by Larry Bond
Two figures in gray swept across from the right.
Josh’s rifle had slipped from his shoulder as he fell. Before he could grab his pistol, the girl and the soldiers disappeared.
Two more figures crashed through the brush, five yards away.
They were nearly next to each other. Two hands on the gun, he fired quickly, taking both down. Then something else took over—Josh leaped up, ran, and without thinking about what he was doing, fired point-blank into the skulls of both fallen soldiers. He swept down, grabbed their rifles, pulling them off the fallen men. He pushed over the bodies, grabbed clips—big banana-style clips. He dropped the pistol—the clip was empty—and left the rifle he’d been using, walking in the direction the other soldiers had taken, moving slowly and as quietly as he could, all of his attention focused on following them. No stray thought, no emotion or feeling, interfered with his eyes or ears.
She will go toward the fire, and they will follow her.
Josh veered left. He began moving sideways, keeping his eyes focused on the direction they had gone, but still moving toward the fire. After five or six yards he stopped and listened—he could hear sounds but not make them out.
The fire was a red glow directly in front of him, thirty yards away.
The girl screamed.
Josh resisted the urge to charge ahead. He walked even slower, sifting through the trees, drifting there as if a leaf being pushed by the gentlest of breezes.
The two soldiers were smacking the girl’s face.
Josh brought one of the rifles up and aimed. But at this range, in the dark, with a gun he’d never fired before, he worried that he wasn’t a good enough shot to ensure he’d hit just the soldier, not the girl.
He started to sift closer.
One of the men grabbed her from behind and began shaking her.
Do not charge them. Wait. Move forward.
One step, two steps.
The other man yelled something, angry. He looked in Josh’s direction.
He’d heard something.
The soldier holding the girl threw her down.
Now!
The gun was set on full automatic. Josh emptied the clip in a quick sweep. Out of bullets, he threw the gun down, grabbed the other off his shoulder left-handed, the trigger wrong, everything wrong except what he was doing, except what he had to do.
One of the soldiers was down. The other staggered to his right.
The rifle jumped in Josh’s hand. Some of the bullets went wild. The rest did their work.
The girl was still lying on the ground, dazed, when Josh reached her, sliding on his knee next to her side.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Okay, okay.”
She looked at him, big eyes, no voice.
“Did they shoot you?”
She blinked. There was no blood on her that he could see, no wounds.
“Come on,” he said, jumping up. He went to the soldiers, took a pistol, as many mags as he could stuff in his pocket and beltline. His heart was pounding.
The girl was still on the ground.
“We go! We go!” he told her, running back.
He reached down and grabbed her shirt. She winced, injured somewhere he couldn’t see.
“Come on, we go, we go,” he told her.
He lifted her to her feet. She wasn’t crying, but she was more than scared.
“Up, we go,” he said, and he bent down and levered her up onto his shoulder before turning and starting off in the forest, away from the fire and dead soldiers.
~ * ~
10
Northern Vietnam
Of all the unmanned aircraft and drones the U.S. military operated, “Gumdrop” was arguably the strangest looking. Roughly the size of an executive’s desk, it had a sharply faceted body and two wing surfaces, located almost on top of each other biplane-style, about a third of the way from the nose. The wings changed shape, thanks to gas-filled bladders inside them. It couldn’t go very fast, largely because its engine was so small, but the wing arrangement made it extremely maneuverable.
The small engine was a handicap in another way—it could handle only a limited payload, especially when taking off from the ground. Because of this, on many missions, Gumdrop was launched from the wing of a larger aircraft, generally a C-130.
The engine had been specified to keep the aircraft’s infrared signal as small as possible. Indeed, the signature was said to be smaller than a Bic lighter at one hundred yards.
The facets in the body, along with radar-absorbing coating, made its radar profile even smaller. The Air Force officer who had first briefed Mara on the aircraft’s capabilities—a captain with horrible skin and even worse salami-breath—had bragged that it was smaller than a mosquito at three miles.
Mara didn’t care particularly about its radar or infrared profiles, except for the fact that they allowed the aircraft to deliver packages under the most stressed circumstances. She had received several in Malaysia, including one delivered to the top of a burning building surrounded by rebel forces.
By comparison, the drop to the field at Nam Det was child’s play.
Nam Det and the small village where she had taken Kieu appeared to have been abandoned. The house where she’d left the injured pilot was empty, the only evidence that he had been there the missing sheets on the bed.
Mara checked her watch. It was five minutes to two. Gumdrop was supposed to arrive exactly on the hour. Rolling up her skirt and holding it against her thighs, she trotted along the edge of the old runway, taking one last look in the ditch to make sure there was no one there. Then she jogged onto the edge of the field. Unfurling the skirt, she counted off her steps until she found the center; she then walked from there to the end and counted off three long steps before looking up at the sky.
Gumdrop—its official designation was R26A Unmanned Drone/Replenishment Profile, or UMDRP—was already descending overhead, coming down through ten thousand feet in a gradually tightening spiral. As it passed ten thousand feet, its remote pilot, sitting in a bunker in Utah, reoriented his long-range infrared sensors to look for heat sources on the ground. The computer assisting him immediately spotted Mara, informing him that a single subject was standing precisely .012 meters from the target area. The pilot continued scanning the screen, observing the nearby jungle to make sure there was no one else waiting nearby.
The computer spotted Mara’s truck, identifying it as a Chinese version of the venerable ZiL, a Russian design older than not only the pilot, but his father. The pilot had been told about the truck, but though it served as an additional recognition point, the Air Force lieutenant was under orders not to take anything for granted on this mission. So he reached with his right hand to a panel above his flight controls and hit one of the presets on the infrared control screen. This initiated a face-recognition routine that compared the infrared portrait of Mara’s upturned face to images stored in the unit’s library. In Mara’s case, the library was particularly rich; besides the standard reference image prepared by the CIA for all of its paramilitary and field officers, there were two dozen training images and nineteen different “mission references,” the term used to describe images that had been made and stored during previous operations.
Had the pilot cared to, he could have examined the images personally, noting perhaps that while Mara had recently gained a few pounds, her weight was still down significantly from the training period eighteen months ago. But with a long night ahead of him, the pilot followed standard procedure, taking the computer’s word for the final confirmation. He pressed his mike button and told his mission controller that he was on final approach for the drop.
Several thousand miles away in northwestern Vietnam, Mara strained to see the UAV above her. Its black paint and small shape made it hard to pick out in the night sky, and the engine was so quiet that on most drops the first indication that it was overhead was the sound of the parachute deploying.
Tonight, Mara thought she saw a dark shadow sailing overhea
d. Sure enough, a second later she heard the distinctive fuuu-lumpk as the drop chute opened.
To increase accuracy and reduce the chance of last-minute winds taking the dufflebag-size package off course, the package was dropped close to the ground using a chute that allowed a relatively quick descent. On one of her first missions, Mara had made the mistake of running toward it as it fell and nearly gotten knocked out when it came down on her head. Now she knew better. She tensed, waiting as it sailed a few feet away. Only when she heard the whoosh of air rushing from the landing cushion did she trot forward to retrieve it.
The first thing she did was swap one of the new batteries into her satellite phone. Then she slung the shoulder pistol holster across her chest, situating the military-style Beretta inside. An AK-47 with a folding metal stock sat at the bottom of the case; she took it out, inserted one of the magazines, and made sure it was ready to fire.
Imagine what Sister Jean would have done with that. No boy would ever have made a face behind her back.
Armed, Mara detached the small parachute, rolling and folding it into a small ball. Tucking it under her arm, she zipped up the bag and carried it to the truck. After activating one of the GPS locators—it sent a signal to a satellite the CIA could use to track her—she took the chute out into the jungle looking for a spot to hide it. She was just wedging it beneath a pair of large rocks when the satellite phone rang; it was Lucas.
“You have the package?” he asked.
“Just got it.”
“Why didn’t you check in?”
“God, Peter, I was about to.” She pushed the rocks in place, then rolled over another one. “So, do you have our friend’s location yet?”
“Negative. He’s still an hour or so away from the call-in time. In the meantime, your help is on the way. They should be there inside half an hour. You can head west; we’ll have his exact location and a contact procedure next time you check in.”
“Can I trust these guys, Peter?”
“I trust them.”
“Not the same thing.”
“They’re familiar with Nam Det. They’ve done some work out of there in the past.”
“They parachuting or landing?”
“Mara, these are contract guys. They make their own arrangements,” said Lucas. “As far as I’m concerned, if they can get there by flapping their arms, that’s fine.”
“You don’t know?”
“I would assume they’re coming by plane and landing.”
“You know what ass-ume means, don’t you, Peter?”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes tonight, Mara. Especially old ones.”
“Is that how we’re getting out?”
“Not necessarily. We’ll make arrangements. What’s the situation there? How close are the Chinese?”
“Haven’t seen them.”
“Lao Cai is thirty kilometers away. There are reports that they’re shelling it. The thinking is they may attack over the border there, and push south down the Hong River valley. You should avoid that area.”
“You think?”
Lucas didn’t say anything. Mara imagined him grimacing at her sarcasm, probably ready with a comeback but not wanting to use it.
“I’ll be okay, Peter. And thanks for the helpers.”
“Yeah, all right. Check back in when they’re on the ground.”
~ * ~
Besides the gun, batteries, and food, Gumdrop’s package included a handheld computer that doubled as a GPS device, night glasses, and extrastrong bug repellent. But in some ways the most valuable thing in the pack was a paper map of the area.
Mara had learned in Malaysia that paper maps had several advantages over the computerized ones she’d grown up with. They didn’t zap batteries, never crashed, and gave you a much better idea of where you were in a single glance. Scrolling through a small GPS screen made it hard to plan a direct route across the Hong using all of the tiny local roads. The topo maps, which were included in Gumdrop’s package, showed she had at most three different choices if she was going to avoid Lao Cai at the north and Pho Rang at the south. The Chinese weren’t the concern at Pho Rang—the city was bound to be used by the Vietnamese as a rallying point because it sat at the intersection of the largest north-south and east-west highways in the region.
After working her alternatives out on the map, she connected the handheld computer to her sat phone and used it to access the latest satellite and surveillance images posted in a secure online space for her by Bangkok. The most recent photo, an infrared shot by a Global Hawk surveillance aircraft, showed a small concentration of Vietnamese vehicles in the mines south of Lao Cai—mobile reinforcements, according to the analysts’ notes. There were troop trucks parked along Route 151 north of Tang Loong, but it looked like she would have clear sailing south. Reaching 279, she could cross the mountains and go north up 32; at that point, she would have to worry about Chinese troops rather than Vietnamese.
Mara’s plan was still somewhat tentative, and would have to remain so until she had a definite location for the scientist. But her basic idea was to get the truck as close to the area as she could, and then hike in on foot to find him. Once she had him, she would cross back over the lines to wherever Lucas arranged the pickup.
Mara used the computer to read the synopses of the analysts’ predictions about the Chinese assault, then examined the photos one more time before disconnecting and wiping the computer’s memory clean.
She was ready. So where the hell were her “helpers”?
Climbing onto the hood of the truck, Mara put on her night glasses and scanned the night sky. Slightly thicker than prescription sunglasses, which they were modeled to resemble, the glasses had a resolution of 64-721 p/mm, with an adjustable brightness gain over 3000/fL/fL—in layman’s terms, their magnification and night vision were the equivalent of military-issue Gen III night monocles but much smaller, lighter, and easier to use and conceal.
The sky was empty. Mara leaned back against the window of the truck, the AK-47 in her lap, waiting. Twenty minutes later, she finally heard the drone of a small plane approaching.
“About time,” she muttered, slipping to the ground.
The plane was an American-made Cessna, a single-engine Sky wagon. Flying at treetop level, it dropped abruptly onto the runway, charging all the way to the end before slowing just enough to turn around. It trundled back and turned once more, prop still turning. The door on the side of the aircraft opened. Four figures emerged, each hauling a pair of rucks. They ran quickly off the end of the field, hunkering down.
Mara flashed her small LED flashlight: two greens.
Someone on the team flashed a response: three greens. The man closest to the runway rose and circled his arm. The plane’s engine revved and the Cessna shot down the field, airborne in seconds.
As soon as the plane was away, the men rose and began stalking over. Even though they’d just gotten the all-clear signal—and knew that the plane would have been the first target in an ambush—they nonetheless moved across the field with guns ready, scanning back and forth as they came.
All except the last man, who sauntered over as if he were walking down the boardwalk at Atlantic City after hitting a double jackpot.
“Hey, CIA,” said Jimmy Choi. “You must be Mara.”
“You’re Choi?”
“My friends call me Jimmy.”
“What do your enemies call you?”
“Enemies? Enemies all dead.”
Jimmy laughed and stuck out his hand. He was tall, and not just for a Korean. He squeezed her hand; she squeezed back.
“So, you find yourself trouble here, huh?” said Jimmy.
“No. I’m getting somebody out of trouble.”
“Ho-ho. You don’t worry now. Jimmy Choi here. We get you out and gone before you can sneeze.”
“Ah-choo.”
“Ha-ha, funny, funny. This our truck? Good. Get in. I drive.”
“I’ll drive, thank you.”
“No doubt. Who’s who here?”
“Eenie, Meanie, Moe,” said Jimmy.
“Ha-ha.”
Jimmy laughed, but it turned out that two of the mercenaries were named Meanie and Moe. Meanie was a short but unusually wide Korean, whose right cheek was intersected by a thick and jagged scar. Moe looked to be a Russian or maybe a Mongol. Neither man said anything when they were introduced, nor did they add their full or real names, which was just as well—Mara really didn’t need to know.
The last mercenary was an American, though Mara wouldn’t have known for certain had Jimmy not told her he was a countryman. His name was Jeb and he had a chiseled light brown face that made him look even thinner than he was. He had an East Coast accent.
