Shadows of War

by Larry Bond

  When she spotted the glow of lights from Noi Bai Airport in the distance, Mara examined her options again. The best might be simply to go there, grab a plane—any plane—and get the hell out.

  She was too bloody for that; she needed new clothes and a bath.

  A long, long bath, in a tub filled with Epsom salts.

  And then?

  She’d be needed here. She couldn’t bug out when there was work to be done.

  Expecting that the airport would be a mustering point for the army as well as the air force, Mara took a right onto the first decent-looking road she came to, heading south. She hadn’t had much to eat back in the village, and on top of the bruises and cuts, she was beginning to feel faint. She wasn’t tired at least—her heart was beating too fast to let her rest.

  There were plenty of houses along the road, and Mara slowed, hoping to see one with a clothesline where she could steal a dress. About a mile after turning off the main highway she came to a shantytown of shacks, each seemingly leaning on the other. She decided it would be the perfect place to “shop.”

  Idling back her engine, Mara eased the bike into the warren of houses, looking down the alleys into the backyards. Rope was strung between the houses for clotheslines, but there were only a few items out; the handful of things she saw that might be close to her size were dresses, and she would have greatly preferred pants. But she was in no position to be too picky, and after leaning the bike against a building across the way, she slipped back through the alley and found a dress and pair of men’s pants that looked as if they would fit.

  She felt guilty about taking the clothes, which were undoubtedly among the family’s few possessions. Her conscience suggested that she leave one of her hundred-dollar bills, but that might be dangerous for the family, since it would inevitably raise questions about where the funds had come from. In the end, she left nothing.

  Mara drove back to the highway, then found a narrow lane that led to a fallow field where she could change. The pants came to her calves, but their pockets gave her a place where she could tuck her satellite phone, money, and ID. She hiked the dress—a bit short and tight at the bosom, though ample at the waist—and folded it beneath her thighs so she could ride the bike more easily. Then she set back out for Hanoi, dumping her pants in a ditch before returning to the highway.

  Two kilometers later, Mara saw a dim red shadow from a flashing police light beyond the next rise. She pulled over, checking her passport, but decided to avoid the checkpoint by going back to the side streets. There were still a few hours before dawn, and it would seem more than a little odd to a Vietnamese policeman that a foreigner was driving when almost no one else was.

  Her first right took her down a street lined with warehouse buildings, all relatively new. Streetlights lit the intersections, hazes of yellow mist wafting around the lights.

  She started to turn left at the first intersection, then pulled back as she caught sight of a line of trucks idling in the road ahead. They looked like troop trucks, but it was dark and she didn’t think it wise to stop or get any closer to find out.

  Mara wound her way through the industrial park into an apartment complex and then an older residential area, going slowly to soften the noise of her engine. She had only the vaguest idea of where she was in the city, and soon became confused enough that she decided she needed to take a break. Making sure she was alone, she pulled off to the side of the road on a quiet street down the hill from an apartment complex.

  Mara decided to check in with Bangkok. She couldn’t call from the Star, and whoever was on the communications desk might also be able to point her in the right direction. She was getting low on gas, and admitting she was lost was better than walking.

  “It’s Mara,” she said as the line connected.

  “This is Peter.”

  “Hey, boss.”

  “I’m glad you checked in. We have a developing situation. That science team—”

  “Fleming?”

  “Somebody else on the team. He’s south of Lao Cai. You think you can get there?”

  “Yeah. No problem. He’s in the city?”

  “No, he’s in the jungle somewhere. We’re working on getting a real fix—we can track his satellite phone, but only when he transmits. How long will it take you?”

  “I have no idea. A day, maybe. I’ll have to find better wheels.”

  Lucas didn’t answer for a moment. Then he asked where she was, surprise in his voice.

  “That’s a good question. I got kind of confused on these side streets—”

  “You’re in Hanoi.”

  “Right. Somewhere west of the center of town, but I don’t—”

  “What the hell are you doing there? Didn’t I tell you to stay where you were?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Bullshit—”

  “You told me you didn’t know when you could get me out. I figured if I’d stayed there, I’d be behind Chinese lines.”

  “Goddamn it.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to give me another assignment. You should have told me.”

  “That’s not the point, Mara.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can get back. There are no checkpoints beyond Vinh Yen. Do these people realize they’re at war?”

  “You’re two hundred friggin’ kilometers from where MacArthur is.”

  “Where is he exactly?”

  “You’re not going back.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, then how do you know he’s two hundred friggin’ kilometers away? Give me the location of the last transmission.”

  “Get yourself to the embassy. Get out.”

  “Like hell. If I go to the embassy, I’m burned for Southeast Asia. Right? The Vietnamese watch the place around the clock. That’s the reason you didn’t use them for this. Correct?”

  “Get your ass to Hanoi.”

  “I’m in Hanoi.”

  “I want you out of the country, Mara. Come back to Bangkok.”

  “Bullshit!” Mara couldn’t help herself. “This is what I’m trained to do, Peter—you want this guy? Fine. I’m here. I’m ready. You have a covert fucking mission, it’s mine. You know I’m good. You know what I’ve done. You know this is for me.”

  “You’re supposed to do what you’re told,” he said, his voice slightly more subdued.

  “You did not tell me to stay put. And even if you had—which you didn’t—if you had, it’s up to the officer in the field to make the final call. Lucas—Peter—you always say you don’t second-guess … . If I were a man, you would not be giving me crap over this, Peter. I know you wouldn’t. You’re treating me like your daughter. And I’m not. I’m a field agent. With experience. Good experience. This is my mission, these scientists.”

  “I don’t think of you as my daughter.”

  “Then why are you giving me crap? Because of Malaysia?”

  “You did fine in Malaysia.”

  “So it’s sex, huh?”

  The words weren’t coming out the way she wanted them to, but she was too mad to get them into the right order.

  “This is what I was trained to do,” she repeated. “Don’t screw me here, Peter.”

  “Damn it, Mara, give me a break.”

  She heard him expel a deep breath, almost a hoarse sigh, as if his whole body were involved in the act of thinking, of making a decision.

  Men always claimed that they didn’t think about an officer’s gender before making a decision on a mission, but Mara and most other women knew that was a crock; it always entered into the equation, whether consciously or not. She was always fighting to overcome the prejudice. Every woman did.

  “I’ll be back in Nam Det by this time tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll need a good location by then.”

  “You’re going to need help. The Chinese are all around him.”

  “So get me help.”

  Before Lucas could reply, the groun
d shook as if in an earthquake. The night flashed white, then red. Mara turned around on the bike and saw flames shooting up from the industrial area she’d driven through just before. Flames popped up in a row to the north. There were more explosions, and then antiaircraft guns and sirens began to sound.

  “Mara?”

  “I’ll have to call you back,” she told Lucas.

  “Mara!”

  “Hanoi’s on fire. It’s being bombed. The whole goddamn city, from the looks of it.”

  Oil Exports Down, Revenue Up in Malaysia

  KUALA LUMPUR, MALAYSIA (World News Service)—While oil exports dropped due to a decline in production at the Sahah off-shore oil fields, income rose by nearly eighty percent last year due to the continuing increase in energy prices, the oil ministry reported today.

  The increase was roughly in line with analysts’ projections. Other oil producers, notably Saudi Arabia and Venezuela, have reported similar increases over the past week.

  UN Begs Fresh Relief Effort in South America

  BUENOS AIRES (World News Service)—UN Secretary General Cyrus Bapoto today called on Western governments to increase funding to aid countries in South America devastated by climate change.

  Bapoto recited now all-too-familiar statistics detailing the devastation of agriculture in South American economies, including the virtual evaporation of Argentina’s beef production.

  Until recently, Argentina accounted for approximately eight percent of world beef exports. A combination of decline in purchasing power of its traditional markets and widespread drought in the Pampa Húmeda region have provided a double whammy to Argentina. The country’s economic crisis is even worse than 1999-2002, with the GDP expected to decline roughly twenty percent this year. The decline comes on top of a fifteen percent decline over the last six months of 2013.

  Non-Rice Paddy Rice Scientists’ Dream

  GIVERNEY, FRANCE (Reuters-Gannet News Service)—Here in the bucolic town that once inspired some of the world’s most beautiful Impressionist painters, a French scientist is working on hybrid plants that he hopes will one day solve the world’s famine crisis.

  His goal: rice that can be grown on dry land.

  Professor Pierre Valois, 52, has already successfully bred several versions of the plant that require only about half the rainfall of the mainstream variants. He cautions, however, that he may be “five or six years” from finding a “waterless rice,” and that it may take ten years beyond that to prepare seeds for farmers in sufficient numbers to make production worthwhile.

  More promising is a salt-water variety, which Valois says can be grown in ocean areas. The crop’s yield so far has been disappointing—merely one-tenth of a normal rice paddy—still, the scientist thinks rice may be grown in sea farms by the beginning of the next decade …

  Chaos

  1

  Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China

  Josh opened his eyes into a gray stillness.

  His chest and legs ached; his hip felt bruised. His neck, stiff from sleep, felt cold.

  It was still dark, at least an hour if not more before dawn.

  Slowly, he pushed himself from his side to his belly, then raised his head and chest. Gripping the pistol, he crawled from his hiding spot and slipped down to the path, rifle in his hand. There he turned around in a slow circle, pausing every few degrees to listen as best as he could to the jungle, trying to detect any sound made by machines.

  When he was sure no one was nearby, Josh went back to the niche where he’d slept and took a drink of water from the soldier’s bottle. He slipped the pistol into his pocket. He did the same with the satellite phone, sliding it next to the video camera in his left pocket.

  The satellite phone’s software lock made it impossible to check the calls-received list. But he knew the call hadn’t been a dream. Someone was going to help him.

  In the meantime, he had to find some food. And a real place to hide.

  Josh decided he would wait for the dawn, but after only a few minutes he found himself walking. It was impossible to stand still, he realized, and maybe even dangerous. When he came to a Y in the path, he turned left, believing it led south.

  The farther south he was, the easier it would be for his rescuers, Josh thought. Here, he was too close to the Chinese border.

  About fifteen minutes after starting, still before light, Josh smelled something burning. Immediately, he felt disappointed, almost depressed—smoke meant the people who lived in whatever village was nearby were awake already, which would make it hard for him to sneak in and find food. But he kept walking, slowing as he neared curves and pausing every so often to listen in case someone was coming.

  The village had been built on the hillside above the path. The trail skirted around it, just at the edge of the jungle, coming no closer than a hundred meters. Josh didn’t realize this until he had gone about halfway around the settlement. He backtracked to a spot where his approach would be hidden by bushes, and began sneaking closer to the hamlet.

  The sun was just about to rise; the trees and bushes in front of him seemed to have turned a light shade of blue, standing out from the gray.

  The scent of tea wafted down the hill. Josh’s stomach began to rumble.

  He was incredibly hungry. Should he show himself?

  Josh heard voices. He lowered himself to his knees, trying to see who was talking. When he found he couldn’t, he began moving up the hill again, this time crawling on his hands and knees. He heard the light singsong of voices, but saw nothing until he came to a low fence or wall made of logs stacked two high and laid out on the edge of the slope.

  Something moved just beyond the fence, shadows, people.

  Men in uniform.

  He stared through the trees. He could see only their legs, but he was convinced they were Chinese.

  Josh began moving backward. Each sound he made seemed to echo around him, and with each push he thought the soldiers would finally hear him and rush down the hill to kill him.

  Finally, he reached the trail again. He took a small sip of water and considered what to do.

  Part of him wanted to go back and kill as many of the bastards as possible. The emotion, his anger, surprised him. He wasn’t sure where it came from. He should be afraid, petrified.

  He was afraid. But he also wanted revenge. And maybe just to stop the ordeal.

  Going back was suicide, and he wasn’t ready for that. He didn’t need it—he was getting out. And he was going to help the world fight these bastards.

  He started walking again, quietly but quickly, aiming to get around the village and away from the troops as soon as he could. After a few steps, he realized the sun was coming up over his right shoulder: he was headed north.

  Josh changed course, heading back toward the split in the path he’d taken earlier.

  2

  Near Hanoi

  A wave of missiles hit the north side of Hanoi just as Mara got the motorcycle started. The explosions were no closer than a mile away, but they shook the ground so fiercely that Mara nearly lost control of the bike.

  A bright meteor flew overhead—the tail end of a malfunctioning missile arcing in the direction of the old city. Antiaircraft batteries north and east of the city began to fire. Geysers of yellow smoke shot up a few hundred yards ahead, foaming across the sky. A black streak passed through the top of the cloud, then several more; explosions shook the ground.

  Ten minutes before, no one in the city seemed to be awake. Now everyone was up and running into the streets. Mara turned onto an avenue flanked by five- and six-story apartment buildings and found herself surrounded by people, many in their nightclothes, who surged to the middle of the road and stared at the sky above. She had to brake hard to avoid hitting an elderly man dressed in pajama bottoms and holding a broomstick in his hand. He turned and looked at her, brandishing the broom as if it were a halberd.

  The next block was just as crowded, with people running back and forth
or staring in disbelief at the sky. Antiaircraft tracers sprayed in furious streaks while the ground jumped up and down with fresh explosions. The entire northern horizon was red. Sirens began wailing above the explosions. Here and there a woman or child screamed, but most of the people in the streets were quiet, shocked into silence.

  Turning down a side street, Mara found her path blocked by a small delivery van, which itself had been blocked by two other cars. It was nearly impossible to squeeze through the people jamming into the street around the vehicles. Mara had to inch forward with her feet on the ground. People began to take hold of her, clinging to her as if she were some good luck charm. They pulled her left and right, making it harder and harder for her to keep her balance.

  “Sister, you must help us,” pleaded an older woman in Vietnamese, curling herself around her arm.

  “Yes,” answered Mara, unsure what to say.

  They walked together for a minute more, both silent. The woman saw someone and began to pull away, tugging for Mara to come with her.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” said Mara, using English this time.

  She unhooked her arm and pushed the motorcycle forward, hitting the horn. The sharp, drawn-out squeal had no effect on the people in front of her; they seemed to drift rather than move, clotting like blood from a minor wound.

  The air raid sirens began to shriek louder. Someone on the street yelled at the people to get inside, to find shelter, but everyone remained more or less where they were, locked in the middle of the street. Mara managed to reached the end of the block, where she found the cross street was nearly deserted. After a few more zigzags, she got to Hoang Hoa Tham, one of the major east-west roads in the city. But the police had blocked the road to nonemergency traffic. Head down, trying to look as nondescript as possible, she funneled on the side streets toward Ho Tay Lake with the rest of the traffic, bicycles mostly, their worried riders unsure whether they truly had destinations to go to. Anxiety drove them at a good pace, and Mara was able to move ahead as gaps opened in the flood.