by Larry Bond
Which was good for Lucas, unless he somehow ended up as designated scapegoat if things went terribly wrong.
People escaping from the roof of the U.S. embassy would qualify. But so would a lot of other things—most of which they probably couldn’t think of.
“At the rate the Chinese are moving, they’ll reach Lai Chau by nightfall,” said Sara Mai, the deputy national security director for South Asia. She was speaking from a plane, and while the connection was clear, there was a low hum whenever she spoke, the noise-canceling gear not quite successful in cutting out the sound of the engines.
“That’s if they don’t turn east and go to the river,” said the chief of staff, Army General Clayton Fisk. “Which they can also reach by then.”
“We don’t believe they’ll turn east,” said Mai.
“Really? You have data to back that up?”
“We’re working on a theory—”
“Data,” repeated Fisk, using the tone he would have used to browbeat an underling. Lucas always pictured Fisk chewing on a cigar—he had the jowls of a bulldog, and that pretty much described his manner.
“We’re looking at the same intelligence you are,” answered Mai sharply.
Walter Jackson, the national security adviser and Mai’s boss, stepped in to quash the argument before it started.
“Tom, do you have anything new for us?” he said, talking to Thomas Mengzi, the deputy head of the CIA’s Chinese station. Mengzi was sitting in for Michael Dalton, who’d flown to Russia two days before and was still in Moscow.
“Just more of what I said at the top,” Mengzi told Jackson. “The Chinese say they were attacked. They claim there’s plenty of evidence. Rumor has it we caught it on satellite.”
“We do have some images,” said the Air Force analyst. “There were troop trucks. Hard to tell at this moment if they were Vietnamese, though they seem to have come out of the country.”
Has to be a setup, thought Lucas, though he didn’t say it.
“All right. Thank you all for the update,” said Jackson, who as national security adviser had chaired the session. “We’ll reconvene for a fresh update at 2100 Washington time.”
Lucas stayed on the line, waiting for Park to come back.
“You wanted a word, Peter?” asked the DDO, his face flashing on the screen. Either the camera or the technology subtly altered the shape of his face, making it even rounder than it was in person.
“One of my people was in a plane that was shot at by the Chinese air force and forced to land,” said Lucas. “She’s okay. But she’s stranded up near the border.”
“I see.”
“I’d like to take her out.”
“How?”
“I haven’t settled on the exact plan.”
“She? Who is it?”
“Mara Duncan. The PM who was reassigned out of Malaysia. I needed someone clean to contact our Belgian friend. He didn’t show. She went looking for him.”
“The wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I guess it depends on your perspective. She’s the one that first told us the Chinese were definitely over the border. Her information came at least an hour before the satellites picked anything up.”
Park wasn’t impressed. “Where exactly is she?”
“Nam Det. We ran that operation into Xin Jie, China, from there a few months ago.”
Park nodded but said nothing.
“I’m pretty confident we can get an airplane onto the field,” said Lucas when the silence grew too long.
“Not under these circumstances.”
“I can’t leave her there.”
Park didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“All right,” said Lucas finally. “That’s all I have right now.”
The screen blanked. Lucas took a swig from his water, then unlocked the door and went outside to the small lounge area, grabbing a cup of coffee before proceeding down the hall to Secure Room 1, where Jesse DeBiase was coordinating the efforts to wring as much intelligence as possible from the various sponges and stones the CIA had planted throughout Southeast Asia over the past decade.
“How we doing, Million Dollar Man?” asked Lucas.
“We’re doing. Very slowly. Nothing real to report. The Vietnamese still don’t know what the hell’s going on.”
“That’s the assessment there?”
“That’s my assessment. I don’t trust Hanoi. But yes, when you pick through what they said.”
DeBiase knew all about the situation there. He was, in fact, Lucas’s first choice to become the new station chief—though he clearly didn’t want the job.
“And what do our people say?”
“They think the real attack is going to come in the east. Probably that’s the majority view of the government as well. Like I say, they’re so confused they don’t know which way is up.” DeBiase wheeled his seat forward a few inches. “Who’s going for Mara?”
Lucas grimaced, and pulled over a chair.
“We’re leaving her there?” said DeBiase.
“I don’t know what we’re doing. Park doesn’t want us sending anyone into the area.”
“We can’t leave her.”
“Just because she’s a woman, Jesse, doesn’t mean she can’t take care of herself.”
Lucas turned the screen on the computer next to DeBiase, and started paging through the recent communications.
“Seriously, what are we going to do?” asked DeBiase.
“Seriously, I don’t know. I’ve been told we’re not allowed to run any operations in Vietnam.” Lucas kept his eyes fixed on the screen, partly in hopes of reading something that would give him an idea of what precisely he should do.
“Peter, we can’t leave her on her own up there. Her Vietnamese is patchy. She has no equipment. God knows how banged up she is after the plane crash. She was never supposed to be in that area in the first place. If the Chinese find her, she’ll be taken prisoner. The Vietnamese will do the same thing.”
Lucas continued paging through the data, which was an unfiltered hodgepodge of reports, ranging from NSA intercept summaries to second- and thirdhand accounts sent via instant message to CIA officers around the world. The real trick wasn’t getting information—there was tons of it here. It was organizing it into a coherent shape. And the more there was, the harder that became.
“It doesn’t look like they’re heading in her direction,” Lucas said finally. “It looks from this that they’re going directly south.”
“She’s not all that far from Lao Cai.”
“Far enough.”
“Peter, we can’t leave her there.”
“I’ll talk to her,” said Lucas. “Then I’ll figure out how we’ll get her.” “She’s supposed to call in another hour.”
“I don’t want to wait. Call her now.”
“She turned her phone off to conserve the batteries.”
“Sounds like Mara,” said Lucas. “Always thinking ahead.”
~ * ~
8
Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China
Josh crossed over the ridge and walked for at least an hour before taking the satellite phone from his pocket. The delay was an act of will, a test to see if he could withstand temptation—to demonstrate to himself that he had the mental toughness he needed to survive. Because to survive, he could not give in to temptation, and he suspected that there would be many more instances of temptation before he reached safety. So he left the phone in his pocket as he walked south, skirting the edge of the fields he’d seen earlier, moving parallel to the hilltops until finding a dry streambed gouged into the hill.
A cluster of half a dozen houses sat in the lap of two hills between the terraced fields. Josh skirted it, walking deeper into the jungle. He’d have to stay away from the settlements, at least during the day; anyone pursuing him would search there first. With water and a gun, he could wait until nightfall to get food.
He would wait. He would do what he
had to do to survive.
South of the village, surrounded by thick jungle, Josh finally allowed himself to examine the phone. There were no markings on it, but he was convinced it was one of the team’s. It looked exactly like his—so much so that only when his personal ID didn’t unlock it was he sure it wasn’t.
The model was designed so that it wouldn’t turn on unless its owner’s identification code was entered properly. But it came from the factory with a default code. Josh wondered if maybe its owner hadn’t changed it. Most people, he’d heard, didn’t bother.
But what had the code been? He seemed to remember that it had been four similar digits. He tried the 0’s, then 1’s. Neither worked. 2’s, 3’s—he went through all of the digits without unlocking it.
It had to be one of those. Maybe if he took the battery out, the memory would die and the code would reset.
Josh tried it, then hit 0-0-0-0. Again he got a PIN failed message. He tried 1-1-1-1.
“Locked,” flashed on the screen.
He snapped the red Off button, angry.
Stay in control, he told himself. With or without the phone, you’ll get out of here. With or without it.
Sliding the phone into his pocket, he began walking again. It was starting to get dark. He had trouble seeing until he stumbled onto a narrow dirt trail, nearly falling as he pushed past some brush. He took a quick step back, looking left and right to make sure no one was nearby. Not trusting his eyes, he remained motionless a while longer, listening for any sound. Finally satisfied, he turned to the left and began walking along the edge of the path, moving as quietly as he could.
The trail seemed to meander almost without purpose or direction. He began stopping at every turn, peeking forward around a tree or thick bush, sure he was going to spot a village just ahead. But there was nothing.
Gradually, Josh began to relax. He picked up his pace. Finally, perhaps two kilometers after starting on the path, he smelled the faint odor of a fire in the distance. A few minutes later, he smelled food.
I’ll stop here now, he told himself. I’ll find a place to hide until nightfall. Then I’ll go and see what I can find of use in the village.
Food.
He didn’t want to get too close to whatever village the food was being cooked at—if he was too close, his hunger might take over and he would do something stupid. He walked for a good ten minutes before finding a good place to stop, a low niche in an embankment formed by large tree roots along the side of the trail. The shadows would hide him completely, yet he’d still be able to see the trail. He climbed into the spot, a bird stealing another’s nest.
Josh took a sip of water. The sky had been clear; once the moon came out, there would be plenty of light to see by. Sneaking into the village would be easy. Getting inside one of the huts might be a little harder— he’d have to do it without being heard, difficult in their small houses.
Was that what had happened in the village he’d been in? Maybe the Chinese hadn’t killed the people at all—maybe it had been someone as desperate to survive as he was.
No. The entire village had not only been killed; they’d been buried. He knew what he had seen, and he had the proof in his pocket.
Josh arched his back, slipping his hand into his pocket for the satellite phone. He turned it on again, different number combinations running through his head.
As the device powered up, a message flashed briefly on the screen: emergency service only. The phone was set to dial an emergency number, whether its account was open or not.
Yes! But what was it? 7-0-7? 1-1-2?
God, he couldn’t remember. He could picture the session in Tokyo where Dr. Renaldo’s assistant Tracey told them how to use the phones, but he couldn’t remember the number.
God, she was beautiful.
She’d gone only as far as Tokyo. He remembered wishing she was coming; now he was glad she hadn’t.
Josh tried the first combination that came into his head.
CONNECTED.
Connected!
He stared at the phone, not quite believing it. By the time he got it to his ear, the operator was asking what the nature of his call was.
The man had a British-Malaysian accent.
“My name is Josh MacArthur. Dr. Joshua MacArthur,” he said, using the honorific though he had not been given the degree yet, hoping it would make him sound more important. “I am working for the UN. I’m in Vietnam. The Chinese have just invaded across the border. They attacked us. They killed everyone in the expedition. I’m a few kilometers, no more than ten, from the base camp. Maybe less than ten. I don’t know. There was a village nearby. They attacked it. Murdered civilians. I have video. It’s—it’s pretty disgusting.”
Josh stopped speaking. The operator hadn’t said anything, not even “Go on” or “Yes” or “You’re out of your mind .” He listened for a moment, trying to hear breathing on the other side.
“Are you there?” asked Josh.
There was no answer.
“Are you there? I’m with the UN. We need help.”
Josh fought to keep the desperation from his voice, but it was impossible.
“Are you there? Operator? This is an emergency. Operator?”
The phone claimed it was connected, but Josh couldn’t hear anything. It was as if the line had been cut.
Had there really been an operator? Or had he imagined it?
“Hello? Hello?” he repeated. “I’ll hang up and dial again.”
He hesitated, then pressed the red button.
Don’t panic, he told himself. But his fingers trembled as he redialed.
The word connected came on the screen again. But this time, there was no answer from the operator, just more quiet.
“This is Josh MacArthur. I’m with the UN. We’ve been attacked in northwestern Vietnam. We need help. Can you hear me? Hello? Hello? . . .”
There was nothing in response, not even a signal telling him he had misdialed. The line didn’t even seem dead. It was more like a vacuum, sucking sound away: a static-free limbo.
Josh hit the End Call button.
Whom else could he call?
His uncle in Iowa.
He punched in the numbers and hit Send. But this time the phone didn’t connect at all—it was still in emergency mode.
Whatever was going on must be affecting the phones. Dejected, Josh stuck the phone in his pocket and gazed back at the trail, struggling to separate the shadows into those that were real, and those his mind invented.
~ * ~
9
Northern Vietnam
The settlement where Mara and the wounded Vietnamese pilot Kieu had been taken was so small that there were no televisions; the nearest was in the marginally larger Nam Det, about two kilometers up the road. With Kieu resting and seemingly in good care, Mara decided to go there and see if she could get news from the wider world. One of the young men who had carried the stretcher was appointed to be her guide, and they set out just as it was turning dark.
The Vietnamese knew that something serious was happening. They’d seen the MiG overhead and heard the gunfire that had led to the crash and explosion. But they didn’t seem overly curious about the situation. They made no attempt to ask Mara what was going on. She supposed curiosity was not a good characteristic in a dictatorship. Still, she knew no good ever came from closing one’s eyes to trouble, and found herself asking her escort what he thought was going on as they walked to Nam Det.
He didn’t answer. Mara wasn’t sure whether he didn’t understand what she was saying—she was still struggling with the language’s tones and accent—or whether he had been instructed not to say anything. She tried again, a little louder, pretending there was a possibility that he hadn’t heard.
Again he said nothing.
“Am I saying the words wrong?” she said.
“Your pronunciation need work,” said the young man in English.
“You speak English,” replied Mara, also in English.
“We learn in school.”
“So what do you think?”
“Think?”
“About the Chinese attack. Aren’t you curious? Do you think it’s true?”
“If you say those were Chinese planes, why wouldn’t I believe you?” He seemed genuinely surprised that she would think he didn’t.
