by Larry Bond
“I regret to say…” The admiral’s voice trailed into nothing.
“What?” demanded Cho Lai.
“The cruiser is in no shape to fight. Its radio transmissions are limited. All of its weapons systems are … damaged. Its captain, and the fleet admiral are dead.”
“Then some other way must be found to sink it.” Cho Lai glanced at Tan Jin Mu—more dead wood to be removed at the first opportunity. “The ship must be sunk. What about the carriers?”
“They could move west and be ready to attack within a day, perhaps two,” said Tan Jin Mu, finally finding his voice.
“That’s too long. Send aircraft from Hainan. Find a way. Attack with the ballistic missiles if necessary. But attack promptly. No more time should pass than is absolutely necessary. I’m sure the Americans will be broadcasting the outcome of this as soon as they can.”
“There are political considerations,” said General Libo. “With our own people and with the Americans. If the Americans were to fight—”
“You don’t understand, General,” snapped Cho Lai. “They are already fighting this war. We must act quickly precisely because of the politics. That ship must be sunk. Vietnam must be subdued. We have only a short time to act. If America declares war on us, all of this is over. We must present the world with a fait accompli. Do I make myself clear?”
Cho Lai’s last words were a loud rasp, his voice straining to the point of becoming hoarse. He looked around the room, daring the others to speak. It was an outrage that men who couldn’t even prosecute a war against a third-rate enemy were daring to talk to him about politics.
The bastards, they had placed his position in great jeopardy.
“I will expect an update in two hours,” Cho Lai told Admiral Wu, pointing his finger in case there was any question about who he expected to brief him. “At that time, you will tell me that the American ship has been sunk. And we will discuss how we will tell the public what has happened.”
60
Over Kunming
A few seconds after the Antonov An-24 left the runway with the CIA-organized assassination team, the plane took a hard turn to the east and dipped sharply, attempting to disappear temporarily from the Chinese control radar. The pilot pushed the plane’s nose down, hunkering into the narrow valley between the nearby mountains, hoping to get lost in ground clutter and confuse anyone who might be interested in following.
Zeus, still on the floor at the rear, rolled against the rear bulkhead. Setco landed next to him, crushing against Longjohn. Their dead companion rolled at their feet, his body flopping like a ragdoll’s.
The aircraft straightened and began a steep climb to avoid the next mountain. Clawing at the wall, Zeus managed to get to his feet just as the plane pushed down again, this time on its right wing. It seemed to chutter in the air. The engines made a grating sound, straining as if gasping for air.
The plane bucked, close to a stall. The nose pushed down and Zeus once more lost his balance and flew against the last row of seats, vainly trying to catch himself. The lights blinked out. Then the aircraft’s wings straightened out, and after a brief flutter left and right, the craft steadied and began a very modest climb.
“What the hell is going on?” said Longjohn.
Setco stumbled forward to the cockpit. Zeus found a seat in the back, and put his seatbelt on. After cinching it, he looked up and saw that he was sitting across the aisle from Solt. She was staring straight ahead. Her hands were clenched together, a two-handed fist so tight that the tips and knuckles were red.
The cabin smelled of vomit and spent gunpowder. Someone in front of him was muttering in Korean. Zeus guessed it was a prayer.
Setco emerged from the cockpit a few minutes later.
“We’re on one engine,” he said. “Something shot at us when we took off. We’re maybe thirty minutes out of Malipo. We’ll land there.”
No one said anything. Setco walked back to Zeus’s aisle.
“Could you move over one for a second?” he asked Solt.
She stared at him, not seeming to understand, then finally undid her belt and moved next to the window. Setco sat across the seat and faced Zeus.
“You figure Trung is still in Malipo?” he asked Zeus.
“I wish I could say he wasn’t. There’s no way he can hold it.”
“The radios are knocked out,” said Setco. “I tried using the sat phone to call Trung’s headquarters but I can’t get through to anyone who could make the connection for me.”
“How bad is the plane?” asked Zeus.
“Bad.”
“We’d be better off if we could fly to Hanoi,” said Zeus. “Or somewhere on the southern coast.”
“Yeah.” Setco glanced at Solt, then looked back at Zeus. “They shot up the wings and I guess got the fuel tanks or lines, too. Between the rate of fuel we’re losing and the one engine, we’re going to be lucky to make it to Malipo.”
“Oh.”
“I was going to make a joke about the pilots always losing an engine but it didn’t look like it would go over.” Setco frowned. “You did a good job.”
“I’m sorry about your guys.”
“Yeah. That’s the way it goes.”
“Let me see the picture,” said Zeus.
“What picture?”
“The general. It’s not Li Sun, is it?”
“What difference does it make? We went in and blew up their command center. The Chinese will stop now. They’ve been kicked in the balls.”
“And you planted the device. Was that the real reason the agency sent you in the first place?”
“I think they sent me to get rid of me,” said Setco. “Surprised them again.”
“Who was the general? Was he definitely a general?”
Setco reached into his pocket for the camera. He handed it to Zeus.
“I uploaded it in the car while we were looking for you,” said Setco. “He was some sort of logistics commander earlier. They think he was just made chief of staff or second in command or something. They’re still trying to figure it out from signal intelligence. His name was Chan, if that means anything to you.”
“You knew it wasn’t Li Sun.”
“Yeah. I also knew we weren’t going to be hanging around to look for anybody else. We accomplished our goal, Major. The Chinks’ll freak. We whacked them good.”
Zeus flipped through the images. They’d taken a shot of everyone in the building.
“Where the hell Li Sun was, I have no idea,” continued Setco. “Maybe we’ll get him next time.”
Zeus handed the camera back and went up front. Solt changed seats so she was next to Zeus across the aisle.
“He’s right,” she told him. “The Chinese will be very cautious. Just like your plan against Hainan.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.” She put her hand on his knee. “You have done much for the Vietnamese people. We are very in your debt.”
Zeus smiled, but her hand on his knee made him feel wary. He didn’t trust his emotions. He didn’t trust anything.
“You’re tired,” said Solt.
“That’s true.”
Solt slid her hand up his leg, then raised it toward his face.
He caught it gently.
“Thanks,” he said. “But…”
He couldn’t think of what else to say. She pulled her hand back.
“I’m sorry,” she told him.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
Zeus sank back into his seat. He let his eyes close.
The next thing he knew, Solt was shaking him awake.
“Look out the window,” she told him. “The city is under attack.”
“What?”
“Malipo is under attack.”
Zeus followed her back across the aisle. There were fires burning below; he saw shadows moving near the buildings at the top of the ridge, and little pinpricks of white light—gunfire. Much of the city was in black
ness, obscured by heavy smoke.
“Looks like Trung’s got his hands full,” said Setco, coming back from the cockpit.
“Can we get down to Hanoi?” Solt asked.
“We have five minutes worth of fuel, if that. We’re going to have to land at the airport, assuming it hasn’t been overrun. It’s south at least.”
“What do we do then?” asked Zeus.
“Either we try and take off with the other plane, or we go out by land,” said Setco. “We’ll see what we can do with the other plane first. If the Viets keep fighting, we should have a half hour. Maybe a little more.”
“If they’re attacking the city, they’re bound to start shelling the airport,” said Zeus.
“Not if they want to use it,” said Setco. “Frankly, Major, we don’t really have an alternative. We don’t have parachutes. We either land at the airport, or we crash somewhere. Take your pick. Nice to see you back awake, by the way. Get your seatbelts on!” he added in a bellow.
The airplane was already shuddering, the wings wobbling as it descended toward the landing strip.
Zeus checked his seatbelt, then put his hand forward against the seat in front of him, bracing himself.
As the good engine surged, the plane dipped on its wing to the right. It felt like it dropped a few hundred feet before leveling off and steadying itself above the end of the runway. It came in fast, bouncing and jerking but remaining straight and most importantly intact.
Setco leapt to his feet and walked swiftly to the cockpit as the plane rolled. Zeus pulled himself upright, undid his seatbelt and grabbed his gear.
“All right, listen up,” yelled Setco. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re taxiing over to the other plane. We should be able to get south with it, hopefully to Hanoi. Farther than that’s out of the question—depends on how much fuel we can load and still take off.”
“I want to go into the city,” said Zeus, interrupting. “I want to get Trung out.”
“You’re welcome to do what you want,” Setco said. “But we’re not going to wait for you.”
“That’s fine.”
Setco frowned. No one else said anything.
The CIA officer came down to the back and leaned into Zeus’s face.
“It’ll take us a half hour to get the plane fueled and ready, assuming we’re not under fire,” said Setco. “You come back, you can get aboard. Assuming we got the weight.”
“Trung’s important,” said Zeus.
“No shit. That’s why I’m giving you a half hour.”
“Fair enough.”
“It’s more than fair, Murph. More than fuckin’ fair.”
* * *
The only vehicle at the terminal building was a Chinese Hummer-knockoff used as a utility vehicle around the base. While its ignition system ostensibly required a key, one of the Vietnamese soldiers who had come up when the airport was first taken had jammed in a pocketknife and rewired the ignition so the knife now functioned as a switch; it was an admirable piece of piracy, the sort of thing Zeus would expect from American GIs. Ingenuity was apparently a staple of grunts around the world.
There was something wrong with the steering, and Zeus had to manhandle the truck just to get it to turn onto the road. Making turns was a strain, but once he was pointed in the right direction the vehicle moved easily enough.
About a half mile below the city, Zeus found the way ahead blocked by vehicles, many of them wrecked. He pulled off the road as best he could, then got out and started running toward the building where he had last seen Trung. By now it was well past midnight, and the waning moon cast a hazy light across the center of the small city. The buildings stacked up around the center street. One story houses dotted the hills, petering out quickly as the elevation changed. This would be a small town in the U.S., barely a village even in West Virginia, which seemed the closest parallel to the darkened landscape.
There were several fires, red and orange flares that cast the nearby structures deep black by contrast. Soldiers were crouched near mortars and a few sandbagged positions. The firefight had reached a temporary lull, with only sporadic machine-gun and rifle fire and the occasional blast from a Chinese tank on the north side of the town.
Zeus stayed close to the buildings as he ran up the main street. The north end of town was littered with vehicles, the uneven and worn mouth of a gaping jaw in the darkness.
About halfway up the first block, Zeus came up on a gun emplacement—a ZSU-57 pressed into service as an antitank weapon. It was parked up against a building and nestled into a low wall of sandbags. A handful of infantrymen were standing near the tank. He found an officer and told him that he needed to speak to General Trung with hand signs, English, and a smattering of Vietnamese. The officer picked a sergeant to serve as his guide, and Zeus began following him up the street and then into an alley that came off on a perpendicular from the main road.
The police station and municipal buildings on the east side of the street had been shelled by the Chinese, but Trung had expected that. Alerted to the advance by his scouts, Trung had moved his command post to the basement of a building on the side of the hill just behind the main street. His security detail was small—only two soldiers guarded the entrance to the building—but they wore blue bands, making it obvious that Zeus had reached his destination.
His guide saluted Zeus as he retreated on a full run back to his post. The security detail eyed Zeus warily, playing a flashlight’s beam on his face. While they must have realized who he was, they nonetheless insisted that he hand over his weapon before being shown in. Zeus decided it was quicker and easier not to argue, and after a perfunctory search, they led him into the basement.
General Trung was hunched over a map, checking the enemy positions with the aid of a battery lantern. Two of his subcommanders—colonels—looked on intently.
Trung stopped in the middle of what he was saying and turned to Zeus. “You have returned from a successful mission.”
“We killed one of the generals on the staff.” Zeus felt his voice quivering. “But not Li Sun, not the head general.”
Trung stared at him. Zeus wasn’t sure that he understood.
“You attacked their headquarters.” Trung nodded his head. “That will be enough. We have taken their city. The Chinese will halt their attack into our country.”
“You have to leave the city,” Zeus told him. “We have a plane ready.”
“The Chinese have only one armored division here,” said Trung. “They can only move a few companies of tanks against us at a time.”
What he said was undoubtedly true, thought Zeus, but it was also wildly optimistic—the Chinese were surely a match for the Vietnamese, even if they had to go through a meat grinder to get to them.
“Eventually they’ll get through,” said Zeus. “You weren’t supposed to hold the city. If you wait too long, you’ll be surrounded.”
Trung said nothing.
“General, you have to retreat,” insisted Zeus. “There’s nothing to be gained by staying here. You can leave a small rear guard and get down the highway. Have your force move south in the dark. The Chinese will have to consolidate in the city. If they’re afraid of being ambushed again, they won’t move their armor down the highway after you until their infantry catches up. Your men can escape and fight another day.”
Trung didn’t answer.
“You have to retreat yourself,” added Zeus. “Your job is to lead the entire army, not just these men here.”
Zeus knew Trung understood what he was saying, yet his stare belied that. Zeus went to the map and swept his finger south of the city.
“They’ll swarm here and here—you have the advantage now because the tanks have to stick to this narrow plane. But that won’t last. Once they reach this point, they’ll cut off any retreat. Your men can’t get up the hills with their equipment. You’ll be completely cut off.”
“We will fight before that happens.”
“There’s a pl
ane at the airport. We’ll take you out.”
Trung shook his head.
“General—”
Trung turned to the others and dismissed them. They moved quickly, nervously it seemed to Zeus.
“I did tell Major Chaū to delay you,” said Trung when they were alone. “I am sorry for it. It was only a delay. You needed an excuse. You wanted to stay, and I wanted your help. It was the right decision for my country. A bad decision for you.”
“What do you mean, I needed an excuse?”
“You wanted to stay for love; you wanted to be noble. But the reason you stayed was war. You wanted to fight. I saw it in your eyes, and heard it in your voice. She was just something you told yourself.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Zeus. “Come on, stop wasting time—we have to get out of here.”
“We always lie to ourselves. Easy lies. You stayed not because you loved Vietnam, or even the girl. You needed to think that. You loved war.”
“Come on, damn it.”
Zeus reached to grab the general’s arm, thinking he would drag him from the building. But as he did, there was a loud explosion nearby. The ground shook. There was another and another—the Chinese had resumed their assault.
61
North of Malipo
General Li Sun watched the tanks launch their salvos. The big vehicles shuddered as the muzzles of their 125 mm smoothbore guns flashed. A white halo rose around the tanks, a bright burst of energy as his forces renewed their attack with a barrage of shells.
In the next moment, large flashes appeared on the Vietnamese side, the massive shells hitting home. At the moment, the tanks were firing armor-piercing shells, obliterating the Vietnamese’s thin force of tanks and APCs one by one. When that was accomplished, they would switch over to high-explosive frag rounds, clearing the barriers near the north end of the town of men before proceeding.
It was an impressive show, one so bright that it was better appreciated with standard binoculars, rather than the night glasses Li Sun had favored earlier.
Li Sun shifted his weight on the hill. He was standing with his communications aide and Captain Niu. Lt. Colonel Zhi, the tank commander and new general of the division, stood a few feet away, a radio pressed to his ear.
