Shock of War - [Red Dragon Rising 03]

by Larry Bond

  Perry gestured to Zeus, indicating he should sit down on one of the chairs scattered nearby. They were folding chairs, the sort you would see in a church basement.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” continued Perry. “I understand.”

  He frowned, and glanced at the ambassador.

  “We will,” she said, and hung up.

  “How was your flight, Major?” said Perry, placing the phone on the receiver.

  “It was . . . interesting,” said Zeus. “We, uh . . . we got fired on a couple of times.”

  “No damage?”

  “Plane got banged up, but we got home. The Chinese are moving past Tien Yen,” he added. “The Vietnamese were overrun farther north. Part of the armored brigade hasn’t even reached the city yet.”

  “Are they going to launch a counterattack there?” asked Perry.

  “It didn’t look like they were organized at all. Frankly, hitting the city now would be a waste of time. They’d have to get farther north if they wanted to cut off the Chinese supply lines.”

  “Or go farther south if they want to confront the spearhead,” said Perry.

  “Could you show me where we’re talking about on the map?” asked Behrens. She touched a few keys on the laptop and pushed it over toward Zeus.

  Zeus showed her.

  “There’s vacuum north of Lang Son,” he told Perry. “You could attack north and get pretty far.”

  “The Vietnamese can’t even defend their own soil,” said Perry, with some disgust.

  The general pulled the laptop closer to him. Zeus noticed his arm brush against Behrens’s; he wondered if they were lovers.

  Certainly not. They pulled their arms away almost instantly.

  He was seeing sex in everything because of Anna.

  “There’s something else,” Zeus said. “The Yen Tu Mountains are a no-fly zone. Why do you think that is?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Perry.

  “We couldn’t fly over the area,” said Zeus. “We detoured around it the whole flight. I definitely got the impression that I wasn’t supposed to see something there.”

  “Show me,” said Perry.

  Zeus pointed out the area over the mountains. It was a large swatch east of Hanoi.

  “Could that be where the government is going to evacuate to?” the general asked Behrens.

  “I doubt it. Their bunkers are all in Hanoi and to the south, where the military headquarters are.”

  “Well, something’s there,” said Zeus. “Can I get a look at the satellite data?”

  “Absolutely,” said Perry, rising. “They’re in the other room. Come with me.”

  ~ * ~

  Zeus didn’t know exactly what he hoped to find in the satellite imagery of the Yen Tu Mountains in Quàng Ninh Province. But whatever it was, he didn’t find it. The mountains looked like crusty patches of tan and green, crisscrossed by strings of blue. These were intersected by a spider web of gray lines—small local roads.

  The sheer number surprised Zeus. Some were related to the Yen Tu Buddhist relic, a holy place marked by a massive bronze statue and surrounding pagodas. The ancient Vietnamese king Tran Nhan Tong was said to have sat in meditation at the spot in the mountains. Located about midway through the range, the relic was popular with pilgrims and hikers.

  Away from the relic, the mountains were heavily mined, with coal and bauxite among the more plentiful minerals. Titanium, chromium, copper, and tin were also found there, as were rare earth metals.

  Temples and mines were hardly a reason for a no-fly zone. Zeus studied the images, looking for signs of a bunker that might serve as an emergency retreat for the Hanoi government. But if it was there, it wasn’t obvious. The mines were almost exclusively open pits: big holes in the ground where mountain peaks had once stood. Nor were there defenses ringed around them.

  “It doesn’t make all that much sense,” Zeus told Perry. “A no-fly zone over a bunch of mines?”

  “Maybe they’re not hiding anything at all,” Perry suggested, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe they’re worried about damaging the pagoda.” “There are shrines all over the place. Dau Pagoda’s just outside Hanoi. That’s not a no-fly zone.”

  “This one’s more important.”

  Zeus wasn’t convinced, but he had no other explanation. And there were other problems to worry about.

  “If you were the Vietnamese,” said Perry, “what would you do?”

  “Assuming they’re heading toward Hai Phong? I’d swing down here and try and trip them up. Separate the armor from the infantry. It’s almost hopeless, though.”

  “What if it weren’t? Where can you stop them?”

  Zeus tapped the area near Dam Trong, west of Cai Bdu Island. It was an area made for ambushes, with small bridges and a myriad of irrigation ditches feeding the inland rice fields that had been built in the past two or three years.

  “Slow them down here,” added Zeus. “Maybe you can get the infantry units that retreated to hit their rear.”

  “Will it work?” asked Perry.

  “If those A-10As were here.”

  “Forget them.”

  “More weapons. I don’t know.”

  Perry shook his head. “See if you can figure out a place for an ambush, even if it’s hopeless.”

  “All right.”

  Zeus pulled over the magnifying glass and started going over the images and maps. A buzzer sounded; Perry went to the door near the intercom.

  “Yes?” asked Perry.

  “It’s Juliet Greig. I brought you some coffee, General.”

  Perry unlocked the door from the inside. Greig was standing with a tray holding a carafe of coffee, milk, sugar, and two large white cups.

  “Ms. Greig, thank you very much. You know Major Murphy?”

  “I showed him in earlier.” She smiled at Zeus. “Coffee, Major?”

  “Sure.”

  Greig put the cups down at the far end of the table, then poured the coffee.

  “General, the ambassador asked me to remind you that the meeting with the premier and General Trung is a half hour from now. She wanted to make sure you had time to get ready.”

  “Yes, of course.” Perry rubbed his chin, whose stubble hadn’t been trimmed in nearly two days.

  “You want me to come, General?” asked Zeus.

  “No, I think I can handle this on my own, Zeus. Listen, it’s possible ... we may . . .”

  His voice trailed off. Zeus guessed what he was going to say from his eyes—it was possible they were going to bug out. They didn’t want to get caught in Hanoi, which could happen if the tanks came far enough south and the offensive in the west started up again.

  “I’ll be ready,” Zeus told him.

  Perry nodded. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  “I’m okay.”

  The general turned to Greig. “Ms. Greig, would you do me a favor?”

  “General?”

  “See that Major Murphy gets a ride back to his hotel, would you?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll tuck him in if you want.”

  She smiled, then left. Zeus packed everything up. He was surprised to find her out in the hall when he came out.

  “All done?” she asked.

  “I didn’t realize you were waiting,” he said.

  “That’s my life. Don’t worry about it. Where’s the coffeepot?”

  “Oh, I forgot it. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll get it later. You want me to take those?”

  She pointed at the folders with the photos and map.

  “I have to check them back in,” he said.

  “I’ll do it for you if you want.”

  “No, that’s all right.”

  She gave him another of her indulgent smiles, as if she were sharing a private joke with someone.

  “I’ll see you, Major. Unless you do want me to tuck you in.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “The offer stands,” she said before
going upstairs.

  ~ * ~

  Zeus had the driver take him to the hospital. The Vietnamese soldiers on the day shift seemed to recognize him; as he reached for his American ID, they nodded and waved him inside. No one seemed to notice him as he walked through the battered interior of the building.

  Anna was looking over a patient’s chart about midway down the room where he had woken up. Zeus stepped up to the wall, watching her for a moment as she worked. She was as pretty as he remembered. Even the most mundane acts—jotting a note, closing a folder—were things of beauty.

  The nurses watched her intently, as did the nearby patients. It seemed to Zeus that every eye in the place was watching her. And why shouldn’t they?

  Anna glanced in his direction as she finished. A smile broke across her lips.

  Zeus started to push away from the wall to go toward her. She made the slightest motion with her head, telling him not to. Then she pointed at a patient next to the bed she had just checked—one more, she was telling him, then they could be together.

  He understood perfectly. It was as if their minds were already joined.

  There was a commotion out in the hall, people arguing. Zeus stepped around and looked out the door to see what was going on.

  Two men in hospital scrubs were wheeling a gurney quickly down the hall. A third chased after them, his white lab coat flying open. He was angry, his face red. A patient lay on the stretcher, a bag of plasma on his chest. He was moaning, covered with blood.

  The men rushed past. A nurse came out of the room behind him. Then Anna, her perfume sweet and pungent in the air. She passed as if she didn’t notice him, walking briskly after the others.

  They all went into a room a few doors away across the hall. Zeus followed in time to see the nurse who’d come from the ward bending over the patient. The angry man in the lab coat yelled something; the nurse stepped back. Everyone except Anna froze. Anna, glancing at the man who had yelled, stepped over and lifted the sheet from his midsection. He was covered in blood.

  The angry man took hold of Anna’s arm. Pain seized her face.

  Zeus sprang forward, grabbing the man’s shoulder so hard he let go of Anna and started to fall. Zeus spun him around and held him upright.

  The angry man looked up at Zeus.

  “Leave her alone,” said Zeus sharply. “Don’t touch her.”

  The man began stuttering something. Zeus let go, pushing him back as he did. The man stumbled but caught his balance. He backed out of the room.

  “Please, you must leave,” Anna told Zeus.

  By the time he turned to look at her, she had gone back to work on the patient. She spoke quickly in Vietnamese to the nurse, who went to a side cabinet and began pulling out packages of gauze and other items.

  Another nurse rushed in, wheeling a tray of instruments. Another came in, pushing a machine. The room suddenly smelled of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic.

  Anna continued to work, hands moving swiftly and surely. The others moved around her frenetically, but she stayed calm, completely in control.

  Zeus backed against the wall, mesmerized. A heart monitor was hooked up. The machine beeped erratically. Zeus noticed the man had his boots on—he was a soldier, in a dark green uniform.

  Not Vietnamese. He must be a Chinese prisoner.

  An airman, maybe. His uniform was baggy—a flight suit.

  Footsteps clicked down the hall, then into the room. The angry man had returned. He had an officer with him.

  The angry man in the lab coat began haranguing Anna. Zeus started to go forward, determined to pull him off again.

  The officer stepped up next to the man in the lab coat and raised his arm. He had a pistol.

  Two shots echoed in the small room. The noise was the loudest Zeus had ever heard, louder than any explosion, louder than any shout or scream. Before he could react, before anyone could react, the officer turned on his heel and left the room.

  The man on the gurney was dead, the top of his head blown away.

  ~ * ~

  25

  Washington, D.C.

  Walter Jackson hated going to diplomatic receptions for a host of reasons. Now President Greene had given him a fresh one—he had to speak pleasantly to the Russian ambassador, a man he loathed. It didn’t help that the end result of the conversation might or might not be legal, in his opinion. The fact that it would help a country he’d never been particularly fond of was icing on the cake.

  But such were the riddles and twists of national security in the twenty-first century. Greene needed someone at a very high level to push through the deal, someone he could trust if things went wrong.

  Jackson had studied the Nixon presidency for his doctorate. He had been deeply ambivalent about Henry Kissinger, whose Realpolitik had opened China to the West and balanced it against the USSR, contributing greatly to the eventual end of the cold war.

  Kissinger had also overseen a policy toward North Vietnam that was an utter failure.

  And here it all was again: same players dancing in different roles.

  The crisis helped Russia in several ways. The price of oil had skyrocketed. Meanwhile, they were selling a good amount of weapons to China, and to other countries—notably India—anxious about China. At the same time, the conflict was absorbing China, a neighbor they increasingly worried about.

  The longer China’s war in Vietnam went on, the better for Russia. So it was in their interest to help Vietnam, as long as it could be done covertly.

  Things could be worse, Jackson told himself as he stepped from the back of the town car that had taken him to the embassy. The reception could have been black tie.

  Jackson ran the gauntlet of the reception area, bowing to the hosts and a few celebrity guests, a smile pasted firmly on his lips. Inside the nearby ballroom, a band that didn’t look particularly Polish played light jazz. Guests mingled in front of easels of abstract landscapes said to be inspired by the Polish countryside. To Jackson’s jaundiced eye, they looked more like nightmares of color, with purple being a particular favorite.

  He moved with purpose toward the bar at one side of the large ballroom. A broad-shouldered man with a Fu Manchu mustache greeted him.

  “Would you be able to make a Manhattan?” Jackson asked.

  “Of course,” said the bartender.

  “Good. Then hold the whiskey, and just give me a sweet vermouth.”

  Fu Manchu smirked and reached back for the vermouth. “Rocks?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a cherry?”

  “Hold that.”

  Jackson took the drink and stepped aside. As he lifted the glass to his lips he was shocked to see a former student standing in front of him. He recognized him a second before he could put a name to the face, then suddenly it came back: James Ferico.

  “James?” said Jackson.

  “Professor?”

  They exchanged the mandatory how-are-you’s and why-are-you-here’s. Ferico knew Jackson’s answers, but Jackson was surprised and somewhat cheered by his former student’s: he had just published a biography that the Polish ambassador, for some unknown reason, had read and liked; the ambassador was so taken with it that he had invited him to the reception.

  “Trying to pad the crowd, probably,” said Ferico self-deprecatingly. “Maybe the first set of guests saw the paintings beforehand.”

  Jackson smiled. “I didn’t know you published a book.”

  “I’ll send you a copy.”

  “No, I insist on buying one,” said Jackson. “Then you’ll have to autograph it for me. Tell me, what else are you doing?”

  Ferico was working as a “creative” with a Madison Avenue advertising company. “A little art, little video, sometimes writing.”

  “No foreign policy?” said Jackson.

  Ferico laughed. “Not if I can help it.”

  They refilled their drinks. Jackson was having such a good time talking to him that he almost forgot why he came. But then he saw
the Polish ambassador, holding court on the other side of the room. He excused himself after extracting a promise from Ferico to have lunch.

  “I am surprised to see you here, Dr. Jackson,” said Gregor Goldenachov after Jackson sidled over. “Usually you do not join the social swirl.”