by Larry Bond
The plane was already moving when they reached the rear door. Kneeling in the doorway, Longjohn pulled them up, one by one, Zeus first, as the plane gained speed.
“Brace for a crash!” yelled someone in the cockpit.
Zeus, already lying on the floor, covered his head with his arms and closed his eyes.
In the next moment, he was weightless, his brain flying again, far away from his body.
The rest of him caught up a second or two later. They were airborne, having cleared an APC by a few feet.
55
North of Malipo
The Vietnamese had worked feverishly, digging a minefield into the entrance of the town. General Li Sun had not expected this, and when the first company of tanks he sent into battle stalled badly, he lost the entire momentum of his attack before it had really gotten underway. The advance bogged down at the northern entrance to the city.
From an overall tactical point of view, this was not the worst development, as it limited the Vietnamese as well. The geography that funneled Sun into an attack along the highway trapped the Vietnamese there as well. As long as his forces remained in contact with the enemy, the Chinese general would be able to sweep around and trap them with the vanguard of his infantry units, now due to arrive in the morning.
But he didn’t intend on waiting that long. He had more people than the Vietnamese had, and he didn’t need any fancy tactics to defeat them. More importantly, the late-evening satellite image showed that Li Sun had literally a clear road south to Hanoi. If he could punch through Malipo, his tanks would be at the outskirts of Hanoi within forty-eight hours, perhaps even less.
Li Sun began recalibrating his attack even as his tanks started to withdraw. He had a good view of the battle from the high ground at the north side of the city; there was a decent amount of moon and starlight, though he still needed the night binoculars to get a good view of the city.
The Vietnamese had set themselves up well, mining the entrance to the town and arranging their handful of tanks and large guns. But even taking maximum advantage of the geography, their forces were small and impotent compared to Li Sun’s. Once the minefield was breached, the Vietnamese tank rounds would be ineffective against the Type 96s.
He radioed Zhi, and gave him advice on how to move the tanks.
“Your best company in the lead,” Li Sun told him. “Take the Vietnamese armor from the edge of the minefield, where the Vietnamese infantry won’t attack. Concentrate your firepower on each tank and gun. Once that’s done, proceed through the minefield.”
The next problem was the Vietnamese infantry in the buildings. Militarily, the best solution was to flatten the structures, but that was dicey politically—he would be destroying Chinese property to save it.
But there seemed no other way. He had infantry, but he didn’t want to risk them in a slow house-to-house fight.
He was just reconciling himself to destroying the buildings when his communications aide came running over.
“General?”
Li Sun looked over at the young man who was charged with working the mobile radio. He had the pack with him.
“There has been a disaster at the headquarters,” said the soldier. “We are not in contact with them.”
“What do you mean?” said Li Sun.
“I have the missile battery commander. There was an attack. The building has been blown up.”
56
Washington, D.C.
“We’re in. They have the connection. We’re inside the Chinese defense network.”
Peter Lucas sat upright in his seat. The special projects manager of the NSA Asian desk was on the secure line.
“We’re completely there?”
“You want to reprogram their missiles to hit Beijing? I can do that. Your boy Setco did a hell of a job. He deserves a medal.”
“I’ll see that he gets one. If he gets out alive.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Lucas was ushered into Peter Frost’s office on the top floor of the CIA headquarters building. Though the CIA director used the office for long hours every day, it looked as if it was simply for show or reserved for ceremonies. The books on the shelves were in perfect order, and the top of his desk was bare, except for his computer monitor. The phone bank behind the desk sparkled as the lights on it blinked.
“How are Vietnam and China?” Frost asked.
“We’re inside the Chinese defense network. It should be a few hours before they detect us, and a bit longer than that for them to shut us down. By that time, we’ll have our code in everything. We can cut them off at the legs.”
“The president will be very happy. Stay,” added Frost, swiveling around for the phone.
57
The South China Sea
In many ways, Commander Dirk Silas was a throwback to an earlier era when sea captains were a law unto themselves, and there was no such thing as a ship’s captain being too aggressive.
But Silas was also a man of the twenty-first century, and he couldn’t have become a ship’s captain without being aware of how Navy politics worked. As soon as his conversation with the admiral ended, Silas began a procedure known in the modern military as CYA. He ordered the tapes of the encounter copied and prepared for immediate transmission. He had his key officers and enlisted personnel record their memories of the encounter—with special emphasis on who had fired the first shot. And he monitored the transmissions from the Chinese vessel, just in case they decided to present their own view of what had happened.
They didn’t, though perhaps they wished to. Both ships had very limited ability to transmit by radio. Silas had his radioman ask if they needed help, though he got exactly the answer he expected—nothing.
Unsure of their exact status, he launched a small UAV to fly over the ships and beam video back. Someone aboard the frigate apparently saw the small aircraft even though it was night time, because one of the antiaircraft guns aboard began firing as it came overhead. The gunfire was wildly inaccurate—clearly it must have been optically aimed—but Silas decided that was enough information for now.
The cruiser went alongside the frigate and began taking on its crew; clearly the Chinese had realized the smaller ship wasn’t going to be saved.
In the meanwhile, McCampbell pulled close to the Korean vessel. The ship’s bow and a good portion of the forward deck area had been mangled by the Chinese blast. Even so, the master of the ship insisted that the vessel was seaworthy and that he did not require assistance.
Naturally, this convinced Silas that the ship was in fact carrying contraband. But there was no way he was going to inspect it now—that would only convince some people that the Chinese vessel was justified in opening fire on it.
Not legally, perhaps, but legalities were always of secondary importance. The Korean changed to a more southerly course, heading toward the Philippines. As that was further from the Chinese fleet, he let her go.
58
Washington, D.C.
President Greene and his chief of staff, Dickson Theodore, had closeted themselves in the White House study with the president’s spokesman Daniel Priest to discuss how to deal with the pending L.A. Times news story when word came that the Chinese had opened fire on McCampbell.
Greene bolted from his chair as soon as he heard it. Without saying a word, he headed downstairs toward the national security situation room. Theodore and Priest followed.
Walter Jackson, the national security advisor, met Greene in the hall and started briefing him along the way. Greene felt invigorated—not happy, certainly, but crisis mode was something he felt comfortable in.
Not to mention the fact that this would surely overshadow the L.A. Times story.
“Apparently the Chinese were firing at a freighter,” said Jackson. “Our guy got in the way, and they fired at him. He shot back four missiles, damaging the cruiser and coming damn close to sinking the other ship. It may sink soon. It’s smaller—a corvette or something.”
“A frigate. It was a frigate,” said Greene, remembering an earlier briefing.
“I’m sorry, you’re right. His command ordered him to stop firing and move off—”
“What the hell did they do that for! He should have sunk the damn thing!”
“His initial orders were to use restraint, and I think he was just trying to be prudent,” said Jackson.
“His ship is OK?”
“Not a scratch.”
“You know what the problem is with these admirals and generals, Walter? They’re afraid of war. Afraid.”
“I don’t know if that’s fair, Mr. President.”
“He was defending himself is my point,” explained Greene. “All right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Priest caught up to Greene at the entrance to the situation room. While he had a top secret clearance, ordinarily he didn’t come in for briefings. He worried that he might inadvertently give out information he shouldn’t. But tonight was a special case.
“I want you to be able to give a statement as soon as we’re done,” said Greene.
“What about the L.A. Times story?”
“That’ll take care of itself.”
“No it won’t, Mr. President.”
“This is more important, Danny.”
“Sir, Congress—”
“Don’t worry about Congress.”
“That story, this clash … it’s not going to go well.”
“Sure it will. We came close to sinking two of their ships. We were not harmed.” Greene took his spokesman by the arm. “Americans want to win, Danny. They don’t necessarily care how, or where even. They just want to win.”
“Well—”
“You and I know there’s more involved. A lot more. But let’s just take these things one at a time. McCampbell first, then we’ll deal with the Times story.”
“Maybe we should preempt them,” said Priest. “Say we have advisors in the region.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea at all,” said Jackson. “That will put everyone in the embassy at risk.”
“I agree. We’ll play it by ear. Come on, Danny. Don’t be such a worrywart.”
59
Beijing
Everywhere Cho Lai looked, he saw blue—tanks, ships, small men representing divisions. The situation board in the People’s Liberation Army military command center looked extremely impressive, depicting the extent of China’s campaign into Vietnam. The red units—the traditional color of the enemy, even though historically it was linked to China’s own forces—looked paltry by comparison.
But if one had been studying the map carefully over the past several days, the picture would appear far less positive. The red units had made nearly all of their advances within the first twenty-four hours of the war. More ominously, the premier was beginning to wonder exactly how much of the table he could trust. Rumors were reaching the capital that not all of the units are the front line were moving as quickly as claimed.
In the west, where the army had recently restarted its campaign after being stopped by flooding in the valleys, there were hints that all was not going as expected. Rather than sweeping down to Ho Chi Minh City as originally planned, the generals had revised their objectives and were now aiming at capturing Hue before going further south. Whatever strategic sense that might make—there were various arguments—it constrained the mobile force tactically, as it had to slug through rough terrain and meet the enemy head on.
Cho Lai was not a military man and often felt unsure of his generals’ explanations, but he had a good sense when people were lying to him. He realized he had been given only a small part of the story tonight. The Army chief of staff, General Libo, had concentrated on the difficulties the western army faced, so that by the end of his brief, Cho Lai was left to wonder what army he was facing.
“Do not we outnumber the enemy by a factor of ten?” he asked, looking up from the board.
“That is a slight exaggeration, Your Excellency. And an army on the move, so far away from its own lines, is always at a disadvantage.”
Cho Lai controlled his rising anger, looking again at the board. He hadn’t even heard from his nephew, Li Sun, whose forces should be starting their own campaign directly above Hanoi. He would call him later; he needed some optimism.
The premier turned to his admirals—Wu, the head of the navy, and Tan Jin Mu, his personal advisor.
“And what does the navy say tonight?” he asked.
Wu launched into a dissertation on the American carrier to the southwest, claiming that it was being kept at bay by the prospect of conflict with their own carriers and the antiship ballistic missiles, the DF-21Ds based in Hunan Province. The American carrier task group, he noted, was skirting the arc that represented the missile’s range.
“Why are our carriers so close to the coast?” asked Cho Lai, bluntly interrupting the admiral.
Wu began a long explanation of their needs. Cho Lai glanced at Tan Jin Mu, who was clearly bored by the explanation. The older admiral shared Cho Lai’s feelings that the navy was being far too passive and defensive, just as the army was.
The problem was how to change that.
Cho Lai was just about to interrupt Admiral Wu when an aide rushed into the room and walked up to him. The aide’s face was ashen.
Ordinarily, Admiral Wu would not have stopped for him or anyone—there was not a man in the navy who better liked the sound of his voice—but as soon as he saw the aide’s face, he stopped speaking.
“Excuse me, Your Excellency,” said the admiral. He took two steps backward, away from the situation table, and listened as the aide whispered in his ear.
The aide was a commodore—not a mere messenger. Cho Lai glanced at Tan Jin Mu; the old admiral appeared apprehensive.
“What?” demanded the premier. “What is the problem?”
“No problem, Your Excellency,” said the admiral.
“I see my admirals are stricken with the same disease as my generals!” Cho Lai’s anger began to unwind from the coil he had set it in. “They fear to tell me bad news. If this continues, my solution with both forces will be the same—I will find new leaders! I will fire generals and admirals until I find one willing to tell me the truth!”
There was now complete silence in the room. The army general staff stared at Admiral Wu with what Cho Lai was sure was a combination of nervousness and anticipation—to this point the navy had escaped much criticism, and they were no doubt eager to see that change.
“There has been a conflict,” said Admiral Wu. “Two of our ships have been struck very seriously. One may sink.”
Cho Lai felt a pain in his chest so severe that for a moment he thought he must be having a heart attack. He knew instantly what had happened, even before Wu said anything else. He glanced over at Tan Jin Mu. The older man had turned his face to stone; there was no more emotion there than on a doll.
It was General Libo who spoke. “The Vietnamese were able to hit one of our ships?”
Cho Lai regretted having forced Wu to tell him what had happened in front of the others. But there was nothing to do about it now.
“It was an American,” said the admiral.
“How were the Americans involved?” asked Libo. “Their carrier is far off.”
“It was their destroyer, near the coast of Vietnam,” said the commodore who had brought the news. “Our cruiser and frigate—one of them fired as it attempted to stop a smuggler, and a weapon was launched at the American ship.”
The admiral made a face, trying to warn the aide to be quiet, but it was too late. He turned to Cho Lai.
“The cruiser, Your Excellency. You directed that he be more aggressive,” said the admiral.
“I did not direct that it be sunk,” said Cho Lai. He glared at Tan Jin Mu. “I was told that it was more powerful than the American ship. We had two ships there. How could they both be sunk?”
“They … they have not sunk yet,” said the commodore.
/> “What happened to the American destroyer?”
“It was seen steaming away,” said the aide, this time glancing at the admiral before speaking.
Cho Lai listened to the details of the engagement, scant as they were. The cruiser Wen Jiabo had attempted to exercise its rights to inspect suspect shipping in the Chinese interest area. The American Arleigh Burke destroyer had attempted to interfere, sailing close to the cruiser in what her captain interpreted as an aggressive act.
An overzealous officer aboard the cruiser’s escort, a frigate, had opened fire. The Americans had responded with a deadly salvo that had killed or wounded half the men aboard the frigate. The damage to the cruiser was less but more strategic—the ship’s captain and the admiral in charge of the squadron had both been killed.
“Both of our ships are crippled,” said the admiral’s aide. “The cruiser is seaworthy. It is not clear that the frigate will survive.”
Cho Lai turned to the aide. “The Americans—what are they doing?”
“They ended their attack and broke off. They went to help the merchant vessel. It was damaged.”
“Was the merchant ship sunk?”
“I don’t know.”
They had to sink the destroyer, Cho Lai knew. If they didn’t, the Americans would simply push their navy aside.
And they had to do it quickly. There were political ramifications, complications—those would have to be dealt with, but the most important thing that they had to do was to sink the destroyer. Otherwise the Chinese public would grow even more restless.
He also had to show the army generals that poor performance wouldn’t be tolerated. That was even more critical, Cho Lai realized—he needed this war to end quickly, and aggressively. Before the military fell back into a shell.
“You must sink the destroyer.” Cho Lai reached down and took the yellow plastic toy that represented the American ship. “It must be crushed.”
