by Larry Bond
“It’s that last sentence that spells trouble.”
Zeus smiled. It was nuts.
“We have to get as far south as we can, as fast as we can,” added Christian. “Maybe we can warn the Vietnamese. It’s better than nothing.”
Calmer now that he was rested, Christian was back to being the somewhat competent Army officer he’d known before cracking. Ironically, now it was the nut they needed — the wild man, as Rosen used to say — a game-changing commander who could do the unexpected.
“Maybe we can blow up the tunnel,” said Zeus.
“How?”
“Those explosives back on the bridge.”
“Zeus… you have to plant explosive in pretty strategic spots to blow up a tunnel,” said Christian. “Or a garage or whatever the hell they have.”
“Maybe we can block the door.”
“You’re crazy.”
“We gotta do something,” said Zeus, starting back for the bridge.
Love
1
On the border of China and Vietnam
The jungle had turned into a melange of grays, with the occasional splash of brown and black. Zeus couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him, and what he did see was jagged and chameleonlike, altering shape as he approached. He found the gully by accident, stumbling into it and sliding down into the water. That hadn’t been his plan, but it worked just fine. The ankle-deep water swelled his shoes; he felt his way along the side of the crevice and worked his way slowly toward the bridge.
“Christian, where are you?” he asked when he cleared the water.
“Up here.”
“We can walk through this channel and we’ll be right under the bridge.”
“Yeah. And get soaked at the same time.”
Zeus kept going. The plan was still only vaguely formed, but it wasn’t the logic of it that drove him — it was the feeling, the emotion, that he had to do it. He had to stop these tanks somehow. He was just going to, whatever it took. Because not doing anything felt like a sharp stab to his stomach.
The shallow ravine widened as he walked. Water squished from his shoes. Something shot overhead, close, in the trees — a bird? A monkey?
Just the wind?
Zeus forced his eyes to focus in front of him. He couldn’t afford other thoughts or distractions.
The noise from the camp seemed louder. They’d be planning on moving out in a few hours. There must be a large infantry concentration somewhere; you couldn’t move tanks through a jungle like this without infantry supporting them.
Maybe they were coming down the road, meeting with the tanks. The crews didn’t seem to be there, either.
He had to stay alert. Apprehension stoked his adrenaline and pushed him on. The overpass loomed ahead.
It was dark underneath, extremely dark. Zeus found the first charge by feel, a blind man slowly groping along the steel. He began collecting them.
In the demolition course he’d taken — that was three, four years ago now? — the instructor had had them assemble and disassemble simple charges in the dark.
That was child’s play compared to what he had to do now. He’d been in a room with dummy charges, his feet dry and stomach full. No one was going to die if he screwed up. There was tension, sure, but it was child’s play.
After they were done, they’d hit a bar.
Two bars, as he recalled.
He followed the wires to the second, then to a third.
“Where are you?” called Christian in a stage whisper.
“Here. The north end. Go the south.”
“All right.”
“You know what you’re doing?”
“I know how to wire them. It’s the dark I have trouble with.”
They had to find the detonators. Zeus suspected there would be at least two, one on each side of the bridge.
Of course, it was possible there would be only a receiver — or worse, bare wires, waiting to be hooked up to the controller or timer.
“I don’t know how the Chinese arrange their demos,” said Zeus.
“Yeah, me neither.”
“Be careful with the wire.”
“You think they booby-trapped it?”
“No,” said Zeus, though in truth he had no idea. “There’d be no reason for that. It wouldn’t be logical.”
“I hope these guys are big on logic.”
Zeus laughed.
He found two more charges, tracing the wire along. Whoever had set up the demolitions had used far too much explosive — a common failing.
“Hey, look at this,” said Christian from the other side.
Zeus made his way over. Christian had found a small mechanical hand unit wired in as a back-up detonating device, a slightly more modern version of the old-fashioned plungers used to ignite TNT in thousands of old Western movies.
“They’re making it easy for us,” Zeus told Christian, feeling his way to the wire connections.
“Can you see what the hell you’re doing?”
“No. You?”
“I can see the screws with the wires and your fingers are nowhere near them.”
Zeus stared down at his hands.
“You can see that?” he said.
“Here,” said Christian, putting Zeus’s fingers on the contact.
“Thanks.”
“You going blind?”
“I didn’t have my carrots today.”
“Always with a joke.”
“I’m rubbing off on you,” answered Zeus. “You’re making them yourself.”
They pulled eight more charges off the bridge. There were probably more, Zeus thought, but they couldn’t carry them.
There were certainly enough explosives to blow a tank, perhaps two or even three, depending on how they were situated.
The moon poked back through the clouds as they walked, sending silver slivers through the trees.
“What’s the plan?” asked Christian when they reached the fence.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“That’s not a plan,” said Christian.
“I’m going to have to improvise something. We’ll put the charges under a tank, come back, blow it. We don’t need more of a plan than that.”
“What good is blowing one tank?”
“We can get two.”
It did seem like a pathetic gesture — where was the wild man who’d just inhabited Christian?
But it might delay the Chinese even so. They’d think they were under attack. Even a few hours might help the Vietnamese.
“We string the wire as far back as we can, we blow it, and move back here,” said Zeus, sketching the route with his finger in the air. “We go that way. We get as far from the camp as we can, then cross over into Vietnam.”
“That’s a bullshit plan.”
“You got something better?”
“I’m not going to be a martyr for Vietnam.”
“Just wait here.”
Zeus stuck his elbow under the fence, then pushed himself through.
He didn’t bother looking back, crawling on his belly through the weeds.
Something was better than nothing.
What if he blew the entrance to the tunnel? Could he get close enough?
Doubtful.
He could string the explosives together, push them down the air tube.
That might work.
He started crawling in that direction.
“Where are you going?” hissed Christian in the darkness behind him.
Startled, Zeus stopped. “Where are you?”
“Jesus, I’m right here. Two feet away.”
“I thought you were staying back,” said Zeus.
“What’s the plan?”
“I’m not sure yet. There are air vents — ”
“I have an idea,” said Christian.
“Okay.”
“They won’t get very far if we blow up their fuel.”
“Their tanks must be underground.”
&nb
sp; “They have some trucks lined up near the personnel carriers. Didn’t you see them before?”
It was a brilliant, logical, simple plan. But the most amazing thing was that it had come from Christian.
“Show me,” said Zeus.
* * *
They didn’t see the guard walking along the line of tanks until he was less than ten yards away. Fortunately, the man was looking toward the fence line, and Zeus was close enough to the armored personnel carriers to cut between them and hide. Christian followed.
“Guard,” whispered Zeus as he squatted.
“Yeah.”
Zeus waited, chest tight.
They’d take the guard if he came this way. Zeus put the charges down, ready to leap out.
The man didn’t appear. Finally, Zeus leaned forward and looked around the end of the vehicle.
The soldier was gone.
“Stay here,” Zeus told Christian. “I’m going to scout ahead. I want to make sure we won’t be seen”
“Go.”
There was no light in the compound, but the moon was strong enough for him to see fairly well. The row of APCs gave way to tanks. As Zeus reached the back of the second tank, he saw the fuel trucks off to the right. Two were parked next to a pile of bulldozed debris, dirt, tree trunks, and rocks in a long mound. The fence cut toward the mound, running along to the right as far as Zeus could see.
He made his way to the mound, crawling along the side nearest the fence. There were more fuel trucks — a half dozen. Another row behind that.
Blow up one with each charge. Shrapnel from the blast might damage others. In any event, it would slow their advance considerably — the tanks could only go so far without topping off.
How many trucks were there? He lay at the top of the hill, staring.
Two dozen.
What was the ratio the Chinese used? God, that he should know — that was a factor in the game somewhere.
Five tanks to one truck?
Six?
No. Three?
It had to be more than three, or there were more trucks.
He couldn’t think. And what did it matter now? Just blow the damn things up and be done with it.
Voices came to him as the wind shifted. Belatedly, Zeus realized there were men on the far side of the trucks all the way to his right.
He slid closer, trying to see.
Gradually, he realized what they were up to — filling the tankers with fuel from an underground tank.
He slipped back to Christian.
“They’re putting fuel in them now. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Come on.” Zeus shoved the demo packs back into his pockets. “Come on.”
“What do we do after we plant the charges?”
“Go back the same way we came.”
Zeus leapt up, heart pounding in his chest. He was suddenly on an adrenaline high, feeling no pain, completely focused on his mission. He rounded the corner of the APC. The moist jungle air felt heavy in his chest, thick.
Zeus glanced up, trying to gauge how far he was from the pile of debris. As he did, he saw the soldier he’d spotted earlier come out from behind the truck, then look directly at him.
2
CIA headquarters, suburban Virginia
Mara was on her way upstairs to see Peter Lucas when she decided to take a detour to Starbucks. The coffee shop, located on the ground floor of the CIA’s main building at Langley, was reputedly one of the busiest Starbucks in the country. Mara could agree with that — the place was always jammed. She took her place in line.
“Well, speak of the devil and she appears,” said a voice behind her as she debated whether to go for a regular or a latte. She’d moved about two feet in five minutes. “Mara Duncan, I hope you are well.”
Mara turned and saw Jimmy “Grease” Parnel standing with his arms folded in front of his chest. The ceiling lights glared off his bald head, and his round face sported a wide smile. Grease had earned his nickname long ago, when he’d been able to make things happen: “greasing the wheels of progress” as he put it when he deigned to explain where the name had come from.
“Grease,” said Mara. “How are you? I thought you were retired.”
“No kiss?” He offered his cheek. She snorted in derision. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said.
“Ignorance is bliss.”
“I can vouch for that.”
The line shifted. Mara moved with it. Grease took a spot near the back.
Grease was retired — he’d been shot up badly a few years while helping the Philippines government. Grease had spent somewhere over thirty years working in various places in Asia. He’d even been in Malaysia, briefly, when Mara was there, which was how she knew him.
She got her coffee — just a regular — and moved around toward the end of the line. Grease was chatting up two young — and pretty — office workers. Add their ages together, and they’d still come up more than a few years shy of his.
“Ask this one,” he told them, nodding toward Mara. “She’ll tell you.”
“Tell them what?”
“How good I am in bed.”
“He’s good, all right,” said Mara. “Loudest snorer in the bunch.”
“Only after a full meal and extra dessert,” said Grease. “And I don’t mean ice cream.”
The two women exchanged a glance, then did their best to ignore them.
“You’re going to get written up for sexual harassment,” said Mara.
“That’s the beauty of being a contract worker,” said Grease. “I can’t be fired.”
“They can terminate your contract.”
“For flirting? If I knew it was that easy, I would have tried it years ago”
“I wouldn’t elevate what you do to the status of flirting,” countered Mara.
“Be kind.” Grease winked at her. “Hang on for a minute, will you? I have to get my caffeine fix.”
Grease ordered an Americano — a shot of espresso in water, so that it had the flavor of a very strong coffee.
“Reminds me of the coffee machine in the Bangkok office,” he said, putting a top on the cup.
“I doubt that,” said Mara.
“How is Bangkok?”
“Still there, last I saw.”
Grease smiled. They walked out into the hall. “You coming in to see Peter?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m working for him,” said Grease. “Come on.”
They walked past the glassed-in courtyard and across to a staircase, taking it down three flights. That was Grease — pushing seventy, with more replacement parts in him than a used car, and he still preferred what he called “the juice of the dance” to being carried.
He told Mara that he had been called back “to take a look at things” in Vietnam and China.
“A lot going on,” he said as they cleared the second landing and headed for the third. “This Cho Lai — he’s some piece of work.”
“The Chinese were desperate for a strong leader,” said Mara.
“They got that in spades,” said Grease. Downstairs, they passed a security point, then entered a part of the building strongly shielded against eavesdropping equipment. Grease buzzed them through a door into a secure hallway with a series of small offices. These were temporary workplaces, where temporary assignees like Grease could hold conversations and work with sensitive material. He paused in front of an office door.
“You left your cell phone upstairs, right?” asked Grease. “No electronics.”
“I know that.”
“Just checking.”
He smiled, punching the combination into the lock.
“I heard somebody blew your cover,” Grease told Mara inside.
“You know who?”
“Obviously it was the Chinese. Question is how long they’ve known.”
Mara had been wondering that herself. It could very well have been back in Malaysia, given all that had go
ne down there. But there were also problems with the Hanoi station, and Mara strongly suspected a double agent there had passed along the information.
“You think this kills me?” she asked.
“Hell no. You know how many times the Russians figured out who I was? Five or six different incarnations. Nothing stops the Peter Principle,” Grease said. “You’ll rise to your appropriate level of incompetence, I guarantee. You have a long way to go.”
Mara smiled.
“Speaking of Peter,” added Grease. “Before you go up to see him, there’s a company I wanted to ask you about: Maccu Shang Shipping. A Philippine company. Sorry about the cramped space.”
The room was tiny, with a bare desk, a pair of computer terminals, and two steel-and-vinyl chairs. Mara and Grease were sitting almost knee to knee.
“I know Shang,” she told him. “The Philippines is a front. They’re Chinese.”
“You’re positive? The evidence looks a little ambiguous.”
“They’re definitely Chinese.”
“Five ships leased to the company left Macau last night and headed for Zhanjiang. Southern China. Big navy port.”
“See?”
“Turns out some of our friends at the agency that doesn’t exist happened to be tracking an army unit that was just sent there, real fast. Seems like they’re in the port, waiting for something.”
The agency that doesn’t exist was Grease’s quaint way of referring to the NSA, or National Security Agency, which specialized in eavesdropping. His pseudonym came from a popular nickname for the agency, formed from its initials: No Such Agency.
“They’re getting on the ships?” asked Mara.
“Don’t know. I have to check back in. They may be there already. A lot of things to keep tabs on. That one just happened to catch my interest.”
“Shang Shipping brought all sorts of stuff into Malaysia,” said Mara. “A lot of different things.”
“Troops?”
Mara wasn’t sure about that. The Chinese had smuggled some paramilitary and guerillas into the country as advisers, but most of their help to the rebels had been in the form of equipment. The ships had filed manifests that said they were shipping food to Burma — as unlikely an arrangement as Mara had ever heard of.
