by Larry Bond
“Maybe he doesn’t know it.”
“Oh, he knows it. He knows everything.”
Zeus pulled up the statistics panel, checking to see the average length of hostility — the amount of time Blue usually hung in before the game was lost by the computer. It was only three months.
Three months.
China would defeat America in an Asian war in three months.
Without nuclear weapons.
If it were World War II, America would be out of the war by March 1942. No reinforcements for the Soviets, no invasion of Africa, Italy, and then Normandy. No atom bomb on Hiroshima or Nagasaki — Hitler would have gotten the bomb and used it on London after taking Moscow and confining the tattered remains of the Russian army to eastern Siberia.
Maybe he wouldn’t bother using the bomb; he could just starve them out, assuming the U.S. abided by whatever terms the peace treaty with Japan provided. And if the U.S. didn’t, then he’d use it on New York and Washington, D.C., instead. Before turning it on the Japanese.
Correlating simulations to real life was a dangerous and fruitless exercise; the simulations were set up to test different theories and situations. Even if they were supposedly neutral, there was no way to accurately account for all of the variables in real life. Once the shooting started and the fog of war descended, even the best plans usually went out the window.
Still, if real life was even remotely this hopeless, America ought to sue for peace right now.
What would he do if this were real?
Try to get Red to attack the Russians.
“You coming to lunch?” said Rosen.
“Huh?”
“I just asked you twice: Do you want to go get lunch?”
“What we need is a proxy,” said Murphy. He jumped up and walked over to the table. “Someone weak at the beginning of the simulation whom we can build up secretly.”
“Then let Red use as a punching bag?”
“Something like that.”
“Let’s eat.”
“You go. I have to look at the rules.”
“Hell, you’re going to read the rules? I thought you wanted to win.”
9
Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China
Finally, there was nothing left for Josh’s stomach to give up. He rose shakily, furling his fists under his arms.
There were no illusions left for his mind to fool itself with, either. Optimism was absurd. Survival itself might even be out of the question.
Blundering into the village was a mistake, a stupid mistake. Whoever did this could have been waiting. Why did I do it? Do I want to die?
Hell no. I won’t. I won’t.
So do something right. Find a weapon. Find a way out.
If he was going to survive, if he was going to make it through this, he had to act like a scientist. He had to be detached, unemotional, take each step carefully.
Josh alternately scolded and encouraged himself as he searched through the hamlet for things he could use. He told himself to act like a survivor, and a scientist. He went back to each hut, forcing himself to look more thoroughly inside. He didn’t find any more bodies, but he saw more evidence of shootings — blood clotted on the dirt floors, bullet holes. Things he’d missed or ignored earlier — like the broken furniture — were obvious to him now, and told a consistent tale: the hamlet had been attacked, probably massacred, and then hastily cleaned up.
Josh looked for weapons in the huts. He found a pair of hunting knives, and ammunition for a rifle, but not guns. He took the bullets, hoping he might find the gun, and continued his search. It was difficult to be as empirical as he wanted — his fingers trembled just clutching the box of loose shells. But he was calmer than before, more aware of his surroundings and himself.
At some point, he slipped his hand into his pocket and took out the camera that had been in his pants since the night before. He began videoing everything, beginning with the person in the darkness of the empty cottage. At first he narrated what he was doing, giving the date and the rough location. Then he just let the camera record.
After ten minutes, the memory was full. He turned the camera off and put it back into his pocket, continuing to look around the village and the nearby fields.
Maybe there hadn’t been a massacre here — maybe the villager had been killed by someone in the village. That might explain why everyone had fled.
He doubted it was true, but it was a plausible, or at least possible, explanation. Josh continued walking around the village and nearby fields, looking for more evidence.
It wasn’t until he had stared at the upper field for a few minutes that he realized part of it had been turned over, while the one below had not.
Who would work a field in February?
Josh sank slowly to his knees. There were footprints — boots. He traced one of the boot marks with his index finger. It was a man’s boot, about his size, perhaps one or two sizes smaller.
Evidence of what had happened.
He didn’t need it; he’d seen enough.
There was doubt, though. Just one body.
If this were a weather event, he would gather as much data as he possibly could. He would leave nothing to chance.
Josh put his hands into the earth. His heart began throbbing. He pulled the dirt toward him. It resisted. He dug deeper and pulled again.
After his fourth or fifth pull, the dirt came away easily. Sweat ran down the sides of his neck as he worked.
Five minutes after he started digging, Josh’s left hand pushed against something that felt like a stick. He pushed a little more, then scooped upward, removing the dirt but not revealing the object. He took as slow a breath as he could manage, and began to dig again, gently though steadily. He moved the dirt around the object like he thought an archaeologist would, bringing it slowly to the surface.
A thick tree branch.
An old shirt on a stone.
An arm, with fingers rolled into a ball.
Enough.
Josh took out the camera and erased one of the files he had shot the night before, giving himself about a minute and a half more of video time. He panned the area, then closed in on the arm, focusing on the hand.
Done, he replaced the dirt with his foot, eyes closed, tamped it back down, and returned to the village.
10
National Security Situation Room, White House
“Let’s see the video,“ said President Greene.
A screen rose slowly from the middle of the table of the secure situation room. Over in the Pentagon, the Joint Chiefs turned their attention to a similar display at the front of the large secure room there.
A news clip began to play. China’s Premier Cho Lai was speaking to a crowd of over one hundred thousand packed into Tiananmen Square. His face was red, his hand motions emphatic.
His words were translated in English subtitles on the screen. Though literally correct, the translation did not quite catch the nuances of venom and racism.
Greene caught it all. His Chinese was fluent, and he needed no help in deciphering the full implication of Premier Cho Lai’s words. The message could be summed up in one word: war.
Though that was a word the premier never used.
“We must recover the dignity of the Chinese people, sullied too long by those inferior to us, those with despicable agendas, those with goals we cannot share,” declared Cho Lai. The premier paused to listen as the crowd erupted in applause.
Greene shook his head. Despite what his critics and late-night comics sometimes implied, the president wasn’t old enough to have heard Hider’s speeches firsthand, but he knew they sounded something like this.
“You can turn it off. Peter, review the intelligence, please,” Greene told CIA Director Peter Frost.
Frost began speaking, detailing the Chinese buildup as he had earlier for the president and national security adviser. Everyone sitting in on the briefing, both at the Pentagon and at the White House, had h
eard or seen at least some of the intelligence Frost reviewed. Nonetheless, the CIA director’s pithy summary placed the situation in stark relief, and to a person they seemed surprised, and deeply troubled.
“We’re looking at World War III here,” said the chief of staff, Army General Clayton Fisk. “First Vietnam, then the rest of Asia. India — they won’t stop.”
Fisk gets it, thought Greene. Finally.
One American convinced. Another 350 million to go.
“Maybe they take the country in a few months,” said the Air Force chief, Tarn Washington. “Or maybe they get bogged down there like we did in the 1960s. Maybe they don’t even attack. The Chinese have a habit of moving troops to their borders. Look what they did at Myanmar a couple of years ago. They’re bullies, but they don’t actually want to stub their toes, let alone get bloodied.”
“The question is, how can we stop them?” said Admiral Nancy Gilead, the Navy head. “If that’s what we want to do.”
“We can’t,” said Fisk quickly. “We can’t get troops there. And frankly, the American people would never stand for it. Never.”
Secretary of State Theodore “Tad” Knox nodded his head vigorously.
“How long before they invade?” asked Fisk.
“If they invade,” said Washington.
“The analysts’ best consensus is that they’re a week away, maybe two, from being in a position where they can attack,” said Frost. “It’s a guess though.”
“It could be sooner?” asked Fisk.
“Possibly.”
“With all due respect, I have to disagree,” said General Peter Shoemaker. Shoemaker headed the Army. “The Chinese are a notoriously slow-moving army. They could take months getting into position — and a half a year going over the border. Especially in western Vietnam. Their history is against them.”
“They’ve been studying Shock and Awe for years,” said Jackson.
“I’ve studied piano just as long, and I still can’t play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ “ replied Shoemaker.
No one laughed.
Frost continued his briefing. The Vietnamese seemed completely unprepared. Their defenses were situated in the northeastern portion of the country, where China had attacked in the 1970s.
The questions that followed made it clear that even if the U.S. was in a position to stop the invasion, the chiefs would be less than unanimous in support of it. They didn’t want to reward the Chinese, but Greene sensed that they would be only halfheartedly in favor of sanctions. There was more lingering resentment against the Vietnamese than he’d expected. And more admiration of the Chinese.
But he was the one making the decisions.
“I want a military plan to go with UN sanctions, if there’s an invasion,” he told them when the conversation died. “I want something with teeth. I want options.”
“They’re very limited, sir,” said Shoemaker.
“Let’s not decide that before we’ve examined it carefully.”
“Mr. President, stopping China — it’s just not possible,” said Fisk. “If they invade, we can’t stop them. And helping the Vietnamese will only make us look weaker in their eyes.”
“And why should we?” asked Washington. “We don’t owe the Vietnamese anything. Absolutely nothing.”
Washington had lost his father in the Vietnam War. But he spoke for most Americans.
“We don’t owe them anything, that’s true,” said Greene. “But this isn’t about them. We must be prepared for the worst, and we have to do what’s right.”
11
Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China
To Lieutenant Jing Yo, the Chinese army seemed both fitful and petulant, often harsh, and even, at times, maddeningly paranoid. But it could be benevolent and even generous as well — was not the breakfast it was issuing to him this morning an emperor’s feast? Hard-boiled eggs, a large piece of bread, fresh cheese, two apples — a poor man in the countryside could live a week on such a meal.
The cook had apologized that there was no rice. He had done the same the day before — and the day before that, and the week before that. The apology had become a pro forma ritual, repeated every morning. Rice was an incredibly expensive commodity, far too precious to be given to common soldiers in the field — let alone soldiers who’d been assigned to a dangerous mission outside the country and might never return.
Jing Yo couldn’t remember the last time he had had rice, except when visiting Beijing. China without rice — the very notion seemed impossible. And yet it was now a fact of life.
“Lieutenant, you are lingering when there is work to be done,” said Colonel Sun behind him.
Jing Yo rose silently, leaving his half-finished meal on his plate.
“The matter last night?” said the colonel.
“Completed.”
“Good. You believe there are others?”
“Certainly.”
A dozen different regular army companies, most without direct supervision, were operating in the area, securing it or preparing for the mission. The troops had been taught to hate all enemies, but especially the Vietnamese, considered a mongrel race.
Sun frowned. He did not harbor any particular compassion toward the Vietnamese; his concern was only for the operation.
“Further steps?” asked the colonel, in a tone that sounded like a warning.
Jing Yo considered how to answer. There really was no easy way to deal with the problem, short of recalling all of the troops, and that wasn’t going to happen.
“I believe the general’s order will be sufficient,” he said finally.
Sufficient to prevent further massacres? Or to cover up those that had already occurred but not been seen by Sun?
Most likely the latter rather than the former, but Sun did not ask for elaboration.
“Finish here. Then move on,” said the colonel. “I must return to the task force. You deal with division and the staff there as necessary. If there are further problems, report to me.”
Jing Yo bowed his head, and turned to go to work. As he walked down the path from the mess area, he fixed his gaze on the far hill. They held the hill, as well as the one beyond it to the east. There were a few scattered Hmong settlements in the valley, but otherwise no Vietnamese.
At least not alive.
The sun bathed the jungle in bright golden light. Jing Yo followed the path downward, leaning slightly to keep his center of gravity positioned properly. Though not trying to be quiet, he walked so silently by habit that he surprised Sergeant Wu, who was leaning against a tree lighting a cigarette instead of supervising a nearby work detail. Wu, the commando platoon sergeant, wore the look of mild disdain typical of commando noncoms, but otherwise would not have fit the stereotype — he was on the short side, a little heavy. His chin was in need of a shave. Unlike most commandos, he had been born in Shanghai, the son of a relatively well-off father and mother whom he never spoke of or to.
Wu’s service record, on the other hand, was the envy of the regiment; he had been in Malaysia, though not at the same time or place as Jing Yo.
“Sergeant,” said Jing Yo, nodding as he stopped.
“Have a good breakfast, Lieutenant?”
Jing Yo ignored the question, and its implied criticism of the privileges an officer was afforded. The enlisted men were issued only two meals a day — a small roll in the morning, and a bigger one at evening. Sometimes meat was added.
“So, Sergeant Fan is no longer with us?” asked Wu.
“The sergeant had difficulty following orders,” said Jing Yo.
Wu was not a friend of Sergeant Fan’s — in fact, Jing Yo suspected he could not stand the other commando. Another man in his position might have said something flattering to Jing Yo, earning easy points at his enemy’s expense. But Wu was not like that. If anything, Jing Yo suspected his opinion of Fan had changed because of his conflict with his commander.
“Have the things from the science camp been gathered
?” Jing Yo asked.
“They’ve already started to bury them.”
“Bury them?”
“Captain Ching said Colonel Sun wanted his people to get rid of them. I sent Po and Ai Gua down to watch the donkeys and make sure they get it right.”
“Did I tell you to bury them?”
Wu pursed his lips. Shaking his head, Jing Yo started away, jogging a few steps before breaking into a run.
Privates Po and Ai Gua were about a hundred meters away, watching as a pair of regular army soldiers dug a trench on a flat rift in the hill. They had not gotten very far; the dirt was filled with roots and stones. The items from the camp they had overrun the night before, including the clothes the dead men had been wearing, were piled on the other side of the dirt.
“Help me with this,” he told Po and Ai Gua. “Look through the clothes. See if there’s information that will be of use.”
The two privates went to the clothes and began rifling through them. Jing Yo looked at the soldiers who were digging the ditch.
“You’d be better off putting the dirt on that side there,” he said, pointing. “It will be easier for you to push these things in. You won’t have to climb over the rocks and soil.”
The men looked at him as if he had just described the formula for solving binomial equations. They nodded, then went back to work.
Jing Yo walked to the pile of equipment and began looking through it. Colonel Sun had considered salvaging the gear and selling it in Shanghai. But Jing Yo had pointed out that the equipment was bound to be traceable, and if it ever turned up on the world market — something almost sure to happen if it was sold in Shanghai — very possibly their mission would be compromised. The colonel’s face had shaded pale, and he had quickly agreed it should be buried with the rest of the remains from the camp.
There were several boxes of instruments, most of which could be only vaguely identified. The expedition had been gathering soil and vegetation samples, and had placed a number of rain gauges near their camp. The documents on their laptop computers — none protected by passwords — indicated that they were studying changes in the climate and local plant and animal life.
