by Larry Bond
~ * ~
Josh was trembling as he got into the car.
“She called me a liar,” he said as Mara slipped in next to him.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, son,” said Congressman Joyce on the other side of Josh. “These reporters—they spout bull just to get your reaction.”
“I doubt that was a reporter,” said Jablonski, who’d gotten into the front. “Probably a Chinese spy.”
He leaned over the seat.
“Can you check on it?” he asked Mara.
“Sure,” she said, wishing he hadn’t said anything.
“I think it went very well, all things considered,” said the congressman. He slapped Josh on the knee, then looked across to Mara. “And you are ... ?”
“Mara Duncan.”
“I take it you’re with the FBI?” He glanced at Jablonski.
“State Department,” said Jablonski. “She’s our liaison.”
“Good, very good,” said the congressman, sitting back.
Mara looked at Josh. He was sweating, and staring at her.
“I don’t think it’s a big deal,” Mara told him. “Relax.”
“I know what I saw. I was right there. We were right there.”
“I know you did, Josh,” said Mara. “Don’t worry.”
~ * ~
7
Hainan Island, China
Zeus emptied his mind as he walked, focusing entirely on his surroundings. The airport was a collection of bright lights and shadows, blinking beacons and looming buildings. The runway was a good distance away, more than a hundred yards. Beyond it were four black lumps— military hangars, he guessed, as the other half of the airport was used by the People’s Liberation Army’s air force.
So don’t run that way when you make your break.
Light from the interior of the terminal building washed over the apron where the planes were parked, tinting everything yellow. The planes themselves were unlit, seemingly without power or crews. That killed any temptation he might have had to fantasize about boarding one and hijacking it.
And there were simply too many soldiers around to think about running, much less overpowering them. Another truck crossed ahead at the end of the terminal building; as it passed, a floodlight on the building illuminated the faces of five men hanging from the back, giving them a ghostly pallor.
“What, do they have the whole damn Chinese army here?” grumbled Christian, a little louder than Zeus would have liked.
“They’re under attack, remember?”
“What the hell are we going to do?” Christian asked. “Where are they taking us?”
Zeus had no answers. Better to go along, say nothing, hope for the best.
Hope isn’t a plan.
That was his tactical instructor’s motto at West Point. Zeus wondered how he’d deal with this. That was one thing they didn’t teach you at the Point: how to be a successful spy.
As they drew parallel to the end of the terminal gate building, the soldier leading them turned right about forty-five degrees, and began walking across a long, open area toward another building. A row of armored personnel carriers sat to his right, about thirty yards away, blocking off part of the apron area.
Zeus went into G-2 mode, assessing the vehicles as an intelligence officer would. They were short and squat, with turrets toward the rear of the hull: NVH-1s, very old vehicles, with 30mm or 25 mm guns in the turret. They’d hold nine soldiers, plus two crewmen.
You’d expect older gear on Hainan, so that fit.
Had they been upgraded? The Chinese got a lot of use out of their older vehicles by outfitting them with the latest technology.
A single radio whip off the turret. Not enough to go on.
So where had they come from?
Probably they were kept on the military side and just rushed over, assigned to take up positions in case the Vietnamese counterattacked. It would be standard procedure.
How many?
One company at least. How many had he passed now? How many were on the other side of the building?
Were they army or air force? How were the Chinese divisions organized—would these be attached to a regular division, or a separate unit?
There were two self-propelled antiaircraft guns in the distance, close to the runway; he could see the barrels rising above the hulls.
Two barrels. Which made them . . . what?
Russian ZSU-57s?
No way. Too old.
They weren’t aligned very well for defense. The positioning was the sort of thing you would see if you were expecting some sort of civil disturbance.
They were still in that mode, not quite ready for the war they were actually fighting.
A vehicle moved from the shadows ahead. It had its running lights but not its headlights on. At first glance, Zeus thought it was a sedan, but as it approached he realized it was a crew cab pickup. There were soldiers standing in the back, leaning over the roof.
The man who had been leading them raised his hand as it pulled up. There were two soldiers sitting in the front seat. The man opened the rear passenger side door and gestured toward Zeus.
“We can’t get in,” whispered Christian. “Who the hell knows where they’re taking us?”
“We don’t really have much choice at this point,” Zeus told him. “Just relax. We’ll get through this.”
“Fuck you, relax.”
“Listen to me. Just play along—we’re businessmen. Do not change your story.”
“Businessmen get arrested by half the army?”
Zeus climbed in. The cab smelled funny—like roasted peanuts, he thought.
Neither of the two men in front said anything. The soldiers who had escorted them slammed the door shut after Christian got in.
“What the hell?” hissed Christian.
Zeus shook his head. The truck started forward in a gentle glide, barely moving at first, then gradually picking up speed. It moved toward the terminal building, on the opposite side from where they’d come out. The personnel carriers were on their right. Then the driver found a road marked with reflectors across the wide asphalt concourse and turned sharply. Their speed gradually increased as they moved away from the terminal building. They passed some maintenance vehicles, then slowed as they approached a hangar.
A two-engined Fokker 50 passenger plane sat out front. The truck stopped.
Zeus pulled the door handle next to him, only to find it was secured by a lock that allowed it to be opened only from the outside.
They sat in the dark for a moment. Zeus considered the odds of overpowering both men in the front. He could strangle the driver easily enough; could Christian take the other?
Push the man aside, flip over the seat—he’d probably be able to make it before anyone in the bed behind them or outside could react. Once in the driver’s seat, he could simply back up, drive around to the front.
Desperation move.
Was it better than just doing nothing?
Yes.
He was just turning to Christian, intending on miming what he wanted to do, when the door next to him opened.
It was Solt Jan. “Out. On the plane. Let’s go!” she ordered.
~ * ~
Zeus took a slow breath as he pushed out of the truck. Solt was already halfway to the plane.
“What the hell?” asked Christian under his breath.
Zeus followed Solt to the stairs leading to the aircraft. He walked deliberately, trying to observe the surroundings without being too obvious. There were some mechanics or maintenance personnel in the hangar, but no soldiers.
He glanced back at Christian, who was still back near the truck.
Was Christian thinking of making a break for it?
Don’t, thought Zeus. Play this through.
Christian started walking. He was mumbling when he reached the steps.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
“There’s probably food on the plane.”
“Right
.”
Zeus went up and found Solt waiting just inside the door.
“Take the seats in row six,” she whispered. She handed him their passports. “Say nothing.”
“Where are we going?”
“Say nothing,” she hissed. “Good luck.”
~ * ~
8
Beijing
Premier Cho Lai folded his arms as the defense minister continued. He was losing the struggle to keep his temper.
“The attack a few hours ago on our invasion fleet illustrates a capacity we had not realized the Vietnamese had,” continued Lo Gong. He turned to the large display at the front of the war room. “There have been attacks on the harbor, and encounters all along the coast. We dare not move the fleet forward until we have cleared the waters.”
“How many were true encounters, and how many were sailors having panic attacks?” said General Qingyun Pu sharply. It was not a question. Qingyun headed the air force, and was Cho Lai’s most aggressive general.
“We have images of the attack and casualty reports,” answered Lo Gong. “We’ve already lost two patrol boats and several landing craft. Perhaps the air force believes it can do a better job.”
“We could flatten Vietnam in a day.”
“You haven’t even conquered Hanoi,” answered Gong.
“Enough,” said Cho Lai. The premier liked Qingyun Pu, but the defense minister had a point. “What is the impact on our plans?”
“We are shifting our resources,” said the general. “We will be ready to launch a different attack along the coast within hours.”
“Good.”
“The next question is what the American Navy will do,” said Lo Gong. He pointed to a spot near the southern Vietnamese coast. “The American destroyer sent to test the blockade has been moving north. We are continuing to shadow him. At the moment, it is the nearest vessel. Most of the American fleet is near Taiwan.”
“How do we know the destroyer didn’t launch the attack?” asked the premier.
“The destroyer was out of range, Your Excellency.”
“What about an American submarine?”
The defense minister lowered his gaze. “As for an American submarine, I can assure you, the Americans would have made a much larger attack. We have our aircraft carrier to worry about. No, this was a surprise and beyond what we thought the Vietnamese could launch, but far less than the American capacity. They are still out of the war. They are afraid to attack.”
Cho Lai kept his thoughts on that subject to himself.
The discussion continued. The main thrust of the Chinese army had been slowed by the destruction of the dams west of Hanoi. The flood-waters were gradually subsiding, and the attack could be resumed within a few days. Ho Chi Minh City would be theirs within a week.
“Assuming the political winds remain in our favor,” said the defense minister.
“I will worry about the winds,” said Cho Lai. “You push our generals to be more aggressive. They act like old women, afraid of their own shadows.”
~ * ~
Cho Lai still pondered Lo Gung’s assessment of the Americans a half hour later as he sat in his office, listening to the latest intelligence briefing on the UN speech. The American president was certainly doing his best to urge a confrontation.
The intelligence reports said American public opinion was against intervention. Cho Lai wasn’t so sure.
Even with their well-documented decline, the Americans were a force that must be dealt with carefully. Militarily, they were still ahead of the Chinese in many areas—not all, however, and the gap was closing rapidly, but Cho Lai knew it was best to avoid direct conflict for at least another year, perhaps two or even three. He needed the time not so much to catch up with their weaponry—the estimate there was closer to a year and a half—but to get his people healthy again. The drought that had spread from western China had devastated much of the rural population. The impact could be measured in calories—the average peasant in Yunnan Province ate five hundred calories per day.
Five hundred. A quarter of what was needed to live. Those who had fled to the cities fared somewhat better, but even in the places where food was plentiful, wages were unable to keep up. He was not surprised that there had been food riots; the wonder was that there hadn’t been more.
Just enough to bring him to power. But surely that wouldn’t last. He needed Vietnam, its oil, but mostly its rice, its soil, and its climate. And he needed Cambodia and Thailand. The shifting of the weather patterns had favored them all at China’s expense.
“Your Excellency?”
Cho Lai looked up. His intelligence minister, Ludi Yan, had returned to his office after taking a call outside.
“The agent we sent almost reached him on the bridge,” said Ludi Yan. “But the plan fell short.”
Cho Lai nodded.
“The man—we believe he died. We are looking for his body.”
“Better that he is dead than captured.”
Ludi nodded.
“We have already begun blunting the American propaganda,” continued the intelligence minister. He handed Cho Lai a touchpad tablet. There was a video in the middle of the screen, poised to play. The premier touched the arrow. A scene outside the UN began to play, showing a press conference the scientist had held.
“I have no time for more of his lies,” said Cho Lai.
“Wait for a moment, Your Excellency It will pause.”
The camera moved to the right, looking over the crowd. Then the image stopped on a young American woman. Her face zoomed to fill half the screen. Next to it, a black presentation-type slide came up.
“She was called the Dark Horse in Malaysia, we believe,” said Ludi. “A very skilled operative.”
“A woman.”
“A CIA officer who has accompanied the scientist. Who is to say that she did not plant the information for him to discover?”
“His story is that he witnessed the massacre,” said Cho Lai.
“He ran from the camp where the other scientists were, so he doesn’t know what happened there. We have already begun to attack his credibility. Videos have been prepared. We have several operatives ready to contact media. It will be a subtle, but all-out campaign.”
Cho Lai frowned.
“If you do not wish us to proceed, Your Excellency—”
“Do what you can to discredit him,” said Cho Lai. “Do not harm the scientist. That will only make it look as if we are guilty. As for this girl—kill her if it is convenient. That would bring some measure of satisfaction for our agent’s demise.”
“It will be done.” Ludi bowed deeply, then left the room.
~ * ~
9
Aboard Air Force One
For the briefest of moments, George Chester Greene thought he was going to get everything he wanted: a near unanimous censure of China in the UN, a vote in the Senate and House to provide troops to enforce a cease-fire in Vietnam, and a ten-point boost in his approval rating.
The last was always a pipe dream, but with Josh MacArthur’s dramatic appearance before the UN, the first two seemed well within his grasp. Yet within hours, everything began to disintegrate. The UN vote was postponed by Iran, either as a payback for oil deals between it and China, or as the latest in a campaign to tweak America’s nose—or very likely both. Senator Phillip Grasso, who had been among Greene’s biggest critics since the start of his presidency, had fallen into line, thanks largely to a thwarted attempt by the Chinese to kill him and Josh Mac-Arthur as they traveled together in New York. But Grasso’s influence in the Senate only went so far, and as soon as he came out in favor of intervention, the antis began mounting an offensive.
Then there were the lies from China itself. Greene knew the Chinese would attempt to pass off the American information as so much propaganda. What he hadn’t quite expected was how much the news media would play up that angle. Every story he saw seemed to focus on the Chinese counterarguments, rather than the clear evi
dence Josh MacArthur had brought back.
Greene had seen a confrontation coming with China for a long, long time. But the one thing he hadn’t seen was that it would be over Vietnam.
It was a supreme irony. He’d spent several months at the end of the Vietnam War as a prisoner in Hanoi. And now he was trying to figure out a way to save the bastards.
