Shadows of War

by Larry Bond

  Either forgetting his order or seeing an opportunity too good to pass up, Sergeant Wu’s team began firing. The Vietnamese began firing back.

  Jing Yo curled himself around the detonator, wrapping the first lead around the metal post. A memory shot into his head—the last time he had done this under fire, in Malaysia. They’d snuck into an oil dump to sabotage some of the tanks, but had been surprised before the work could be completed. His two companions had been killed; he had escaped unscathed.

  Luck had been his companion that night. Perhaps it would return.

  Jing Yo finished attaching the wire, then unhooked the small hand crank at the side of the device. As he cranked it, he raised his head and peered over the side of the embankment.

  Guns were blazing in earnest now—an armored personnel carrier rounded the curve, heading toward the armored cars. Bullets pinged off its side.

  “Hold your fire!” yelled Jing Yo. “Wu! Stop firing! Stop! Stop!”

  Wu couldn’t hear him and continued firing. But the bulk of the Vietnamese were moving with the armored car or along the other side of the road, trying to bypass Wu’s position and reach the bridge.

  The APC—it appeared to be a captured American relic—rambled to the first armored car. Rather than continuing past, it pushed it off the roadway. A second APC came up behind it as it succeeded in getting the car off the pavement. It took on the second armored car, pushing it to the right.

  A troop truck appeared behind it. Jing Yo felt his breath starting to get shallow and forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply.

  The first APC approached the truck with the demolitions, aiming to push it out of the way.

  Chin’s body was between it and the truck. The APC ran over it.

  Not yet, Jing Yo told himself.

  It would be best if he could get both APCs—he had to get both of them. But the other was ten meters away.

  No time.

  As the APC’s fender smacked up against the truck’s cab, Jing Yo pressed the detonator.

  Nothing happened.

  Jing Yo’s fingers flew down to the screws. He checked the connections, retightening them. Then he cranked up the charge again. The truck was screeching on the pavement, pushed sideways toward the edge of the road.

  Jing Yo pulled up on the plunger, tugged to make sure it was engaged all the way, then slammed his hand down.

  The truck seemed to implode in a flash of light. A crack and deep rumble followed, the explosion so fierce that the wind first pushed and then sucked at Jing Yo’s body, trying to pull him into the vaporizing truck.

  The explosions and gunfire throughout the battle had steadily eroded Jing Yo’s hearing, but this was so loud it clapped him into hushed silence.

  Caught by surprise, the Vietnamese APCs were heavily damaged. The front of the first, which took most of the force, sheared back in a distorted crumple. The other lost its treads and stopped dead. Maybe a dozen infantrymen had come around the bend behind the two APCs; at least half were killed by the explosion.

  Nothing moved for a moment, not even Jing Yo’s heart. Then there were flashes on the right side of their position—Sergeant Wu and the others had caught sight of a second Vietnamese force off the road, coming up from the rear.

  Wu did not have a perfect angle, and a number of the Vietnamese soldiers were able to push past. They reached the streambed to Jing Yo’s left. His hearing returned with the stutter of a machine gun, which began firing down in the direction of the bridge from his right.

  The tanks were either going to make it to them now, he thought, or they were going to die. It was as simple as that.

  He pressed himself against the side of the streambed below the bridge, trying to think of a way to get the machine gun.

  The gunfire was too heavy for him to move. Dirt replaced the asphalt taste in his mouth as he pushed closer to the earth. He could hear everything now, wails as well as explosions, the cries of disembodied souls fleeing lifeless bones and skin.

  A grenade—Sergeant Wu’s last one—took out the machine gun. Jing Yo heard his men calling to him.

  Now was his chance to retreat. He could run down the streambed, cross over, order everyone back.

  But he had his orders.

  Jing Yo looked around him for his rifle before remembering he’d left it in the truck. He pulled his pistol out, then scrambled up the side of the streambed, deciding he would die on the bridge.

  The ground shook with a heavy thud, then another. A black geyser of dirt rose through the moonlight near the curve.

  The tanks had arrived.

  “Pull back! Pull back to the other side of the bridge!” yelled Jing Yo, his voice hoarse. “The tanks are here. Be careful not to fire at our own men.”

  11

  Northern Vietnam

  Mara’s conversation with Lucas convinced her of two things: One, the Chinese were moving through Vietnam at a lightning pace, so quickly that it would soon be too late to slip out. And two, it was highly unlikely Lucas would be able to put a plan together anytime soon.

  It made absolutely no sense for her to stay in the town, especially if she couldn’t provide any useful information. The only question was where to go.

  Her best choice was Hanoi. Transportation out of the country would be much easier from there; she might even be able to arrange it herself. She would also be in a much better position to do something if Lucas needed her to.

  There was an outside possibility that the scientists, if they weren’t already in Chinese custody, had made their way there as well. So Hanoi was the destination.

  And there was no sense waiting.

  “Let’s see this motorbike,” she told Tom.

  “Two bikes,” he said, starting up the road.

  “I don’t think my friend is going to be up to traveling tonight.”

  “No. I go with you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, yes. You need a guide.”

  “I’m going pretty far.” She didn’t want to tell him where.

  “More reason to come.” He stopped and turned to her. “You go to Hanoi, yes?”

  “Hanoi?”

  He laughed.

  “I was thinking of Ho Chi Minh City,” she lied.

  “Saigon. Better. But first go through Hanoi. I go all the way. I am your guide.”

  Mara started walking, unsure what else to say. Obviously, a guide would be valuable—but why was he volunteering? For excitement? Or because he was some sort of government agent?

  Maybe the villagers hadn’t rallied to her because one of the older men recognized the airplane as belonging to an ancient enemy. Maybe this was a way to get her to Hanoi, and jail, with a minimum of hassle.

  And yet, if that were the case, wouldn’t the uncle have pretended to help her?

  The owner of the motorcycles seemed skeptical, which somehow reassured Mara. Tom convinced him to let them see the bikes, which were parked in a small shed behind his house. The hinges on the door had rusted into nothingness ages ago, and to open it the owner had to grasp the end and pick it up, pivoting it to the side as if it were still connected to the frame.

  A two- or three-year-old Honda sat just beyond the threshold. Moonlight gleamed off the handlebars and glossy gas tank. The owner went to it and wheeled it from the shed.

  “How much does he want?” Mara asked.

  “It’s not that bike,” said Tom.

  The bikes that were for sale—or might be—sat at the back of the shed. These were decidedly older, battered and dirty but not, as far as she could tell, rusted. They were Hondas, though not models she was familiar with from the States, or anywhere else for that matter.

  “These work?” said Mara.

  Not waiting for Tom to translate—her skepticism was evident—the owner seated himself on one of the bikes and kicked at the starter. It started on the second try, oily smoke pumping from the exhaust.

  “It doesn’t have a light,” said Mara.

  “That
one does,” said Tom.

  The owner left the bike running and went to the second. This one took several tries before it coughed to life. It stalled as soon as the owner tried revving the engine, and refused to start again.

  “How much does he want for this one?” Mara asked, pointing at the one that had run.

  “It’s a package deal,” said Tom. “Two or none.”

  “That’s not what he said, Tom.”

  “Your Vietnamese is not very good.”

  “I can ask him myself.”

  She tried, but the owner either didn’t understand what she was saying, or was too busy fiddling with the bike’s engine to pay attention. After a few minutes of coaxing and gentle cursing, the bike revved to life.

  “Good Honda, yes?” said the owner, a broad smile on his face.

  “Does the light work?”

  Tom translated, and the owner flicked it on. The beam grew stronger and weaker in rough sync with the uneven engine.

  “How much?” asked Mara.

  The two men began negotiating in Vietnamese. Finally Tom turned to her and said, “He’ll rent both for two hundred American.”

  “I want to buy. And just one.”

  “He won’t sell. Rent.”

  “Tell him it’s unlikely I’ll be back.”

  “He’s not going to sell.”

  “Tell him. Tell him the Chinese are coming.”

  “He won’t believe that.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Tom turned back to the owner and began explaining that she wouldn’t be able to get back—or at least Mara thought that’s what he was saying; she couldn’t keep up with the words as they flew back and forth.

  “He will rent both for one seventy-five. Last offer.”

  “I want to buy them,” Mara insisted.

  “Not going to happen.” He smiled, obviously proud that he knew an appropriate piece of American slang.

  “I just want one.”

  “If I come with you, I can find someone to drive the motorcycle back,” said Tom. “This is cheaper than buying, no? And you need a guide.”

  “All right,” said Mara finally. “I need to go back to the village to get the money.”

  She didn’t have that much cash, but figured she could borrow it from Kieu. Tom, nearly ecstatic, began negotiating for gasoline. His tone was even more enthusiastic than before, and the two men appeared close to arguing before Mara finally cut them off.

  “We’ll take his price, his last price,” she said. “I don’t want to be here all night.”

  Kieu was sleeping soundly when she returned. Mara felt guilty as she went through his pants, now folded and placed carefully on his shoes at the side of the bed. The money she’d given him earlier was clipped in a wedge in his hip pocket, apparently untouched by the man looking after him, though Mara guessed it was more money than he would see in a year. His honesty made her feel even more guilty, and after counting out the bills—along with a little extra to help her get to Hanoi—she decided she would write out an IOU to make it clear that she intended to return the cash. The only paper she could find was the credit card receipt for the fuel; she tucked it into the wedge of bills and pushed it back into his pocket, folding the clothes at the edge of the bed.

  “Someone will be back for you, if it’s not me,” she told him, though he hadn’t stirred. “We’ll pay for the plane.”

  She saw the village doctor standing by the door as she tiptoed out.

  “I’m going to pay him back,” she said. “I gave him the money in the first place.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “How long before he can travel?” she said, ignoring his stern look of disapproval.

  “Four or five days. The pain will be greatest tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be back,” said Mara, but her cracking voice didn’t even convince herself.

  12

  Bangkok

  Peter Lucas massaged his forehead, trying to rub away the fatigue.

  “You think this guy is real?” he asked DeBiase.

  “There is a MacArthur on the team. Who would go to the trouble of faking this?”

  “The Chinese maybe. The Vietnamese.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The satellite phone number belongs to the team.”

  “Somebody could have found it. The Chinese.”

  “What would they have to gain by this?”

  “Yeah.”

  Still, Lucas didn’t like it. It was too enticing somehow, a big prize that had dropped into his lap.

  Or maybe a prize. The guy could easily be dead by now.

  “Best way to find out is to try calling the number,” said DeBiase. “It will go through our system, bypassing the jammed satellite. You have nothing to lose.”

  The Chinese wouldn’t be able to jam the incoming call, but because Josh was using a commercial phone, the call could not be encrypted. If the Chinese happened to pick up the frequency—not a certainty, but a definite possibility—they’d hear everything.

  But there was no other alternative—what the scientist had said was too enticing to pass up.

  “Let’s give it a try,” Lucas told DeBiase. Then he leaned back against the console, waiting.

  A thousand miles away in Vietnam, Josh McArthur had come to the end of his energy. Embedded in his small hollow near the side of the road, he stopped fighting fatigue and let his eyes close.

  His mind began drifting. Different thoughts floated through his consciousness. Suddenly he was talking to his uncle, explaining what was going on.

  Except it wasn’t his uncle. And he was no longer dreaming.

  “Everyone at the science camp was killed?” said the voice.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Peter. My name is Peter. You’re sure of what you saw?”

  “Everyone was killed. And in the village.”

  “Could you find the village on a map?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t want you to tell me where it is,” added the voice quickly. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” Josh had only a rough idea now anyway. “I have video.”

  “Video?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.”

  Was he sleeping? Josh realized he was awake—truly awake. The phone had rung and he’d answered it still mostly asleep, with his brain working on automatic.

  They’re going to rescue me. This is real.

  He pushed out of his niche, standing on the road. The air seemed cool.

  “Can you get me out of here?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Yeah. We will. It’s not going to be easy.”

  “I know that. Are you going to get me out?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. For the time being, stay where you are.”

  That’s impossible, thought Josh. But he didn’t want to disappoint the man, who might be his only chance for help.

  Lucas rubbed his eyes as he looked at the map, pinpointing Josh MacArthur’s location with the help of the data DeBiase had gotten from the satellite. It was about ten kilometers from the science camp, very close to the Chinese border.

  Very, very close.

  Where was Mara?

  Eighty-five kilometers away.

  Far, even if the country wasn’t at war. And she’d have to cross into the area under Chinese control.

  He couldn’t send just her. He’d need more people, a full team.

  The hostage rescue unit. Or SEAL Team 2.

  Either way, he needed his boss to sign off. But he would. This was big—a video of atrocities, an eyewitness.

  “Josh, are you still with me?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “I need you to—” Lucas stopped short. He was on an open line; he couldn’t say anything.

  Probably the Chinese weren’t listening. They had so much else to do.

  “What do you need?” asked Josh.

  “I need yo
u to … I need you to hide for a while.”

  “I am hiding. When are you going to get me?”

  “Can we play it by ear?” Lucas asked. “I have a few—”

  “No. I want to get out of here.”

  “We’ll get you out.” Lucas winced, remembering he’d said the same thing to Mara a short while before. “I just need time to work out the details.”

  “How long?”

  “It will take a while. At least a day.”

  “A day?”

  “Maybe even longer.” He had to be honest. “A few days. Can you make it?”

  Josh didn’t answer at first. When he did, he sounded resigned. Not distraught, just resigned. “I can last a few days. Longer if I have to.”

  “Just a few days. I’ll call you back.”

  “When?”

  Lucas bit his lip, trying to think what to say, and worried that he had already given away too much. He didn’t want to make it obvious that he knew the Chinese were blocking calls. He also didn’t want to give a specific time, which would make it easier to intercept his transmission.

  Or even jam it, if they figured out how he was able to get around their gear.

  “I’m moving around,” he told Josh finally. “I’m hard to get. But I can call you. At noon, I’ll call you.”

  “Noon tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Can you make it until then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  “All right then,” said Lucas. “I’m going to hang up.”

  But Josh MacArthur had already killed the line.

  13

  Washington, D.C.

  President Greene began swinging back and forth ever so slightly in the chair, a nervous habit he had picked up as a young pilot. If he cared to, he could probably have recalled the exact moment it started—a preflight briefing before a bombing mission up the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

  The irony would have struck him as extremely amusing—but this was not a moment for either irony or amusement.

  “The Vietnamese aren’t saying anything officially.” Secretary of State Knox paused to rub his chin. He seemed genuinely insulted by the Vietnamese government’s reluctance to acknowledge they were in very deep trouble. “It’s possible that they simply don’t understand what’s going on. It’s all moving very quickly. Very quickly.”