by Larry Bond
Each word came from his mouth slowly, as if he had formed each sound individually, contemplated its correctness, then sent it into the world.
“It will require our best efforts to implement it,” Trung continued. “I will lead the attack myself from the field.”
* * *
Zeus glanced at his interpreter, waiting for him to translate Trung’s words. But he could tell from the reaction of the men what the general was saying.
He was going to lead the attack himself.
This surprised them, just as it had surprised Zeus earlier. Trung had other responsibilities; to give them up to lead this mission personally was in some ways a tacit admission that there was no hope of winning elsewhere.
Or anywhere, perhaps.
The Vietnamese leader bowed his head slightly, then began walking from the room. Zeus followed, catching up to him in the hall. All of the others, including his translator, had stayed back; they were alone.
“The woman,” Zeus said. “You said she would be released to me.”
“Yes.” A pained expression came to Trung’s face. “I have not been as successful as I hoped.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me to my office. We can discuss it there.”
Trung turned and walked down the hall. By now, Zeus had grown used to the slightly fetid smell of the deep bunker, which mixed with a static scent of ozone and sweat. The bare concrete walls gave a feeling not of imperviousness to attack but dangerous isolation. He felt blind rather than invulnerable.
Trung sat at his desk, a simple table at the end of the room. Zeus felt that the room had changed somehow from the first time they had met; in fact, he thought it was a different room. But he had no exact memory of the first meeting, let alone the office.
“She is somewhere in the capital area,” said Trung. “But we are not sure where.”
“I see.”
“My aide, Major Chaū, has been making inquiries. He will find her.” Trung stared at Zeus’s face. “Major, what will you do when you find her?”
“I don’t know. Get her someplace safe, I guess.”
Trung smiled ever so slightly. Zeus realized that he had just admitted that he thought the Vietnamese would soon be defeated.
“We are very grateful for your government’s help,” said Trung. “This plan—it is a bold attempt.”
“It’s not enough,” said Zeus.
Trung blinked, but said nothing.
“I’m working on something else,” added Zeus. “I may need aircraft.”
“We have little.”
“Pilots.”
“General Gui is the one to speak to. Why?”
“I have to put it together.” He returned to his main concern. “I want Anna Anway. She has to be released.”
Trung studied him. “A young man as yourself, surely you can find many women.”
“Not like her.”
“She is Vietnamese.”
“So?”
The two men stared at each other. Finally, Trung broke the silence. “Major Chaū will help you find her. I will do what I can to have her released. But I have no guarantees.”
“If you give your word to help, that will be enough.”
6
Beijing
The Chinese premier watched the television screen intently, staring at the video footage of the American aircraft carrier USS John C. Stennis. Cho Lai had always admired the large American ships, even as he contemplated ways of sinking them.
The footage was old, shot last year according to Cho Lai’s intelligence chief, but the news report that accompanied the images was accurate enough; the reporter claimed that the carrier was west of Taiwan, sailing with a host of other American ships from the American Pacific 7th Fleet. Meanwhile, another aircraft carrier, George Washington, was making its way north from the Philippines to join it.
Two American carrier groups—a very powerful force.
Also a tempting target.
For years, the Chinese military had been working on an antiship ballistic missile, the DF-21D. The missile was commonly referred to in the Western press as a “carrier killer.” That was not without justification—the Dōngfēng or East Wind missile was loaded with a conventional warhead over several hundred kilograms. A direct hit would cripple the largest ship; four or five strikes would sink it.
The DF-21D was a critical weapon for China; if properly used, it would neutralize America’s ability to project its power into the region. It was fast, had a long range—reported at 2,700 kilometers in the West though in fact somewhat less—and best of all, it was extremely difficult to defend against. But like all weapons, its use presented complexities.
The missile had only recently finished its preliminary experiments. There was one base and exactly twelve missiles—enough, the experts believed, to sink two carriers and perhaps one or more of the American escorts.
But then what?
Cho Lai had contempt for the Americans, but he was not so big a fool as to think them completely impotent. They were cowards, to be sure, but even a coward sufficiently provoked might deal a deadly blow.
Thus far, the American president had been careful not to confront China directly. Arms shipments had been arranged with Russia’s help, Cho Lai knew, but these were relatively small and involved only small arms like antitank and shoulder-launched antiaircraft missiles.
Spies had told Cho Lai that there were American advisors in Vietnam, and there had been reports of American commandos in Hainan and southern China. He discounted the reports; the Americans were a very convenient excuse, he knew, for his own army’s failings.
But what would the American president do if China sank two aircraft carriers? He had been cautious because the American public was against war with China. But a direct attack like that, against important symbols of American power, might change that. Cho Lai might find that he had stepped on the tail of a tiger.
Cho Lai flipped off the television.
“They are wise,” said Tan Jin Mu, the premier’s naval advisor. “They’re keeping their carriers just far enough away to prevent our firing the missiles at them.”
Cho Lai said nothing. Tan Jin Mu wanted the missiles to be used—he was far too confident of success, and too scornful of the Americans.
“Meanwhile, this destroyer continues to flaunt itself in the South China Sea.” Tan Jin Mu placed a satellite image on Cho Lai’s desk. It showed an American Arleigh Burke class destroyer off the coast of Vietnam, with two Chinese warships nearby.
“This is McCain?”
“McCampbell,” said Tan Jin Mu. “It sails in our waters with impunity.”
The Americans did not recognize the Chinese claims to the South China Sea, which Cho Lai—and every premier before him—had said was rightfully Chinese waters. Even the Vietnamese had recognized these claims.
“I don’t wish any American ship that close to Vietnam,” said the premier.
“Then I suggest we sink it,” said Tan Jin Mu. “The cruiser Wen Jiabao is a capable ship. And her commander is one of our best. With an order to be more aggressive—”
“We have to be cautious here.” Cho Lai rose and went over to the window of his study. He pulled back the curtain. He was too far from the mob that was gathered on the street near Tiananmen Square to see the people there, but if he raised his window he knew he could hear the din. For two days now, people had gathered there, ostensibly to protest the Vietnamese for warmongering. But Cho Lai knew that the real reason most had come was the fact that they had little to eat and less to do. After years of growing prosperity, the bubble had burst and the country was at the precipice of disaster.
Cho Lai had not moved against the crowd because they were ostensibly on the government’s side. But he also realized that force would not end their uneasiness; only rice would.
Tan Jin Mu guessed what he was thinking.
“If we do not take Vietnam quickly,” said the older man, “the crowd will grow even more restless. And hungry.�
�
“They’re already hungry.”
“In a battle with our ships, the American will lose,” said Tan Jin Mu. “If we were to pick a fight, this would be the one. Cruiser and frigate, against a destroyer. If you’re worried about taking the carriers—”
“We are fighting a political war, admiral. One ship, one battle—winning and losing is not measured in hardware alone.”
Tan Jin Mu said nothing.
“Tell the commander of the cruiser to be aggressive,” said Cho Lai.
“If there is a battle?”
“It would be better if it was possible to tell its story in a way that the American was the aggressor,” said Cho Lai.
“Very good,” said the older man.
“But above all else, we cannot afford to lose such a fight.”
“That goes without saying, Your Excellency.”
7
Hanoi
Ric Kerfer leaned back in the thickly padded chair, waiting for a signal that the secure line was ready.
In theory, the secure communications room of the American embassy was isolated from all manner of eavesdropping, but Kerfer had his doubts. In his experience, the least secure places were those with the most security precautions. Construct an elaborate mousetrap, and every mouse in the world wanted to test it.
Not to mention the fact that he’d heard rumors that the embassy was a spies’ nest. Added to his general distrust of State Department bureaucrats, this made for an impassioned paranoia.
But Kerfer’s boss at WARCOM insisted that he use the SCIF, and so here he was.
The light at the bottom of the video panel began to blink yellow, indicating that the secure connection was being established. Kerfer glanced behind him, making sure the room was still empty.
The camera took a few seconds to focus; when it did, Admiral Chris Kelly’s face filled the screen. It was pale, his cheeks falling toward the floor, his eyes ringed by folds so thick they looked like targets.
“Lieutenant, good evening.”
“Actually, it’s morning here, Chris.”
Kelly nodded hesitantly, as if confused by the time change. The encryption gear introduced a very slight but noticeable delay in the transmission, and the admiral’s lips moved a quarter-second before his words arrived through the headset Kerfer wore.
“How goes it?” asked the admiral. The two men’s careers tracked in almost lockstep. He had been Kerfer’s superior in a succession of commands practically since Kerfer had been assigned to the SEAL teams.
“I made all the deliveries,” Kerfer told him.
“Prognosis?”
“As bad as twelve hours ago. Maybe a little worse. Starting to see some panic in the cities.”
Kerfer leaned forward in the chair, feeling the weight of his pistol against his belly. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to shoot too many more crazoids before he got the hell out of Dodge.
“Would you suggest sending more gear in?” asked Kelly.
“I don’t know.” Kerfer rubbed his forehead. “Might slow them down a little. In the end, there’s so many of them.”
“Mmmm.”
The admiral seemed disappointed. Kerfer guessed he was looking for some way of convincing the Pentagon that China should be opposed as harshly as possible—which required an assessment that the Chinese would lose.
Kelly shifted gears. That was one thing he was excellent at: cutting his losses. “What was the agency call about?”
“Murphy has some sort of plan but I don’t know what the hell it is. He doesn’t like to share.”
“What sort of plan?”
Kerfer shook his head. “Behind the lines, I’m guessing.”
“Can we do it?”
“Maybe.” He hadn’t expected the admiral’s interest. “I don’t know what the outlines are.”
“Where is Murphy?”
“He had to go talk to the Viet general.”
The admiral stepped back from the camera. The software was supposed to follow his face as he moved around the room, but for some reason it didn’t, focusing instead on the admiral’s not exactly svelte midsection. Kerfer found this amusing.
“There won’t be any WARCOM involvement, I’ll tell you that,” said Kelly. “But it might be something we’d be interested in backing.”
“When you say WARCOM—”
“No teams.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a shit storm brewing, Ric. Bunch of congressmen want Chester Greene’s ass. They may get it, too. They’re going to impeach him.”
Kerfer snorted in contempt. Nothing zooy politicians did surprised him. But Kelly’s disclaimer was not necessarily absolute—it didn’t rule out ancillary involvement—say a SEAL or two or three being “loaned” to the CIA. Kerfer felt his adrenaline starting to build. While he’d dismissed Murphy’s plan earlier as a nonstarter, now he was angry with himself for not pressing harder to find out what it was.
“General Perry sent his own grenade into the hornet’s nest,” added the admiral. “Wants us to pull out.”
“Yeah. I heard.”
“He claims the situation’s hopeless. You sounded like you agreed.”
“I don’t know.”
Kerfer didn’t see much sense in helping the Vietnamese, who were contemptible as far as actual soldiering went. But he also saw the Chinese as a serious threat to the U.S. If they were allowed to get away with this invasion, then they’d roll into Cambodia and Thailand next.
As for Taiwan, most likely they’d just let it sit out isolated in a Chinese sea, an errant province that was sure to come back home eventually. The only reason to attack it, frankly, would be to provoke the U.S. If that was their goal, they’d probably just as soon go after Japan.
The premier was crazy enough. Which was why he had to be stopped now.
That was all geopolitics. On his own, Kerfer didn’t care, except that he liked to be in the middle of things. He liked war, was addicted to it, and this was the war at hand.
“Ultimately, the Viets are going to lose,” said Kerfer, deciding it was the geopolitical that the admiral wanted to hear, not the personal. “In the meantime, kicking the Chinese in the teeth as much as possible makes sense.”
“And Murphy’s plan would do it?”
“No idea,” said Kerfer. “He didn’t get a good reception from the agency. He didn’t get much reception at all.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“All right.” Kerfer wasn’t entirely sure where Zeus was, but he figured eventually he would turn up.
“But don’t give him much hope. Be straight with him.”
“Always am. That’s why people love me so much.”
* * *
As it happened, Zeus Murphy was on his way to the embassy at the exact moment the admiral was asking about him. He pulled up to the gate and stopped abruptly, warned by a Marine guard with an M16 in his hands.
Zeus tensed. He wasn’t worried about the Marines; it was waiting outside the gate he didn’t like. There was a small crowd of people trying to get in, undoubtedly hoping to arrange some passage out of the country. More ominously, Zeus had seen three different groups of young men and women with guns as he drove here; at least one had waved the weapon at him, as if getting ready to fire.
Even though he clearly recognized him, the Marine ordered him to get out of the car so it could be searched. Zeus did so, walking just inside the gate where the gunnery sergeant who was in charge of the detail was watching.
“I’ve heard some gunfire in the last hour or so,” said the gunny.
“It’s getting nuttier out there,” said Zeus. “Any trouble here?”
“Not yet.” The gunny shook his head solemnly. “I thought the Vietnamese were supposed to be pretty self-controlled.”
“Looks like somebody took a potshot at you,” said the corporal who was looking over his car. He pointed to the rear quarter panel. There were three bullet holes there.
“I didn’t even feel it,�
�� said Zeus.
“Park on the side,” said the gunny, pointing in the direction of a small lot next to the building. “If you need to get gas, there’s still a pump working at the back.”
“Right.”
The Nissan’s shifter stuck as Zeus tried to put the car into gear. He rocked the handle back and forth while pressing the clutch, then nearly stalled the little car before getting it through the gate. His hands started to shake; by the time he parked his legs were wobbly and he felt light-headed.
God, he thought. Is this nerves?
Zeus sat in the car for a moment, breathing slowly, trying to recapture his poise. A light mist began to fall. Drops appeared on the windshield, gathering in clumps, occasionally streaking down the glass.
A sharp rap on the window took him by surprise. Zeus started to jerk away but the seatbelt held him in place.
It was one of the Marine sentries. Zeus reached to the window and rolled it down.
“Major Murphy?” asked the Marine.
“Yeah, I’m OK. Can I park here?”
“Yes, sir. Was your car shot at?”
“I don’t know. I guess.” Zeus smiled weakly, then rolled the window back up and got out. He walked over to the entrance to the building. The guard there asked if he had his personal weapon with him; Zeus tapped the front of his shirt.
“They want, uh, well, you should keep your weapon with you, sir,” said the Marine. “Inside.”
“Right.”
Inside, the hallway was empty. All nonessential personnel had been sent out days before, and Vietnamese nationals working there had been told they needn’t report to work. Many of the other embassies in the city had already closed.
In theory, the U.S. had nothing to fear from the Chinese. In theory, they were not enemies.
In theory.
“Major Murphy, I was under the impression that you were on your way back to the States.”
Zeus turned and saw Melanie Behrens, the American ambassador to Vietnam, just coming out of a room behind him. She was a petite woman, wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants; in the dimly lit hall she could easily have been mistaken for a teenager.
Until she spoke. Her throaty voice gave an assured snap to her words.