Shock of War rdr-3

by Larry Bond

  Zeus nodded. That was the context to see this in — it should have been launched with the attack they’d forestalled.

  Too much fatigue, too much pressure. Zeus sat back in the seat, moving forces around in his head. There was always a danger of overthinking things. A lot of times you gave your enemy too much credit. Hell, he’d done that against Christian during Red Dragon.

  Zeus watched Christian prepare some notes. He had to admit that Christian was holding up far better than he thought he would — that, in fact, Christian had changed over the past few days and had become much stronger, while he had become weaker, or at least felt weaker.

  Zeus’s eyes started to close. The air was fetid down here. He could use a nap, or a walk to the surface.

  A knock on the door stopped the downward drift of his eyelids. Two Vietnamese officers entered the room. They were the staff translators. One was a major, the other a captain.

  “We are ready?” asked the major.

  “Good to go,” said Christian.

  The captain looked blankly at Zeus.

  “Yes, we are ready,” said Zeus. “Can we get some coffee?”

  “There will be tea. Apologies; it is all we have.”

  * * *

  Zeus and Christian rose as the Vietnamese generals and their staff officers came into the room. They reshuffled the chairs, moving around so that the Americans were on the right side of the room. Zeus wasn’t sure if this was a feng shui thing or related to some sort of ritualistic honor he wasn’t aware of.

  Or maybe they just wanted to keep them far from the door.

  General Perry came in, his face grave. He’d gone back to the embassy to talk with Washington; obviously he didn’t like what he’d heard.

  The last person to enter the room was General Minh Trung. Except for the army uniform — which was the plainest available, baggy at the knees and sides, with no ribbons and no insignia — Trung could have looked like one of the Buddhist priests conducting ceremonies in the orientation film Zeus had seen on the way over. He was several inches taller than Zeus, a veritable giant in Vietnam, but thin. His neck and forearms were sinewy; he stood extremely straight, his posture textbook perfect.

  He nodded to Zeus, a smile appearing at the corner of his lips, then took his seat at the head of the table.

  A colonel began the meeting by lowering a screen from the ceiling opposite Trung. One of the other officers opened a laptop on the table and took out a small digital projector. Flashing a situation map on the screen, the colonel gave a brief summary of the situation. He spoke in Vietnamese, stopping every so often to let the translators explain what he was saying. He ended with the sighting of the tanks and the action by the Americans.

  “A most valuable contribution,” said the colonel, looking over at Zeus and Christian. “We are very grateful for all your help.”

  “Several times now,” added Trung. They were the first words he had spoken.

  The Vietnamese colonel turned back to the map. He predicted that the Chinese would launch their assault down the east coast by dawn. He swept his pointer downward, showing the projected path.

  The Vietnamese had arrived at roughly the same conclusion Zeus and Christian had: The attack would come down the coastal road, aimed first at securing Tien Yen, then sweeping southward toward Hai Phong. The tank brigades would be rushed to that area.

  “How do you plan to stop them?” Perry asked.

  The colonel seemed a bit put off by the question, and began answering in Vietnamese even before the translator translated.

  “We will fight with conviction for our homeland,” he said, using English.

  “I know,” said Perry. “But the rounds in the T-55s aren’t going to penetrate the Chinese armor.”

  “We have strategies.”

  “What are they?” asked Christian.

  The Vietnamese were not completely unrealistic, Zeus thought; there must be some reason for their confidence. He took a guess at it.

  “How many Boltoks do you have?” he asked. Turning to Perry, he explained. “Missies. For the tanks.”

  The Boltoks were missiles that could be fired from the T-55’s gun; they would also fit in the 100 mm smoothbores of the ancient SU-100s the Vietnamese had as well. They were relatively expensive missiles, manufactured by Russia. As far as Zeus or anyone else in the States had known until now, Vietnam did not possess any.

  The Vietnamese colonel turned pale as Zeus’s comments were translated. He turned to Trung.

  “The major is, as always, knowledgeable and prescient,” said Trung from the end of the table. “You will understand, Major, that the existence of this weapon is, of course, a state secret.”

  “I do understand,” said Zeus. “But I also have to tell you, they’re not necessarily going to stop the Type 99s. The latest versions can penetrate armor to 850 millimeters. The tanks you’re coming up against are thicker than that.”

  “We will adapt to the realities of the battlefield,” said Trung. “The difficulty is to slow the tanks down. Our forces need time to prepare.” “General, if I might interject,” said Perry. “We can be of most use if we know exactly what the situation is. Not informing us of your weapons is your prerogative, but it does hamper our ability to help you.”

  “An oversight,” said Trung.

  The meeting resumed. The Vietnamese colonel outlined a plan of harassment and delay, hoping to stall the Chinese drive long enough to launch a counterattack. Christian offered a few technical points. Zeus listened silently, taking stock of the Vietnamese. Not telling them about the antitank weapons was counterproductive and petty. More important, though, it indicated that some of the Vietnamese on Trung’s staff didn’t trust them.

  Ridiculous at this point, but there it was.

  The Boltoks alone wouldn’t overcome the Chinese offensive. There were just too many Z99s. After the first blow, the Chinese would adapt their tactics. They’d concentrate on the T-55s if they hadn’t already. In a war of attrition, the Vietnamese would inevitably lose.

  They moved on to the other fronts: the preparation for the amphibious attack, which the Vietnamese now believed would come near Hue if it came at all, and the dagger that was stuck deep in its western side. In both cases the Vietnamese seemed to be optimistic, placing a great deal of faith in the ability of the reserve troops — the older men and women who formed what would be colloquially termed a home guard. The colonel spoke of guerilla attacks against Chinese pickets as if they were major victories. Blowing up a troop truck here and a depot there were certainly good for local morale, but they were pinpricks against the Chinese juggernaut.

  Zeus suggested a spoiling attack against the Chinese before they moved across the swollen water in the west. If placed properly, it might provoke the Chinese into shifting their forces once more away from the offensive. But the Vietnamese didn’t have the troops to pull this off, and the colonel told him that they were quite content with their “defensive posture.”

  The meeting lasted two hours, a relatively short time given the gravity of the situation and the amount that was discussed. Zeus began to look forward to his dinner with Dr. Anway.

  He pictured her again, this time trying to replace the medical clothes with something more attractive.

  “You have done us great service,” said Trung as the session closed. “We are deeply in your debt.”

  Christian grinned like a stuffed pig.

  “Thank you,” said Zeus.

  Trung nodded at Perry, then left. The rest of the Vietnamese officers filed out.

  “What’s up, General?” asked Zeus when they were alone.

  “Trung wants to have a word,” he said. “He wants you and Christian to talk to his troops. It’s voluntary.”

  “Sure.”

  “He also wants to thank you personally. It’s the least he can do,” added Perry, with just the slightest hint of sarcasm. “Good work figuring out what they were thinking.”

  “They don’t trust us, do they?”


  “Not completely. How potent are the missiles?”

  “Depends on how many they have. In the end…”

  Perry nodded.

  “I don’t know that we’re getting outside help,” he told him. “We may be it.”

  Zeus had feared as much.

  “They’ll get their asses kicked,” said Christian.

  “Yes, Win, that does seem likely.”

  “If the goal is to slow them down, they might let them get south a bit before attacking,” said Zeus. “The Chinese stop when they’re surprised — it’s a pattern. They get overconfident, then once they run into something they didn’t expect, they stop and look around. They’re really cautious.”

  “What are you thinking?” asked Perry.

  “Let them get down to Tien Yen. The armor moves quick — they’ll stretch out, the tanks ahead of the infantry units. Just like they did in the west. We make the attack behind the forward units. Hit them really hard.”

  Zeus laid out his plan. They would concede territory initially, and at the end of day, the Chinese would be in control of Tien Yen and possibly farther south. But if things went well, that force would be cut off.

  “But you give up Tien Yen,” said Perry.

  “True.”

  “Why would they stop there?” asked Christian. “If you’re going to hit them, why not get them at the border?”

  “Because they expect resistance at the border, and all the way down to the city. It’s the unexpected that throws them. They don’t adapt quickly. That’s really the key. Their generals are too cautious.”

  “Tell Trung,” said Perry. “And what he’s asking is purely voluntary. You’ve been through enough already. I’d send you home if I could spare you.”

  * * *

  Trung spoke without an interpreter.

  “We are very grateful for your heroic efforts,” he told Zeus and Christian. “You have done much for the Vietnamese people.”

  Zeus bowed his head slightly, in the Vietnamese way.

  “Many of the commanders have heard of your achievements,” continued Trung. “If you were to speak to their troops before the battle, it would be a very good for them. Their bravery would be reinforced.”

  “It would be an honor,” said Christian.

  “Thank you, Major,” said Trung. He turned to Zeus. “Your wounds?”

  “I’m fine,” said Zeus. “Sure, we’ll talk to your men. If it’ll help.”

  “Major Chaū will be your guide,” said Trung, nodding to the senior translator. “He will see to your needs.”

  Trung started to leave.

  “I did have an idea, General,” said Zeus. “A way that you might be able to slow the Chinese down for a while.”

  Trung turned back to him. Their eyes met, as if the older man was studying the younger.

  “Tell me,” said Trung.

  Zeus sketched the strategy. As he spoke, he realized that it implicitly assumed that the Vietnamese were overmatched and desperate — a realistic assumption, though certainly not one that the commander of their forces would want to hear. Trung said nothing. He seemed barely to hear what Zeus said at all.

  But he did, in fact. When Zeus was finished, Trung turned to the translators and spoke in Vietnamese. Chaū nodded.

  “Please, Major Murphy, go with Captain Nuhn to General Tri and explain your idea to him,” said Trung. “Tri is in charge of the corps defending the area. Major Christian, if you would proceed with Major Chaū, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  15

  The White House

  “I’m ready for my daily dose of bad news, Peter,” said President Greene, spotting CIA director Peter Frost as he walked down the hallway. Frost was standing near the wall where visitors typically queued to go into the Oval Office; it was a little too early in the morning for a line, or Frost would have been at its head.

  Greene was on his way to NSC chairman Jackson’s office. He had just come from an early video recording in the Rose Garden for the morning-news programs, with a quick stop in the kitchen for a doughnut and coffee. He’d finished his doughnut; the coffee was about half done.

  “Come with me,” he told Frost.

  “They say you have a lot of appointments this morning,” said Frost apologetically.

  “I do,” said Greene cheerfully. He took a sip of coffee. It was cold, but some days that was the best he could manage. Today was going to be one of those days.

  Walter Jackson’s secretary had not yet arrived for work. Jackson was inside, on the phone.

  “I think he was born with a phone attached to his ear, don’t you?” asked Greene, winking at Frost as he took a seat.

  Jackson’s office was small to begin with, but it was made even tighter by the presence of large bookcases that lined three of its four sides. The shelves overflowed with books, papers, and journals. There was also an old, well-oiled catcher’s mitt, alleged to have belonged to Yogi Berra — an interesting artifact, given that Jackson claimed to be neither a baseball nor a Yankee fan.

  “Arghhh,” said Jackson, hanging up the phone. “Mr. President.”

  “Problem, Mr. Director?”

  Jackson frowned. ‘‘Have you read the morning briefing?”

  “Of course.”

  “The Chinese are preparing a second offensive down the east coast of Vietnam,” said Jackson.

  “I read that,” said Greene. “I also read an assessment that said this was a particularly poor area for them to try to attack through. Very limited road net.”

  “General Perry’s assessment is considerably more pessimistic than the Army’s,” said Jackson.

  “What do you think?” Greene asked Frost.

  “I’d stick with Perry,” said Frost. “The five merchant ships that are mentioned in this morning’s briefing. We’re pretty sure now that they’re heading for Hai Phong. It could be to hook up with the attack down the coast.”

  “The Navy is supposed to check them out,” said Greene.

  “The destroyer is too far away to reach them in time,” said Frost.

  “Why the hell wasn’t I told about that?” said Greene. The coffee shook in his hand — he reached over and put it on the edge of Jackson’s desk.

  “Operational detail,” said Jackson drolly.

  “Your only option may be to blow them out of the water,” said Frost.

  “We can’t do that,” said Greene. “What if we’re wrong?”

  Frost nodded. “I’m just saying, it may be too late to get in there.”

  “Even if the McLane did get close,” said Jackson, “they’re being shadowed by a cruiser and frigate. They might interfere.”

  “I need that damn vote,” said Greene.

  He glanced over at Jackson. The national security director was silent, his expression neutral, but Greene had no trouble reading his mind: You’re not going to get it.

  16

  Northern Vietnam

  General Tri was the army commander responsible for the defense of the three northeastern provinces, including Quàng Ninh, where the Chinese were expected to make their attack. He had moved his headquarters from Bac Giang city to be closer to the expected fight.

  The new command post was in Tien Yen.

  Zeus and his guide flew there in a Mi-24 Hind, a Russian-made helicopter that was half-transport, half-gunship. This particular aircraft was somewhere in the area of thirty or forty years old, and it bore a number of scars, including a set of patches in the side and floor that Zeus imagined covered bullet holes older than he was.

  The exterior of the helicopter was freshly painted in a jungle camouflage scheme. The interior, however, showed its age. Many of the metal surfaces were worn bare and shiny. A pair of simple metal benches had been welded into the center of the hold. These, too, were worn, with silvery spots showing where passengers typically sat. The aircraft smelled of oil and exhaust.

  Captain Nuhn sat next to Zeus for the flight. Outside of headquarters, Nuhn had proved to be a jovia
l guide, friendly and talkative. His English was as good as his jokes were bad. But the Hind was far too loud for a conversation. Zeus spent most of the flight on the bench staring at the floor.

  The helicopter landed in a bulldozed field about three miles south of Tien Yen. Zeus ducked as he stepped out, instinctively flinching as the blades spun overhead. Nuhn came out after him, trotting away from the helicopter with a childish gait, pumping his arms energetically. The Hind’s rotors revved and the helicopter pitched forward, scattering large clods of mud as a farewell.

  “This way, Major!” shouted Nuhn, leading him toward a path at the edge of the bulldozed field.

  General Tri had established his command post in a copse of trees on a hill above the field. The post was remarkably simple.

  Two trucks, both canvas backed and both built before 1960, were parked wedged between the trees at the top of a winding trail. An open-sided tent dominated the small clearing behind them. This was the general’s office, with his staff performing their various functions around a pair of small tables beneath the canopy. A thick set of wires ran across the clearing and up the hill; Zeus guessed there was an antenna or a satellite dish, or more likely both, on the opposite slope. A pair of Honda electric generators were clunking away a few feet from the tent; jerry cans containing their fuel lined the northern edge of the clearing, guarded by a lone soldier. Two other soldiers, both armed with AK-47s, were pulling security duty nearby. A handful of privates, all very young, were standing at the opposite edge of the clearing, near a pile of bicycles.

  General Tri was speaking on a field phone as they approached. While Zeus couldn’t understand what he was saying, Tri’s manner made it clear he was giving orders. His right hand tapped the table as he spoke, unconsciously emphasizing what he was saying. He spoke in sharp, hard tones.

  Nuhn waited at the edge of the table without speaking. The others continued to work over their maps and papers, taking no notice of them. Zeus wasn’t surprised; they undoubtedly had a great deal to do.

  Tri finished his call with an emphatic slap against the table. He slid the phone onto the cradle of its field pack, and said something to Nuhn.