by Larry Bond
It bothered her that neither Frost nor Lucas had pointed this out. Lucas especially.
The risk wasn’t just to her. Anyone who had dealt with her would presumably be in danger: guilty by association. She hadn’t been a spy recruiter, but a good portion of her work in South Asia had called for the use of aliases and other covers, and there would be a decent trail of potential exposures.
So why the hell hadn’t Lucas pointed this out? Frost, maybe—maybe—wasn’t completely aware of her résumé, but Peter Lucas certainly was.
The president hung up the phone. Before Mara could say anything, there was a loud knock on the door. Turner Cole, the aide who had taken them there, stepped into the office and told the president that the NSC adviser and staff, along with the secretaries of state and defense, were waiting in the Cabinet Room.
“Good, very good.” Greene practically sprang from his seat. “I think we’re going to keep you two under wraps,” he said, pointing to Mara and Josh. “I just need the director and Mr. Lucas. Get up to New York, both of you.”
“Mr. President,” said Mara. “Sir—”
“Mr. President, Mạ is very tired,” said Josh quickly.
“Mạ? Oh, right—well, of course. It’s past her bedtime,” said Greene. “Turner—are all the arrangements made?”
“Yes, sir. We just—we were getting a translator.”
“Well, where is she?” said Greene. He got up and started walking toward the door. “Come on now. I want this girl taken care of. Marty!”
The president disappeared through the door, calling for one of his aides. Cole and Frost followed him.
“Peter, I have to stay covert,” Mara said to Lucas as he got up. “If I go public, my career is over.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Lucas. “Don’t worry.”
* * *
Josh stood, waiting with Mạ for the president to return. She pushed against his side, sucking her thumb, her eyes narrow slits.
“She’s got to get some sleep,” he told Mara.
“Mr. Cole is going to take care of her.”
“You think that’s okay?”
“Well—what else do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. She can—she could stay with us.”
“Us?”
“Me.”
“You ever take care of kids?”
The answer of course was no. And Josh couldn’t speak Vietnamese. Still, he didn’t want to leave her.
“Look who I found,” said Turner Cole, returning to the Oval Office. A young Vietnamese-American, his eyes drooping, and a woman with a small backpack followed. The translator and nurse, Tommy Lam and Georgette Splain, respectively.
The translator dropped to the floor, legs curled, and began talking to Mạ. She looked at him for a few moments, not saying anything. Then suddenly she started talking, words racing from her mouth.
“She wants more ice cream,” explained Mara. “Mr. Lam says he knows where they can get some.”
“All night Friendly’s,” said Lam, beaming. You’d never know he had a sweet tooth to look at him; he couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds.
“Mạ really should be getting to bed,” said the nurse.
Josh felt pangs of jealousy as the translator, the nurse, and Cole talked with Mạ. It was silly. He couldn’t take care of her.
Actually, he had taken care of her. In the jungle. But here there were professionals and people with kids. He wasn’t exactly Mạ’s dad.
Mạ looked up at Josh as Lam explained that she was going to go with them to Mr. Cole’s. He would stay the night on a couch to help translate.
“I’m—I—I’m going to stay in a hotel, Mạ,” said Josh. “All right?”
Mara bent down and started talking to Mạ in Vietnamese. When she was done, Mạ turned to Josh and hugged him. He reached down and grabbed her.
Tears welled in his eyes.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said.
He looked away as she left.
“I told her that we’ll see her,” said Mara. “And that there are other kids.”
Josh nodded.
* * *
“We want to find the site, but keep it quiet,” Greene whispered to Frost as they walked toward the Cabinet Room. “Put it under surveillance. When word leaks out, dollars to doughnuts the Chinese will try and dig up the bodies. We’ll have it on video.”
“Dollars to doughnuts?” said Frost.
“That’s my stomach talking.” Greene laughed. “Let’s get Josh and Mara up to New York, get them ready for Friday. Have them leave tonight.”
“What about the girl?”
“She can come up with me.”
“You think she should testify?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“We have to vet her first.”
“What do you mean vet? The scientist found her in the jungle, right?”
“We have to hear what her story is. We just heard what Mara said.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“George …”
“Have your man Lambert talk to her and hear her story. He has until Friday.”
“You really think it’s a good idea? We have the scientist.”
“Christ, Peter. All these years and you still don’t know crap about what sells in the media, do you?”
8
Hanoi
As a military strategist, Major Win Christian was plodding and predictable, exactly the sort of opponent Zeus would love to meet on the battlefield. In fact, the only time Zeus ran into trouble when facing him in the Red Dragon war games was when he failed to account properly for Christian’s stupidity. Faced with what looked like an idiotic development, Zeus had trouble believing his opponent wasn’t setting him up for some brilliantly clever and devious counterplay. But that was never the case.
As an engineer, however, Christian had real talent. Charged with helping the Vietnamese navy and air force—such as they were—come up with fake submarines and aircraft, he was creative and efficient. His hastily arranged collections of sheet metal, wood, and bamboo at Hai Phong not only gave Vietnam a dozen submarines overnight, but showed stockpiles of what looked like long-range torpedoes, along with the external modifications that allowed the weapons to be strapped to launchers on the hull. He also added the capacity to carry an unspecified but suitably nasty-looking antiship missile to a pair of otherwise inoperable Hormone helicopters.
“I call it the Zeus Murphy weapon,” said Christian proudly. “A lethal dose of bullshit in every breath.”
“Har-har,” said Zeus, stooping over the coffee table in General Perry’s hotel suite to examine the photo.
The weapon and the subs looked so real that even trained satellite analysts couldn’t tell that they were fake—as the intelligence alert posted by the U.S. National Reconnaissance Office an hour earlier attested.
“Vietnam Moving Antiship Weapons onto Helicopters” was the title of the brief but credulous report.
“I wonder if the CIA would be able to leak this intelligence to the Chinese,” said General Perry.
“The Chinese are already seeing this on their satellites,” said Christian. “There’s no need to leak it.”
“If they think that we think this is happening, it adds more credibility,” Perry added.
“I may be able to try something,” said Zeus. He remembered that Mara had warned him not to deal with the CIA station at the embassy; while she hadn’t been explicit, it was obvious from her hints that there was some sort of mole there, working for either the Chinese or the Vietnamese. In any event, it would be an easy matter to leave this for them in hopes of its getting back to Beijing.
“Do you have time?” asked Perry.
“I don’t leave for a couple of hours,” said Zeus. “Now that I know where Hai Phong is, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The driver assigned to him earlier in the day had gotten lost. Vietnam was a small country, but it turned out that many of its resid
ents, even soldiers, had never visited anywhere very far from the place they had grown up.
Perry turned to Christian. “Major, would you excuse us for a moment?”
Christian nodded.
“Drink?” Perry asked, going to the credenza at the side of the suite room.
“Sure.” Zeus jumped to his feet.
Perry was short and very thin; Zeus guessed he was no taller than five six, and if he weighed 130 it was only with his winter uniform on. But Perry had two Silver Stars and three Bronze Stars with the V device—V as in Valor, an award given only if its recipient had been under fire. He’d more than proven his mettle.
Until this assignment, Zeus had had only brief contacts with the general during war games, and thought he was very standoffish and cold. His opinion had changed considerably in the past few days, however; the general had proven not only warmer, but much more clever and unorthodox than Zeus had suspected.
“I would offer you your choice,” said Perry, picking up a bottle, “but it will all come down to the same thing—Johnnie Walker Black Label, or Johnnie Walker Black Label?”
“I’ll take the Black Label.”
“Neat?”
Since there was no ice, neat would have to do. Perry poured two fingers’ worth into the clear glass and handed it over. Then he poured three fingers’ worth for himself.
Rank had its privileges.
“After the war, an import-export business focusing on liquor,” said Perry, holding up his glass.
“I’m not really sure international trade is my thing,” said Zeus.
“I meant for me.”
Perry smiled and took a slug of the Scotch. Zeus took a small sip.
“You,” said Perry, “I expect will stay in the Army, go on to become a general, and eventually chief of staff. Assuming you don’t get killed on this mission.”
“I’m not planning to, General.”
“None of us do.” Perry took another sip of Scotch. This time he savored the whiskey.
“The submarine base near Sanya on Hainan,” said Perry. “We’re reasonably sure the submarines aren’t there?”
“They’ve used the bay as an overflow area for landing craft. I don’t think they would if the subs were there.”
“Hmmm.”
“The subs would add to their alarm,” said Zeus. “Just make them more nervous.”
“Maybe.”
Zeus fidgeted. He hadn’t been able to get the Navy to give him information on the precise whereabouts of the submarines—it was too closely guarded—but earlier alerts had indicated that the two boomers generally stationed there had put out to sea. Chinese doctrine called for them to be deepwater, within range of their American targets, during times of attack.
On the other hand, the harbor facilities were generally considered capable of hiding up to twenty submarines. There could easily be more there.
“You don’t have to go,” said Perry abruptly.
“I know that.”
“I’m serious. You’re pretty damn valuable—I should have vetoed it. I should have told the president no. It’s not too late,” added Perry. “I’ll take the heat. None of it will come back on you.”
“I think I can do it, General.”
Zeus almost said that he wanted to do it—that he was dying to do it. His small tastes of action in the aircraft bombing the dam and then later driving the truck behind the lines to help get the SEALs and Josh MacArthur had fired him up. Accepting his promotion to major had meant leaving the Special Forces unit. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until the first few shots had whizzed over his head.
That part he didn’t miss. Escaping them, the exhilaration of beating an enemy—that was the good part. That was the part to live for.
Not that he could say that out loud. Saying it out loud would make him seem like a mindless bozo. It was one thing to be dedicated, and another to be dedicated to the point of recklessness. Perry saw the mission as reckless. Zeus didn’t: he saw it as difficult, not reckless. But recklessness was in the eye of the general.
“Hmmph.” Perry walked to the window. Despite the bombings, the hotel windows had not been broken. In fact, none of the large foreign hotels in the area had been hit. The Chinese seemed to be making at least a token effort to avoid hitting areas where tourists and businesspeople were concentrated.
“What do you think about taking Win with you?” asked Perry, gazing toward the river. The top of a Vietnamese gunboat, struck a few hours before by Chinese warplanes in broad daylight, was just visible. About three-quarters of the ship was underwater, the hull resting in the shallows where the captain had beached the craft to make recovery operations easier.
“You want me to take Win?” said Zeus.
“Actually I don’t.” The window reflected Perry’s grin. “But the major asked me to ask you. And whether I think it’s a good idea or not, I feel obliged to follow through on the request. Just as I would for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not an order, Zeus.” Perry went over to the couch and sat back down. “I know you and he don’t exactly get along.”
“We don’t have to be friends to do our jobs, sir.”
“It can help, though. Win does have some talents,” added Perry. “He does speak some Chinese.”
Just enough to read off a menu, thought Zeus.
“I expect he was quite a pill at the Point,” said Perry.
“Top in the class,” said Zeus. It was a double entendre—Christian had been both the valedictorian and the biggest jackass.
“He is handicapped,” said Perry gravely. “That ego must make it hard to get in and out of doors.”
Zeus guffawed, utterly surprised by Perry’s remark. Generals never spoke of their underlings so candidly. Or at least this one never had.
“But as you say, you don’t have to like someone to work with him,” continued Perry, going back over to the Scotch. “Sometimes you can influence people the way gravity influences them. Push them in certain directions by exposing them to different things. Sometimes that breaks people. But sometimes, if you have the right person, it can help them overcome their flaws.”
Perry had just given Zeus the reason he had put Christian on his staff. He recognized that the major was headed for the very high ranks, and wanted to help him become a better officer. Maybe it would work—maybe Christian was becoming more human, less of a jerk.
But was he becoming more of a soldier? Soldiers couldn’t go around with sticks up their butt, or complain when a foreign army officer didn’t give a by-the-book salute. Or bitch because the seat in the helicopter had no padding.
“He did good work with the decoys,” said Perry. “That may be useful on the island. And he claims to know a bit about explosives.”
Not nearly as much as I do, thought Zeus.
“Your call,” said Perry.
“He does know some Chinese,” said Zeus. “So maybe he would be useful. If he can swim.”
* * *
Christian did know how to swim, though he couldn’t figure out why Zeus was asking.
“Because if we run out of fuel, we’re going to swim to shore,” Zeus told him.
“Running out of fuel is not an option,” said Christian.
“It’s not a planned option, no shit,” said Zeus. “Which is why I’m asking you again, can you swim?”
“Shit yeah.”
“Then you’re in.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t jump up and down.”
“I’m not.”
Be nice to the handicapped, Zeus told himself, even if the handicap is only an irony deficiency.
He laid out the basic game plan, which called for eight Zodiacs to rush across the Gulf of Bac Bo as soon as night fell. They’d have only sixteen Vietnamese soldiers, along with two spies; the rest of the space in the boats would be taken up by the engineered debris. At the same time, a pair of gunboats and the two real submarines that Vietnam had would leave port, tryin
g to attract the attention of the Chinese ships offshore. The diversion would both help the Zodiacs cross and plant the idea that the submarines were responsible for part of the attack.
Once across the gulf, they’d land on Hainan near a fish-farming operation about twenty-five miles southwest of Ledong Lizu. There they would steal a pair of boats and take them around the southern end of the island, arriving at the target area by first light. They’d scout the harbor, find the easiest targets to plant their charges on, then go to work again at nightfall, setting charges and debris to make it look as if the ships had been hit by torpedoes from the minisubs. Charges would be planted in the boats they stole to make them look as if they’d been hit by torpedoes as well. They’d aim to coordinate with a 3 a.m. attack from the missiles on the tenders.
“Then what happens?” asked Christian.
“Then we go home.”
“How?”
“We steal a truck and drive back to the Zodiacs.”
“And if the Zodiacs have been discovered?”
“Then we steal a boat,” said Zeus. “But I’d rather take the Zodiacs. They’re faster, and the Chinese won’t be patrolling that far north. But we can take another boat from the fish farm area if we have to.”
“I think we ought to land farther north to begin with,” said Christian. “Steal something from up there. Then hit the fisheries on the way back. Once we take something from one place, they’ll be on guard there. If we switch it around a bit, there’ll be less chance of being caught.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, even if it was Christian’s.
“Okay,” said Zeus. “That’s what we’ll do.”
9
New York Thruway, en route to New York City
The president ordered a military jet to fly Josh and Mara to New York. To keep Josh’s existence secret, the aircraft flew to Stewart International Airport, about an hour north of the city. They were met by a pair of U.S. marshals who packed them into a black Jimmy SUV, hopped onto the thruway, and raced toward the city at speeds approaching those the jet had used. Josh fell asleep, but between the bumpy pavement and the speed, Mara was more than wide awake. She shifted nervously in the front passenger seat, trying to tamp down her anxiety, or at least hide it.
