Shadows of War - [Red Dragon Rising 01]

by Larry Bond

  That was the end of the conversation.

  While the holes on the runway had been patched, the damage to the airport was considerable. There were still fires burning as the jet prepared to land, and much of Zeus’s view of the city and nearby countryside was obscured by coils of thick black smoke. The landing was so bumpy he was sure they were going to crash.

  A Vietnamese army captain met them on the tarmac. The officer’s low rank could have been interpreted as a snub, but Perry took it in stride. Nor did he balk at riding in the open jeep waiting for him.

  Except for Captain Ford—Perry’s personal bodyguard and the head of the security detail—the rest of the small delegation had to follow in a bus. Christian started grumbling about the lack of proper protocol as soon as they were moving. Zeus was more concerned by the amount of damage he saw as they headed toward the city.

  When most people thought of the damage wrought by a bombing, they tended to think in absolutes—whole cities or at least swaths of them wiped out. Images from history, especially World War II, reinforced this notion; the mind tended to remember the images of block after block of rubble.

  But the reality of modern warfare was somewhat different. Smart weapons such as laser- and GPS-guided missiles were more discreet than the free-falling bombs dropped by B-17’s during World War II. The destruction they wrought, especially in the early stages of a conflict, tended to be confined to specific places, and generally these were military targets.

  When planners talked about this, they tended to focus on how desirable it was to limit collateral damage. Civilians, they would say, were not the targets and should be spared. The main lesson of World War II—that there are no real noncombatants in a war—was an inconvenient and irrelevant point.

  Zeus looked at the matter differently. Waging a war was like running a budget. Missiles, GPS bombs, even unguided iron bombs, were all very expensive. The side that got the most bang for its buck—pun only partially intended—usually won. So you didn’t waste your weapons destroying apartment buildings, or killing civilians for that matter. You used them on high-value targets, targets that played a direct role in your enemy’s ability to wage war.

  The airport runways were an example, as were its fuel farms and the hangars where its military aircraft were stored. All had been hit. So had the small industrial parks just outside the airport, which was where most of the fires were still raging. These were of lesser immediate value, especially since few if any made anything related to the military.

  But to attack the hotels and apartment buildings lining the highway to Hanoi? Building after building had been torn in half. Some looked as if they had been bitten by a large monster; others were little more than rubble. They hadn’t been accidentally targeted, either; too many were in ruins for that.

  This told Zeus two things about the men running the war: (1) they were absolutely ruthless, probably determined to kill as many Vietnamese as possible and scare the rest, and (2) they had a large amount of resources at their disposal, much more than Zeus had anticipated.

  Much more than the Red Dragon simulation called for. And China was practically unbeatable there.

  Zeus kept his conclusions to himself as they drove through the city. They stopped in front of the Sofitel Metropole Hotel, one of the most famous and oldest of the hotels in the city. It had escaped the bombing unscathed.

  The American ambassador was waiting for General Perry just outside the door, to the evident discomfort of her security detail. There were no Vietnamese army or police, plainclothes or otherwise, nearby. In fact, the entire street seemed deserted, even though it was the middle of the day.

  “General, I’m glad your flight was a good one,” said the ambassador, shaking his hand. “A good decision to land in Hanoi.”

  Ambassador Melanie Behrens was a short woman, barely five feet. A leather pocketbook hung by a strap from her shoulder. She clutched one end of it the way a soldier might hold a gun.

  “Is this where they’re putting us up?” asked the general.

  “No. You’ll stay at the embassy. Most of the government buildings were bombed overnight. They’ve moved some of the operations here.”

  “Shouldn’t they be in bunkers?” asked Christian.

  “All of the important operations are. This is where they wanted to meet.”

  “We’re being tested,” Perry told Zeus before following the ambassador inside.

  Perry’s assessment seemed at least partially true, but as the meeting with the assistant deputy in charge of defense began, Zeus got the impression that the Vietnamese had no expectation that the Americans would really help them. This was probably because their memory of the American Vietnam War was still very fresh, even for the men, like the deputy, who were too young to have experienced it firsthand.

  The deputy, Hai Ba, was roughly the equivalent of an undersecretary of defense. Only a few years older than Zeus, he moved with a stiff and very formal gait. He also spoke English well enough to dispense with a translator, though one remained discreetly behind him during the meeting.

  “We are grateful for your interest,” he told Perry and the others after they were shown into a small conference room on the first floor. “It is a difficult time.”

  “We believe we can help,” said Perry. “The president wants you to know that he is extremely interested in assisting Vietnam at this critical point, and that he wishes to help in any way possible. He told me this himself. Personally.”

  “That is appreciated.”

  The conversation continued like that for a while, until the ambassador interrupted to say that America was ready to make its goodwill tangible. The president was willing to provide real assistance, including military intelligence, if the Vietnamese wanted it.

  “What conditions?” asked the deputy.

  “No conditions,” said Behrens. “None.”

  “A man that was held prisoner by us now wants to become our friend?”

  “In the president’s view, Mr. Deputy, Vietnam is just the first of many states that will be attacked by the Chinese,” said Perry. “He wants to stop the attack here.”

  “It has been a ferocious attack so far,” said Ba.

  “And it’s going to get worse. We have an idea about where the Chinese are going,” added the general. “And we have a plan to stop them.”

  “I see.”

  Hai Ba listened as Perry and the ambassador outlined what other things American aid would mean—and what it wouldn’t mean. No loss of Vietnamese sovereignty, no large formations of American troops on its soil. America would be a guest, a helpful guest, ready to leave when requested.

  And in exchange?

  “In exchange you stop these bastards here, now,” said Perry. “It’s a fair deal for us. A very fair deal.”

  The deputy soon excused himself, presumably to report back to his boss. A succession of army officials joined them for discussions that were basically variations of the one they had had with Ba: generalities, never specifics. Zeus was mostly an observer during these conversations, and an unimportant one at that.

  Not one of the Vietnamese asked what sort of plan the Americans thought would stop the Chinese. Perry mentioned several times that he had brought along “experts” who had studied the Chinese tactical situation; each time the Vietnamese nodded politely before moving on to other subjects.

  Deputy Ba reappeared about two hours later. Zeus noticed for the first time that he was walking with a limp. Looking at his leg, Zeus realized that there was a bandage or a brace on it.

  “The premier would be pleased if you could see him,” Ba said.

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  The jeep and bus were waiting out front.

  “Nothing like treating VIPs in style,” said Christian.

  A police car had been added to the convoy. Its siren rebounded off the buildings as they sped through the center of town. Whole blocks had been wiped out, reduced to nothing but rubble, while the next street appeared comple
tely unscathed.

  “They’ll get the rest tonight,” said Christian. “Hopefully we’ll be out of here by then.”

  The Vietnamese took them a few miles south of the city, past a suburban section to an area of farms. They passed a large military base, where soldiers were mustering into trucks and armored vehicles; they sped by so fast Zeus didn’t get a good enough look to guesstimate how big the unit was.

  Two miles farther down, they veered off the highway onto a dirt road. It looked like a mistake—the area ahead was an open field. Two motorcycles raced out of nowhere, overtaking them as if they were standing still. Two more appeared, slowing and flanking the military vehicles at the front of the convoy. As the land dipped down, a wall topped by barbed wire came into view. There were warning signs in front of the wall: the area was mined. The wall itself was lined with soldiers and flanked by two tanks, both of them ancient T-54’s.

  Passing through a pair of gates, the convoy swerved slowly in an S pattern around a set of concrete barriers designed to slow a would-be suicide bomber. A second wall, this one much higher and also topped by barbed wire, sat beyond the first. A pair of men held open the gate at its center.

  Zeus counted more than thirty men standing on his side of the road after they passed through the gate. Mobile antiair missiles and guns were positioned around a wide dirt courtyard. A half dozen small, low-slung buildings sat in the middle of the dust.

  The structures were entrances to an underground bunker complex. Far from elaborate, they consisted of large concrete slabs that sheltered wide stairways. These steps, about twice as wide as the bus Perry’s party had taken, ended in a narrow hall that had a passage at the side leading downward. The passage was so narrow only one person could go down at a time.

  A pair of guards waited at the bottom of the ramp. Each one of the Americans was checked for weapons with a detector rod.

  ‘‘Your communication devices will not work here,” Hai Ba told them, watching as the checks were completed. “Just so you know.”

  “Of course,” said Perry.

  “The nonessential members of your party should stay behind,” added the deputy minister, glancing at the four Delta Force sergeants who were part of the security team. Perry told Ford that only officers would accompany him to the meeting. Ford nodded without comment; the order meant that only he would stay with Perry.

  While Perry was still making all of the expected diplomatic noises, Zeus could tell the general was starting to get a little annoyed. This was even more obvious at the next security station, which was down another set of steps. Perry held his arms out with a frown Zeus recognized from their war games; he was probably one bad poke away from losing his patience.

  The ambassador made a joke that the security was almost as bad as going to a Washington Nationals game. Perry didn’t laugh.

  They were led to yet another set of stairs, these much wider. The stairwell had low-energy fluorescents that gave it a pure white glow, almost surrealistic under the circumstances.

  A tall man dressed in a Western-style business suit met them at the base of the stairs. He was the foreign minister, and after greeting them he began talking to Behrens in Vietnamese. Despite the circumstances, both smiled broadly, chatting as they walked down the hall.

  A thin industrial-style carpet covered the floor; the walls and floor of the passage were smooth concrete. A single steel door sat at the far end of the hall. A guard, armed with a Russian-made submachine gun, stood at attention in front of it. He moved to the side as they approached, watching the Americans warily.

  The room behind the door looked like a staff room, dominated by two large tables pushed together. Simple wooden chairs were arranged around them; the chairs were slightly askew, as if a meeting had broken up a short while ago and no one had had a chance to put them back in place. There was nothing on the walls: no maps, no charts, no whiteboards or projection equipment. The only thing breaking the monotony of the dull white concrete was two doors on either side of the room. Both were solid steel, gray and featureless.

  The foreign minister gestured to one side of the table. General Perry and the ambassador took seats at the center. Zeus, Christian, and Candy sat to their left; Perry’s translator and Captain Ford sat to the right. Zeus was closest to the door.

  The foreign minister sat opposite them.

  “Tell me now why you’ve come,” said the foreign minister. His English was not quite as sharp as the deputy defense minister’s, the accent heavy.

  Perry repeated basically the same speech that he had given earlier. He was about halfway through when one of the doors behind them opened.

  The foreign minister rose; the Americans followed his lead. Zeus turned and saw Vietnam’s premier, Lein Thap, shuffling around the side of the room, walking slowly to the Vietnamese side of the table. He was an old man, well past seventy, and his gray hair and stoop made him appear almost ghostlike.

  Perry began recounting his offer, this time beginning with the president’s pledge. Their translator went to work, putting each of Perry’s sentences into Vietnamese. Thap raised his finger after only a few words.

  “Yes, sir?” said the general.

  “I know of your president, and have met him,” said the premier, speaking in Vietnamese. “He was our prisoner during the war.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the general after the words were translated.

  “The United States has been China’s ally for many years now.”

  “America is a trading partner with China,” interjected the ambassador, first in Vietnamese and then in English. “Just as we are partners with Vietnam. We have no defense or aid agreements with the Chinese.”

  The premier let the comment pass. Perry continued, laying out what the U.S. could do, gesturing toward Zeus to say that a series of suggestions had been prepared as well as intelligence.

  “The strategy has been extensively gamed,” added Perry. “We are confident of its success.”

  Zeus winced internally at the exaggeration.

  “What does “gamed” mean?” asked the Vietnamese foreign minister in English. “The translation is. . . difficult.”

  “Tested. By computer,” said Perry.

  The foreign minister leaned close to the premier, whispering the explanation in his ear. If the premier was impressed—or even moved at all—it didn’t show on his face.

  If the Vietnamese turned down U.S. assistance, what would happen next?

  Zeus hadn’t even thought that possible. Surely the Vietnamese wanted help. But as he studied the premier’s expression, he realized that they might not.

  If the Vietnamese were overrun, every other country in Asia would think there was nothing to be gained by opposing the Chinese at all; capitulation would at least spare their people immediate pain.

  And then Zeus realized they might be overrun in any event. What happened then?

  “It is a strong man who can help those who were once his enemy,” said the premier finally He looked at Zeus. “You will speak to General Trung. If he believes he can use your help, he will do so.”

  ~ * ~

  4

  Northwestern Vietnam

  Josh walked behind Mara and Mạ, urging them on as gently as he could, until finally he decided that they were far enough away from the road and possible pursuers that he could lead the way. He slipped between them, carrying Mạ for a few hundred meters before setting her back down and urging her to keep up.

  Pulling Mara away from the burning wreck seemed to have given him new energy. Or maybe it had restored his pride, weakened by the ordeal in the mine shaft. He’d been ready to die there—he hadn’t cared anymore.

  Despair was the one unforgivable sin, he’d always thought; he hadn’t despaired that day long ago when his parents had been murdered. It was the most important lesson he’d gained, a hard-earned one. But now it seemed the line was not precise—one moment of weakness did not eliminate the sum of who he was and what he did. He was a survivor, not a victim,
a man who tried to do something rather than giving up. Even when it had seemed hopeless, he had tried to go out with action rather than lying down. And that was a better, more precise measure of real despair.

  The jungle closed in as they walked, until the vegetation became so thick that the stream was nearly impossible to see. The water gradually turned from a narrow channel perhaps six inches deep to a mushy, widespread marsh marked by a few rocks and dead trees.

  Bugs swarmed thickly over the narrow swamp. Josh had become so used to the insects that usually he barely noticed them, but these swarms were impossible to ignore. They got into his eyes and nose, his mouth when he opened it. Finally, he decided they had no choice but to leave the soggy ground. This wasn’t easy—pushing through the weeds and brush felt like pushing through a foam-filled room. A bush would give way to a thicker bush; a momentary hole would lead to a tree trunk. Once they were away from the worst of the insects, Josh tried to move parallel to the stream, but after a while had to give it up and go where the jungle was thinnest.