by Larry Bond
“Lieutenant, you are dismissed,” Cho Lai told the poor man who had been detailed as the messenger of doom. “Go back to your post.”
The man bowed his head and left.
“Minister, sit down,” Cho Lai told Lo Gong. “You are making me … agitated.”
“I am … I have to report horrible news.”
“I know it.” Cho Lai held up the paper the captain had brought.
“You’ve heard?”
Lo Gong began rubbing his hands together. Annoyed, Cho Lai rose himself.
“Please sit down, Defense Minister. I insist.”
Lo Gong collapsed into his seat. Cho Lai walked out from behind his desk, trying to control some of his own energy. The matter could be controlled. It would have to be.
“I am not sure when we will get it back,” said the defense minister.
“What are you saying? We have the town back,” snapped Cho Lai. “The lieutenant just told me. Is that a lie?”
Lo Gong stared at him. Cho Lai stopped moving.
Cho Lai had been through many difficult and trying moments in his climb to the top of China. He had learned long ago that it was critical to master his emotions at times of stress, as this certainly was.
He glanced down at the floor to gather himself, but it was only for the briefest moment.
“Tell me the entire story,” he said, making his voice as gentle as possible.
“Our control system for the ICBM missiles is completely off-line,” said Lo Gong. “We cannot even launch manually if we wish.”
“What?”
The minister shook his head.
“American B-2s attacked the DF-21D launch site about a half hour ago. They destroyed four missiles and their launchers on the ground. The entire site has been wiped out.”
“I don’t care about those missiles,” said Cho Lai. “What has happened to our missile force? Are you telling me we have no defense against an American attack?”
“None,” said Lo Gong. “It’s a cyber-attack.”
“Retaliate!”
“We’ve tried. We can’t get past their firewalls. We’ve had some minor successes.”
Cho Lai realized that his hands were trembling. He went to his seat and sat down.
“Get out,” he told the defense minister. “Out.”
Lo Gong rose to go. He almost looked relieved.
“Prepare a withdrawal from Vietnam,” said Cho Lai. “Prepare—reinforce all of the home guard units in the cities. There will be a reaction to this. We must head it off with an extreme show of force.”
“Premier, I—”
“Out!”
Cho Lai’s voice was so loud the window behind him shook. He waited until Lo Gong had left, then buried his face in his hands.
76
Washington, D.C.
The president’s national security advisor was ecstatic as he barged into the Oval Office.
“They’re withdrawing their forces from Vietnam unilaterally,” said Jackson. A child at Christmas couldn’t have sounded happier. “They’ve given up. They’re defeated.”
Greene frowned. He pushed back in his seat, then looked up at the ceiling.
“They’re not defeated, Walter. They’re pushed back. For now.”
“That’s all we can ask for.”
“Mmmm.”
William Jablonski, freshly arrived from New York, rose and shook Jackson’s hand. They were old drinking buddies, their sharp contrasts notwithstanding. Priest, the president’s spokesman, remained crouched in his corner of the couch, deep in thought.
“Congress will stop this impeachment business,” Jackson told Greene. “You’ve won, Mr. President. You’ve won.”
Somehow, Greene didn’t feel as if he had. As he stared at the ceiling, he remembered staring at another ceiling, one made of concrete and pockmarked with mold and rot: the ceiling of the prison he’d been kept in while a POW in Vietnam.
The day he’d been released, he felt the same sort of odd mixture—relief, and yet not relief. He’d won there by surviving, and yet he knew he faced a struggle nearly as intense to readapt himself to the world, and reconcile the fact that he had survived.
It had taken a long time. In some ways, the process was continuing, though anyone who looked at him would say, would assume, that he had not only survived but triumphed.
In the prison he learned many truths, most especially about himself. He learned that there was never really such a thing as a final victory. He learned that there was never really such a thing as a triumph that didn’t contain the seeds of another downfall. He learned to move in small steps, with small victories—the late rising from the floor, the ability to withstand one more punch before giving in.
He had won a great victory here, one that many Americans would not really know about. They would see the news stories and assume it had more to do with China and Vietnam than Greene or the men and women who had risked their lives in Asia. Which was fine by him.
But the next time—and there would be a next time—things would be even more difficult. He was sure Cho Lai already had his people studying the victory, planning on how they might have overturned it. His generals and advisors were doing the same.
“This will take some of the immediate pressure off,” said Priest. “But we still have the L.A. Times to deal with. That story is going to kill us.”
“Deny it,” said Jackson. “Just stonewall.”
Priest looked at Jablonski, then at Greene.
“I could, I suppose,” said Greene.
But was that what he wanted? His time in captivity had taught him much.
“The American people deserve the truth,” said Greene. “I have no problem admitting it.”
“Congress will impeach you,” said Jablonski. “There’s no doubt about that. You don’t have the votes.”
“Let them.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Jablonski folded his arms. “Chet … if you’re impeached and kicked out, who wins? Doesn’t China?”
“China?” asked Jackson. “How do you see that?”
“This is a long conflict. You can’t stand on principle,” said Jablonski. “You have to do what’s right for the country.”
“Lying?” shot Greene.
“If that’s what it takes.”
Greene frowned. He wasn’t sure what he would do.
“You have a way of being the skunk at the party, Billy. You know that?”
“It’s the first line in my job description.”
77
Forthright, Ohio
Mara found the driveway and pulled in, following the curve down to the house.
She suddenly felt extremely nervous. Her hands trembled as she put the car into park and turned off the ignition.
“Am I ready to do this?” she said aloud, though she was the only one in the car. “Do what? I’m just seeing Josh. A friend. Oh, more than a friend … am I ready to see him? Why not? Who cares what it all means, if it means anything. God, I am so overthinking this and talking to myself in the car.”
She reached over for her pocketbook. When she straightened, she saw a trio of children coming out from the house, followed by a middle-aged woman.
And, a few feet behind everyone else, Josh MacArthur.
His face was framed in the doorway for just an instant, but the image burned itself into her brain. He was handsome in a slightly nerdy way—if he’d worn glasses it would have been too much. He didn’t look particularly athletic, though as she had seen in Vietnam he was deceptively strong and tough, extremely resilient.
And protective. Not embarrassingly so, not inappropriately, but he had saved the little girl’s life, and even though it was Mara’s job to watch after him, he had done his share of watching after her as well.
And that was the endearing factor, the thing that made her love him. Or rather, told her that she loved him.
She wasn’t the type of person who let others take care of her. A man who looked after her had to do it i
n a subtle, careful way, without fuss. And Josh was completely without fuss.
The children arrived at the driver’s side window and began banging on it.
“Hey, hey,” said their mother, helping Mara open the door. “Settle down, all of you.”
“Hello,” said Mara, stepping out.
“Hello. I’m Debra,” said Josh’s cousin’s wife. “I’m their mom.”
“I’m Mara.”
“Yes.” Debra folded Mara in a bear hug. “Josh has told us so much about you. You’re our hero.”
“Oh, I didn’t do—”
“Thank you for saving him,” said Debra, her arms still clamped around Mara’s back.
“I think you’re smothering her,” said Josh. “Leave some for me.”
* * *
Jing Yo couldn’t quite see what was going on in the front yard. All he knew was that a car had pulled into the driveway and some people had come out of the house.
He would sit high in the tree with the rifle and wait them out. Eventually, the scientist would come to him.
After he shot him, Jing Yo would descend the tree and run across the field behind these woods, coming out on the road near where he had left his car in the little turnaround off the road. He would walk quickly but with determination to the vehicle. He would drive to the bus station three towns away, where buses left every hour for Dayton. From Dayton, he would take another bus to Indianapolis. There he would check into a motel with another alias, and arrange for a flight to San Antonio. From there, Mexico and beyond.
Jing Yo wasn’t sure where “beyond” was. He had come to like America, but he couldn’t stay after murdering one of its citizens. And of course he couldn’t go home to China. He would never be able to go home to China.
Anywhere he went would be empty without Hyuen Bo, in any event. It didn’t much matter where he ended up.
He couldn’t help think about her. She was a constant ache in his chest.
The former monk turned soldier scolded himself. He should be beyond petty feelings. One of the firmest principles Shaolin preached was that this world was an illusion. Human emotions were the biggest part of that illusion, and were to be contemplated only at distance.
Yet the loss he felt was not an illusion. It was an emptiness and ache that had a physical place inside his body, at his rib cage, where her head had rested so often.
It had changed. First, it was despair, and it was in the pit of his stomach. Then it was anger and lust for revenge. That was deep in his muscles, in his shoulders and his back and his thighs.
Now, just loss.
The people were moving into the house. Jing Yo got the rifle ready.
* * *
Josh hadn’t felt this giddy since he was fifteen or sixteen. He did his best to clamp down on his excitement. Debra had found an empty bedroom for Mara—the big old farmhouse was full of them—and Josh helped her bring her bag upstairs. As soon as they were alone, he took her hand, then pulled her toward him and kissed her.
She didn’t resist. In fact, she reciprocated.
“I missed you,” he said.
“I missed you.”
They stood together for a few moments, holding hands.
“Are you coming down to see my painting?” called Chrissie.
“Coming,” said Josh. He let go of Mara’s hands. He still wasn’t sure exactly how intimate they were, or should be. And in front of others, even his family, he felt awkward.
They went downstairs. Each child had to show the guest something special as they vied for attention. Josh watched Mara as she ooo’d and ahh’d over each.
After they met in the jungle, he had watched her and thought to himself that she wasn’t particularly pretty. But now, she seemed more beautiful than any woman he had ever met.
Objectively, her hips and shoulders, while certainly not fat, were a bit broad compared to her breasts, and her face was rather plain. Her blond hair shaded toward brown and was not well cut. She didn’t wear makeup.
And yet the whole was so much more than the parts. And her voice was music.
She listened to each child in turn. Debra finally cut them off when they started the third round of their show-and-tells, with Chrissie bringing out her Barbies.
“Ms. Duncan needs a little time to herself,” said Debra. “Shoo now. Get your homework done.”
“Want a beer?” asked Josh.
“I’d love one.”
He fetched one from the refrigerator. Debra fussed around the kitchen for a few minutes more, then excused herself to check on the children. Josh listened to Mara talk about how she was looking forward to getting a few days off, and how open the country had looked on her way out.
“You forget that about America, being away,” she said. “I’ve been away so long.”
“Are you going to stay for a while?”
“For a long while,” she said. She smiled at him, then took a sip of the beer. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had an American beer in a couple of years.”
“We had some in New York.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Josh felt the awkwardness growing, but wasn’t sure what to do about it. Finally, he got up.
“Want to go for a walk? I’ll show you those woods. And that mushroom in the e-mail.”
“You sent me a mushroom?”
“A picture.”
“I didn’t get a picture.”
“I must have screwed something up when I did the attachment. Come on.”
* * *
Peering through the tree branches, Jing Yo saw the door to the back of the house open. Instantly, his breathing changed, becoming more controlled. He relaxed his muscles. He remembered the advice of his mentors: ease into the weapon, absorb it, make it an extension of yourself.
The scientist was walking toward him. He was with a woman.
The CIA officer?
Jing Yo couldn’t be sure. It would make sense, however.
So he would kill her, too. He wouldn’t feel bad about that.
They came across the field, striding onto a path that led into the woods. They would come practically beneath him.
Jing Yo watched through the scope. Perhaps ten feet from the trees, they took each other’s hand, then twined them, stopped, and kissed.
There was such tenderness in that moment, such understated emotion.
His ribs ached. He thought of Hyuen Bo.
They kissed for a long time. Jing Yo stared at them, thinking not of them, but of himself, of the love that he had lost.
A precept he had been taught sprang to his mind:
Nothing is completely lost. No energy is destroyed. It remains within the universe where it was given birth.
They began walking again, now hand in hand, arms swinging. In love.
He was seeing himself, just before Hyuen Bo was killed. It was the happiest moment of his life.
Jing Yo stared, watching as they walked into the woods, watching as they fussed over the trees, as they laughed. There was nothing special in the way they treated each other, and yet everything was special. You could see the bond growing between them.
Jing Yo stared, and continued to stare as they passed through and out the woods.
Jing Yo stared, and continued to stare, well after they were gone.
At night, when it was dark, he left the gun in its strap and climbed down from the tree. He walked across the back field and found his car.
There was no need to go back to the hotel. He still had plenty of cash. He would find a new identity, and he would establish himself somewhere.
Where exactly, he didn’t know. America was a big place, full of possibilities.
78
South China Sea
The ship’s company stood at attention as the pipe sounded its plaintive cry. The sun was just setting, the ocean calm. There could not have been a more perfect evening.
Lt. Commander Li struggled to hold back the tears as the litter l
ifted and the sack holding Commander Silas’s body slipped into the sea.
A freak accident, the ship’s chief medical officer called it. A combination of the blow and an undetected aneurysm. Officially, death by traumatic injury to the head, with natural complications.
But Lt. Commander Li thought it must be something else, some deeper bargain that Silas had struck: my life for my people, me for my ship.
It was a romantic notion, impossible. And yet so full of truth that she was certain of it.
She stared at the waves for several minutes, tears streaming down her face. Had she looked at any of the ship’s crew, she knew their faces would mirror hers. Silas had been the perfect commander, a strict but caring father who knew them better than they knew themselves. A difficult man to get close to, yet full of warmth and insight once you did.
A ship’s captain, in the finest sense. A throwback. A leader.
“All right,” she said finally, turning to the crew. “Let’s get to work. We’re going home.”
79
Hanoi
The man at the end of the bar was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head as he hunched over his drink. He looked like a monk contemplating the afternoon benediction.
“Hey,” said Zeus, pulling the stool out. “How you doing, Roth?”
“Same,” said Setco.
“Always Mr. Sunshine.”
“I smiled when I landed the plane, right?”
Zeus laughed. Setco had not only smiled, he had roared with laughter. He confessed that he had been exaggerating about his flying abilities, and had only landed twice before, both times with a flight instructor next to him.
Cringing the entire time, he claimed.
“Ready to go?” Setco asked.
“I’ll have a drink first.”
The bartender came over, refilled Setco’s glass, then got a beer for Zeus. They drank in silence.
“You hear from Kerfer?” asked Setco.
“Ric? Nah. We’re not exactly close.”
“No?”
“There’s nobody close to me, Murph.”
Funny, thought Zeus. “Murph” didn’t bother him anymore. Something about the way he said it had changed.
