Empire of the Dragon

by David L. Golemon

  “And why is it you know so much about us?” Anya asked.

  “Because I told him.”

  Sarah heard the voice as well as Anya. The others outside of Professor Lee hadn’t heard a thing. Sarah slapped the side of her head next to her ear. The voice tingled as it traveled through her inner ear to her brain.

  “Did you hear that?” Anya asked as she too shook her head as if to clear it.

  “Ignore it, he’s playing games with you. It seems he’s also angry at you as well as me.”

  Both Anya and Sarah looked over at Lee who stopped slapping at his clothing in an effort to get the sand out, and then looked at them and shrugged.

  “Who’s playing games?” Sarah asked. “And I also noticed you have lost your Chinese accent, Professor.”

  Lee just pointed out of the camp to the north. They saw a small figure walking, no, they thought, the lone person looked as if to be strolling along the flattened sand.

  Sarah and the others saw the dark figure as it approached and then they turned away to look at Lee who was just replacing his glasses. “Lee, who is that?”

  After the question had been voiced, Sarah turned back to the person slowly walking their way. Whoever it was had gone from five hundred yards away to only a few in the time it took to turn away and then back. It was a man in a black sport jacket and white shirt. His shoes were shined, and his glasses were expensive. The small man removed his bowler hat and then half-bowed to the group of five men and women.

  “I am Li Zheng,” the man with the gold rimmed glasses said as he too brushed some sand from his lapels. “I am your host, possibly for the rest of your lives.”

  Professor Lee stepped forward, and just when the rest of the stunned geologists thought the younger man was going to strike out at the older, he instead hugged the strange newcomer. He finished with his greeting and then turned to the others.

  “My father, Master Zheng, he can be a real jerk sometimes.”

  * * *

  Phnom Penh, Cambodia

  The dark-haired man sat at the small table and watched the rain falling on the capital city of Phnom Penh. His blue eyes scanned the streets below as was his habit. His gaze searched out the busy street and decided the safehouse was well out of the way of the Russian embassy. Thus the surveillance of all foreigners was limited to an accidental sighting by forces contrary to his new position in the deep cover operations of the Siberian Group.

  The stout man reached behind him and pulled a silenced Russian manufactured RSh-12 pistol from the waistband of his slacks, before placing it on the table before him. With a gentle nudge, he moved the long cylindrical silencer toward the door, and only then did the man relax. He rubbed the three-day old growth of beard and waited. The wait wasn’t long. There had been eyes on him, but those eyes leaned more toward the friendlier side of the equation.

  He eased his right hand over and cocked the pistol but left it resting on the table’s scratched and filthy top.

  “Come,” he said, his hand never more than a few inches from the deadly weapon.

  The door eased open just a foot. “The cold in the Ukraine is as bad as reported.”

  The man with the black hair shook his head at the dramatics he had to endure. “Those reports are greatly exaggerated,” came his response.

  The door opened wider and the large, rotund man framed the doorway with his bulk. He smiled and stepped into the room. Doctor Leoniv Vassick, a man who rarely, if ever, traveled away from the dark borders of the new Russia, eased into the shabby apartment and removed his fedora. He nodded at his host, who upon seeing the newcomer only hesitantly eased his hand away from the powerful handgun, and then made to stand up but was waved immediately down by the heavyset man.

  “You look tired, my friend,” Vassick said as he turned and closed the door. He came closer and placed the wet hat on the table, covering the weapon the dark-haired man had waiting as a reception for anyone that did not address his opening statement with the ‘key phrase’ password offered at the outset.

  “Traveling in these backward nations is not comparable to the ease we use while traveling in Europe. Here, all ‘round’ eyes are under deep suspicion from the moment they enter.”

  The man removed his overcoat that was still dripping water and tossed it on the filthy bedspread on the fold-up bed. “For me it is quite a bit easier.” He moved to retrieve the only other chair and then placed it across from the man. “I just look them in the eye and they automatically turn away. It’s a quite useful trait and talent. Perhaps it stems from the old days and their natural fear of us.”

  “Perhaps,” the man said, remaining seated as the large man eased onto the rickety chair.

  “All went well in Vietnam?”

  The man was silent, looking at his employer as if evaluating something. “Why have you come?” His blue eyes remained fixed on the heavily jowled man before him. “After all these years, you take a chance on us being seen together?”

  The old man smiled and then shook his head. “Operational planning has changed, along with your orders. Now, you had no problems in Vietnam?”

  The man removed the fedora from its place over the pistol and placed it next to it.

  “Yes, our friend went into the river with more holes in him than he had the day before.”

  “And the other?” The old man had noticed that the hat had been removed from its place over the firearm.

  “He’s being held, awaiting transport to Siberia, as ordered.”

  The older man looked more closely at the long sleeve of the man’s left arm. The blue eyes of the rugged looking man saw this and, with a shake of his head, removed the cufflink and rolled up his sleeve. He extended his forearm. The gray colored eyes saw the small, round bandage and then nodded his head.

  “Good, I see all the bases have been covered, as our American friends would say. Unless our counterparts in Nevada have been watching their electronics closely, we should have been successful in fooling them.” The old man cleared his throat. “Your most challenging test will come sooner than expected, and from another area of interest other than the field mission to Mongolia. Same profile, different mission. I hope your skills are up to the standards we have seen in the past, because they will be tested far beyond what they have been.” He reached into his dress jacket and removed a small electronic pad. “This is everything we have on the personnel you will be encountering with this new direction we are taking. Let’s call it, ‘a target’, or dare I say, ‘targets’, of opportunity. We have made your travel arrangements. You will not be accompanying our military element into Mongolia. What is the old poem, ah, many miles before I sleep.”

  The man picked up the small device and entered his security code. Several pictures with a small dossier appeared in rapid succession for each target.

  “You will have plenty of time to study the details on the flight. This mission has become one with the highest priority. I dare say it may change the world as we know it, the parameters of which are encoded in the mission order. As I said, your past studies will be put to the test.” He reached into his coat pocket one last time and tossed several small items on the table. “Your adjusted passport and travel papers to Hanoi, and then to your final destination.”

  The dark-haired man smirked. “I take it that the mission parameters have changed without authorization from our superiors in Siberia?”

  “Since you were able to secure the tracking device, we’ll call this a target.” He smiled wider. “Or should I say, targets, of opportunity. We cannot pass up this challenge. A strike here will set this Group back decades. We must take the chance. When all is said and done, Siberia will see my reasoning.”

  The old man smiled, stood and then retrieved his hat and coat. “You had better be on your game, old friend. The test is upon you.” The large man eased into his overcoat and then stopped before opening the door. “Our military forces are preparing for immediate operations in Mongolia. The prize there, an important prize to say th
e least, will keep our superiors in Siberia occupied long enough for you and I to change the dynamic of our own Group for fifty years.” He turned for the door. “Good luck, I know the detailed training has prepared you well for changing the world. Dasvidanya, Colonel.”

  The man watched as the head of Russia’s version of Department 5656 left the room. He then eased the second, much smaller pistol from under the table and placed it next to the silenced weapon. He stood, went to the door, listened for a moment, and then turned away and sat once more. He again started going through his mission orders on the small electronic device he had been given. He studied the first photograph in the dossier. His smile grew as he took in the unsmiling features of the man he had studied many times during his training in operations began over fifteen years before.

  The dark-haired man switched off the electronic device and then started cleaning his powerful weapon—the same one he had used to kill his best friend, Captain Carl Everett, just three days before in Laos.

  Colonel Jack Collins smiled as he paused. He would indeed study all of the faces of his many friends while awaiting his ride, and then the longer journey to his final destination. He may very well perish on this change of orders, but it was a risk worth taking. His smile grew in anticipation of possibly eliminating everyone on his list in one fell swoop.

  For the next two hours, he studied the dossiers of the men and women he knew better than any in the world—members of Department 5656, the Event Group.

  * * *

  United States Air Force C-130

  ‘Hercules’, somewhere over the Pacific

  The large interior of the ‘Herky Bird’ was jammed with eight crates of the new ‘Patriot Six’ missile defense system negotiated between the Vietnamese and the U.S. State Department for deployment to Hanoi. They were a replacement for the Russian system that the government was taking offline due to deteriorating relations with Moscow. The Air Force technical support element, for its installation, lined the aircraft’s interior walls as most slept. All, with the exception of two.

  “Here we go, Master Chief. We have the location pinned down to the square inch.”

  Master Chief Jenks leaned over in the canvas covered, uncomfortable seat, and looked at the locator icon that appeared on the Europa link Major Will Mendenhall was holding.

  “I’m thrilled beyond all imagination.”

  “You need to temper that enthusiasm, Master Chief,” Will said as he turned off the portable Europa link he had been issued. As for Jenks, he just leaned back in his seat and placed the Air Force issued baseball cap over his eyes.

  Jenks reached down and grabbed the area between his legs. “Temper this, Major Fuck-head.”

  Mendenhall smiled and shook his head. It was always pleasurable traveling with the Group’s newest engineer. “Bad memories of this place, Master Chief?”

  “No, it was all dancing in the mountains with Julie Andrews singing Kumbaya type memories,” he said without removing the cap covering his eyes.

  Will decided he couldn’t push the Master Chief on the subject of Vietnam too far. He knew Jenks had two tours under his belt as a navy SEAL, beginning at age nineteen in 1970. He had been in on the Son Tay raid as a kid in that same first year of 1970. That raid was code named Operation Ivory Coast and was a mission conducted by United States Special Operations Forces and other American military elements, to rescue U.S. Prisoners of War during the Vietnam conflict. It turned out to be a highly successful operation. There was only one problem with the plan—the prisoners of war had been moved a few days before their rescuers had arrived. Other than that, Mendenhall knew Jenks had lost many pals during the evacuation of Saigon in 1975. It was soon afterward that the Master Chief was done with killing for King and Country and went into engineering, where he proved to be one of the brightest men in the field.

  Will was just leaning back to close his own eyes when a small chirp sounded. Even Master Chief Jenks roused and looked at the Europa link as it chimed a message. Mendenhall placed the small laptop on his legs and opened it. He read the flash encoded message from Europa and Niles Compton in Nevada, as relayed through the supercomputer to their KH-11 satellite, Boris and Natasha.

  “Well, Army, what in the hell do they want now, to send me to hell to rescue the devil?” Jenks snickered at his own snide question.

  Will’s eyebrows rose. “No, change of plan. You are to meet our contact in Hanoi.”

  “What about Toad?” the Master Chief asked, referring to his nickname for Everett, that he earned in SEAL training for his ability to jump at the softest of explosions.

  “It says other arrangements have been made for the Captain’s recovery and debrief.” He read on silently. Again, his brows rose, and a worried look crossed his features.

  “Look, just say it, don’t tease me like a damn cheap hooker in downtown Bangkok.”

  Mendenhall closed the laptop and then fixed Jenks with his ever-present worried look. “It seems Jack and Carl aren’t the only ones having trouble with their transponders. Sarah, Anya, Doc Ellenshaw, and Ryan’s location and health monitors just went offline. Our orders have been changed. You are to meet your contacts and then head out to Mongolia. The director has warned us that NSA has confirmed that area of the Gobi is receiving a lot of attention from many different players. Our Russian friends are among them.”

  Jenks finally removed the Air Force cap and sat up. “The hell you say?”

  “The Director says to watch your asses after you meet up with these mysterious contacts. He and Virginia believe that Russian Black Group is making some sort of play here. Now we have the Chinese sitting up and taking notice. Damn, I wish I was going with you. I want a shot at those assholes from Siberia. I guess I was lucky enough to travel with you this far. The Director expects me back in twenty-four hours.”

  The old and angry look crossed Jenks’ hard features as he stood and retrieved his travel bag from under the seat and started rummaging through it. He pulled out his own nine-millimeter Glock and then made sure his extra clips were inside the bag before sitting again.

  “Well, I’ll shoot one of them for you, how’s that? Those murderous sons of bitches are about to see how the U.S. Navy likes to play the game. Tell that goddamn Air Force puke pilot to goose those damn engines and get me to Hanoi. It’s about time we settle up with those Russian bastards!”

  The C-130 made a steep bank as the first United States Air Force transport plane since the Vietnam-era prisoner of war exchange, which happened over forty years before, started its landing procedures to bring Americans down into the heart of Vietnam.

  The United States was back in South East Asia one more time to do harm to an enemy.

  * * *

  District Four, thirty miles Northwest

  of Ho Chi Minh City

  Doctor Hùng Quoc Vương was just returning from his small kitchen, with a hot bowl of rice and chicken broth, when he saw his new charge standing next to the rickety cot trying to pull a blue denim shirt over his bandages. He hurriedly placed the bowl down and ran to the large man just as he lost his balance and fell back, half on, half off the bed.

  A solid stream of Vietnamese language was hurled at the American for attempting to undo all the medical work that the doctor had done. He tried to push the old doctor’s hands away as he attempted to rise from the cot. He again failed as he fell back. Hùng angrily tore the shirt away and then reached down and pulled Everett’s legs up to rest on the bed.

  “You…Americans are as stubborn…as I…remember you…being,” he said as he admonished his patient. “You have sixteen stitches…holding you…together and one very deep void where a bullet rearranged your…insides.”

  Captain Carl Everett shook his head as he tried to make sense out of just where he was.

  “Where am I?” his eyes fixed on the small frail doctor, “Who are you?”

  “I am…the man…who risks his…life for a very…stupid man.”

  “How did I get here?” Carl asked as
he finally allowed gravity to settle his question on the subject of if he could get up. “I do admit I hurt some.”

  “Another…very…foolish man found you…in the Mekong. He brought…you here.”

  Carl finally felt he could keep his eyes open long enough to evaluate just where he was and study the man before him. “Where is here?”

  “Here…is District Four, Ho Chi Minh City.” The doctor reached down and felt the Captain’s head. “You have…to excuse my English…I have not had…need of it since…1975.”

  “Your English is far better than my Vietnamese.” Carl raised his head, before the small man angrily pushed it back down on the pillow that seemed to have only five or six feathers remaining inside.

  “For now, you need not…use English at all.” The doctor looked around his tiny apartment. “These and…many other walls…have ears. You may be in…friendly territory, but there…are many here who…have long memories.”

  Carl felt helpless. In a rush he raised his left arm up and looked at it. He relaxed when he saw the small bump just under the skin. The new transponder was still there. He felt the doctor push his arm back down and, soon after, a cold cloth was placed on his forehead.

  “Thank you,” Carl said as he allowed his eyes to close.

  “Do not thank…me. It was…an old…friend who…brought you here. He and his family risked all…to save you. Do not waste the…kindness of…very frightened people…and pull those stitches.” The doctor retrieved the bowl of soup. “You have to eat…I have no…intravenous fluids…to give…you.” He fed Carl for the next ten minutes and unbelievably he felt better.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Old…habits,” Hùng said as he removed the bowl and then pulled the thread-thin blanket back up to Everett’s shoulders. “Now…before you lost consciousness, you…claimed a friend…did this…bad thing…to you.”