“There’s a story coming out tomorrow in the L.A. Times,” said the political aide. “They’re going to contact your press office right at deadline so they get a no comment.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’re going to claim you sent U.S. troops into Vietnam and supplied their army. They have some sort of source. I couldn’t get the whole thing—the reporter isn’t on the national desk, and I don’t know him. I tried calling him but he didn’t take the call. Maybe he’s busy. I’ll get him.”
“You’re sure about this?” asked Greene.
“Damn sure. All this true?”
“True enough,” said Greene.
“Mmmmm.”
Greene pictured Jablonski rubbing his mouth and making the faces he always did when things weren’t lining up the way he wanted.
“Gonna be a shit storm,” said Jablonski finally.
“We’ll get over it.”
“I’ll be in Washington tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, it’s not—”
“Yes it is.” Jablonski hung up.
Greene handed the phone back to Theodore. “Big story about our helping Vietnam coming in the L.A. Times tomorrow,” the president told his chief of staff. “Better get the press people in the loop. We’ll meet back at the office as soon as I’m done. Sorry about your dinner.”
46
Malipo airport, China
Zeus heard the airplane from a good distance away, a high-pitched whine that grew unevenly as it approached. He folded his arms and stared into the fading blue sky directly beyond the runway, waiting.
A black wedge finally appeared close to the nearby hills, so far to his right it was almost behind him. Zeus wasn’t sure it was Setco’s airplane at first—the direction seemed wrong, as if it were a Chinese flight that hadn’t learned of Malipo’s takeover yet. The plane grew larger, and Zeus thought it might be a reconnaissance flight surveying the town. If so, it would pass unharassed; the Vietnamese force had only two antiaircraft trucks, and both were up in the city with the main force.
The plane banked sharply, legged uneasily toward the runway, wings dipping sharply with the turns. There was definitely something wrong; one of the engines growled and coughed. The plane moved fitfully, dipping toward the hills then rising uneasily before finally coming onto the runway. It hit hard, bounced up, then settled, angling slightly to the side where Zeus stood. By the time it reached him, only one of the props was spinning under power; the control surfaces were extended and the rudder bent to keep it straight.
The aircraft was a Russian version of the plane parked near the terminal, an Antonov An-24. Aside from the markings, the only visible difference was a large cargo-style door located just aft of the cockpit. This swung up slowly; when it was about halfway a short, stocky man in camouflaged BDUs dropped down to the tarmac. His uniform was Chinese, with a red flag on his right shoulder and gray name bars above his chest pockets, but he was Caucasian. Roth Setco.
“You Murphy?” Setco barked.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Roth Setco. You got fuel for us?”
Zeus reached to shake his hand. Setco looked at him for a second, then belatedly extended his own.
“You had engine trouble?” Zeus asked.
“We’ll make it. The pilot sucks.”
“The Chinese left a plane,” said Zeus. “It’s by the terminal building. Maybe you can use that.”
Setco turned to look, but couldn’t see because his view was blocked off. He walked over to the front of the plane.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked Zeus.
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“It flies?”
“I have no idea. It was here when I got here.”
“Hmmm.”
Setco walked over and stood near the nose of the plane that had just landed. He shouted up to the pilot in Vietnamese. The engine of the aircraft immediately began to rev. Zeus stepped back as the plane began taxiing again, this time in the direction of the terminal building.
“I’m taking Kerfer’s place,” Zeus told Setco.
“Doing what?” Setco started across the dirt infield to the parking area where the Chinese plane was sitting.
“Do you have enough people?” Zeus asked.
“I could use a couple more, actually,” said Setco. “If they speak Chinese. I only have two guys who speak it without an accent. Three if you count me, but I’m thinking no one’s going to believe I’m Chinese.”
“We can get some guys,” said Zeus. “I’ll talk to Trung.”
“Trung?”
“General Trung. The head of the Vietnamese army.”
“What the fuck is he doing up here?”
“He’s overseeing the assault.”
Setco shook his head and continued toward the Chinese aircraft. He puts his hands on his hips and surveyed it. Meanwhile, one of the men in the plane that had just landed jumped from the cargo door as it taxied to a stop and ran up to take a look. He reached up and unlatched the cockpit door, pulling himself up.
“He’s a pilot?” asked Zeus.
“Thinks he is. He’s a mechanic. Decent one. I don’t know how much he really knows, though—you can’t trust the damn Koreans.” He looked at Zeus. “Where are these translators?”
“In the city.”
“Screw that. We’re not going into the city. We’re running late as it is.”
“There’s at least one guy here,” said Zeus.
“Well get him. I can use a couple more gooks with guns—we’re going to have to protect the plane at the airport. They’ll need their own weapons.”
“Listen—”
“Don’t get sensitive on me, Murphy,” said Setco. “I’m in a hurry.”
“I have maps and a layout of the command post. I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t waste your time. I have all that stuff. I’ve done this before.”
Zeus figuratively grit his teeth, deciding the best way to deal with Setco was to ignore his insults and manner, at least for now. “I’ll be right back.”
“There’s fuel here someplace?”
“There’s a truck in the hangar.”
“I need to be in the air in an hour,” said Setco.
“Right.” Zeus started away.
“Hey, Major.”
Zeus
stopped.
“What’d Kerfer tell you about me?” Setco asked.
“Nothing. Except that you were a prick. And you knew what you were doing.”
“Well, he got one of those right, huh?”
* * *
Zeus found the soldier who had questioned the Chinese maintainers, and by hand signals and slow English—more the former than the latter—he was able to get the man to come with him to the officer in charge of the platoon. The commander, a captain, was eating his dinner, a small cup of noodles with some bits of fish; there wasn’t much fish but its pungent smell filled the building.
The captain’s English was good enough for him to understand what Zeus wanted—three men, plus the translator, for a special mission further behind enemy lines.
“I need permission,” said the commander. “I will send someone to city.”
“There’s no time,” said Zeus. “Call General Trung and get his OK by phone or radio. I need them now.”
“OK.”
It sounded as if the man was agreeing, but his face made it look like a question.
“It’s OK. He’ll say it’s OK,” insisted Zeus. “I need them now.”
The captain went back to eating his dinner, pulling the noodles out with his chopsticks.
“I need them now,” said Zeus. “Now.”
“Eh?”
“We need to go.” Zeus turned and pretended to run. Communication would be comical if it weren’t so critical.
Putting his food down, the commander rose from the desk and walked out of the office. Zeus followed him into the large hall, thinking he was going for the radio. But the captain stopped at a knot of men near the door. Speaking quickly to them, he pointed at two.
“They will be with you. The translator is sleeping. Hangar,” added the captain. “You will take him.”
“That’s three.” Zeus held up his fingers, showing he wanted four.
“All I can give,” said the captain, shaking his head.
* * *
While Zeus had been rounding up the men, Setco determined that the Chinese aircraft was in better shape than the one he had come in. They were in the process of fueling it when Zeus came over with his three Vietnamese soldiers in tow. Setco stood near the wing, watching as one of his men connected the hose.
The men with Zeus jerked up their weapons as soon as they saw the Chinese uniforms.
“It’s OK,” said Zeus. “They’re on our side. Disguises—they’re wearing disguises.”
“Chúng ta là bn,” shouted Setco. “We’re friends. American.”
Only Setco was American, but they got the idea. The Vietnamese soldiers lowered their guns.
“You trust these guys?” Setco asked.
“You just need somebody to guard the plane, right?” said Zeus. “I trust them for that. Where they’ll be there won’t be much sense in running away, right? This guy speaks Chinese.” Zeus pointed at the translator.
Setco went over to him and started speaking rapid fire. Whatever the translator said, he wasn’t impressed.
“He’s worse than the Koreans,” Setco told Zeus. He frowned, then pointed toward the door at the end of the fuselage. “Get them in the plane. You better go inside and explain we’re all on the same side. We have two complete uniforms and a top. Whoever wears the top should just stay in the plane.”
“I don’t speak Vietnamese.”
“What the hell are you doing here then? What good are you?”
“I planned this op.”
“No, I planned this op,” said Setco.
“I suggested it.”
“Big fucking deal. I suggested they build the Golden Gate Bridge. Does that mean anything?”
“I’m going.”
“I’m not arguing with you, Major. If you’re going, get aboard. You speak Chinese?”
“Not really.”
“Fuckin’ Army.” Setco waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t let these jackasses point their guns inside. My boys’ll kill them.”
A small set of metal steps had been placed below the doorway, making it easier to get into. Zeus climbed inside.
“My name’s Murphy,” he announced loudly as he went. “I’m the one who set the mission up. How are you guys doing?”
The men sitting in the aircraft didn’t seem impressed. Mostly Asian, they were sitting across seats or on the edge of the aisle. A few were talking, a couple smoked cigarettes. A black man took a slug from a Thermos in a way that made Zeus think it wasn’t water he was drinking.
The plane was set up like a civilian airliner, with two seats on either side of a central aisle. There were small open areas fore and aft of the dozen rows. The seats were very thin and narrow, almost like padded lawn chairs. They made even the simple units that were put into the holds of American military transports look lush by comparison.
The Vietnamese stayed together at the back. Setco climbed in a minute or so later.
“All right, you degenerates,” he said in a voice so loud the metal shook. “We’re about ready to go. Move forward and I’ll go over the game plan. This is Murph. He and the natives here are going to guard the plane while we have our little fun.”
Setco brushed past Zeus and walked up to the front of the aircraft. Zeus had been called Murph before—it was an almost mandatory nickname for someone with his surname—but he didn’t particularly like the way it sounded and he hated the way it sounded when Setco said it.
Nor did he intend on staying back with the plane when they landed. He was in this all the way.
He followed Setco up to the front. A pair of black duffel bags sat on the floor in the front. Setco reached into one and pulled out a laptop computer. He opened it and turned it on.
“It’s Zeus or Murphy,” Zeus told him, putting his own pack near the duffels. “Not Murph.”
“Right.” Setco didn’t even bother looking up from the computer.
“I’m going in with you. I’m not staying with the plane.”
“I don’t think that’s a real good idea.”
“I know the layout. I practiced a takedown just like this two years ago.”
Zeus was exaggerating slightly—he had certainly practiced plenty of takedowns, but he hadn’t been at one exactly like this, nor had he gone through an exercise against a Chinese facility. He was an expert on Chinese tactics and weapons, could probably predict how they would respond, and even had a reasonable idea of what sort of gear they’d have at the army group command post. But he had never run through a building with a submachine gun in his hand, hunting for a Chinese general, real or fake.
Setco looked at him. “No offense, Murph, but this ain’t a Sunday school exercise. We’re not playing here.”
“Don’t be an asshole. How do you think I got up here? I was on Hainan. I walked back through China. I blew up more fuckin’ Chinese tanks than you’ll see in a lifetime. I’m not here for my health. I want to kill these bastards.”
Setco stared at him. He squinted slightly, then seemed to see something in Zeus’s face.
“I’m not trying to give you a hard time, Major,” he said gently.
“You could have fooled me.”
“Good chance we don’t come back from this.”
“And?”
Setco turned back to the laptop. He typed in a few words, pulled up a half-dozen screens in quick succession.
I really am angry, Zeus thought to himself. Why?
Because of the people the Chinese killed? Because of Win Christian?
I stayed in Vietnam to rescue Anna—I want to get her home. I love her.
I want her. I don’t want the war. I should jump out of the plane now.
I’m here for love, not killing.
Ain’t I?
“All right, listen up,” Setco said, rising and once more raising his voice to megaphone levels. “The security arrangement here is exactly like it was at Sabah. Same fuckin’ thing. With a couple of exceptions. Starting with the fact that these guys are Chinese, instea
d of just taking their orders from them. So they’re going to be even bigger pussies.”
There were a few snorts and chuckles from the others. Sabah was a state in Malaysia that had been taken over by a rebel group receiving aid from the Chinese. Zeus gathered that Setco had led essentially the same men on a raid there, though he had to guess at most of the details.
The Chinese army group headquarters was in a sleek new campus along Highway S102 on the southern side of Kunming, not far from Dai Chi Lake. During ordinary times, there would have been up to a regiment stationed in the camp adjacent to the headquarters complex. Those troops had been sent south during the opening assault, and while a fresh battalion was supposed to be moved here, the Chinese had assigned it to supplement forces at the border. It would certainly have seemed a smart move on paper: the border was a much more dangerous area than a city some three hundred or so kilometers behind the fighting.
There were two gates in and out of the complex. They’d go through the side gate, which Setco expected to be manned by two men. A Korean nicknamed Zig would pose as a colonel coming to check the barracks for the new occupants. The others would be a skeleton team of cleaners, coming in a second van a few minutes later.
“Assuming the vans are there,” added Setco. “We should have passes with them.”
“And beer,” said one of the whites. It was Roo, the Australian. “I was promised plenty of beer. And not the watered down Chinese piss, either.”
They all laughed.
“Cover story shouldn’t be necessary,” Setco added in an aside aimed at Zeus before he continued outlining the plan. “Ordinarily the Chinese see an officer and they just salute and stand back. But we’ll be ready.”
About fifty yards from the entrance, the road split off, with a spur to the right heading toward the headquarters area. There was a fenced communications area with satellite dishes and an array of antennas on the left; these were guarded by a Type 63 armored personnel carrier equipped with a 12.7 mm heavy machine gun.
The vehicle was old, and presumably too worn to join the front lines. But the machine gun was certainly formidable, and they would have to assume the vehicle was mobile.
