Larry Bond’s Red Dragon Rising: Blood of War

by Larry Bond

  “I’m still here,” said Zeus.

  “I see.”

  Behrens was an old friend of Perry’s, and so Zeus was on his guard. “Where is General Perry?” he asked.

  “As far as I know, he’s still sleeping. We gave him a couch upstairs.”

  Perry had been working nearly nonstop, and though he had quarters in the same hotel where Zeus was staying, he’d spent more than a few nights here.

  “I wonder if you could spare a few minutes,” said Behrens. “In my office?”

  “Sure.”

  He followed her up the stairs. There was no one else in the halls.

  “I understand you were making inquiries about a Vietnamese national,” said Behrens as she pulled out her desk chair and sat down. “Why was that?”

  “I was concerned about her welfare.”

  “You know she’s been accused of being a traitor?”

  “That’s ridiculous. She’s a doctor. She was saving the life of a wounded man. I think you met her,” Zeus added. “When you visited me in the hospital.”

  “I know of whom we’re speaking, yes. And perhaps you’re right—for the sake of discussion,” Behrens told him. “For the sake of discussion, let’s say that I agree that she was innocent. If—”

  “I was there the whole time.” Zeus tightened his hands into fists, remembering not what he saw in the room when the supervisor argued, but the emotion he felt, the urge to protect Anna from the injustice.

  “The difficult part here is that…” The ambassador stopped speaking, obviously trying to find the right words. “The U.S. can’t be seen as interfering in Vietnamese affairs.”

  “Sure,” said Zeus.

  Behrens took this as a surrender, which it wasn’t. She was surprised, but moved on.

  “Juliet had to mention it to me,” she told Zeus. “It was her job.”

  Juliet was Juliet Greig, the acting consul general. She’d tried to help get Anna freed.

  “I don’t blame her,” answered Zeus.

  Behrens pursed her lips, then thought better of saying whatever she had contemplated. Though dressed casually and clearly tired, she maintained a certain dignified composure, the quiet beauty of a self-confident middle-aged woman. Zeus guessed that she had been pretty as a girl, but not stunning; she seemed the rare kind of woman who grew more beautiful as she aged.

  “General Perry wants to withdraw all aid to the Vietnamese,” she said. “I suppose he told you that.”

  “He made that pretty clear.”

  Behrens looked at him a moment. Zeus felt his legs starting to loosen again. What was that? Fatigue? A delayed reaction to everything he’d been through?

  Or simply an injury. His body had been battered so badly over the past few days that it was amazing he was still able to stand. By rights he should be in a hospital bed.

  Or Anna’s bed.

  “Do you agree with the general?” asked Behrens.

  “What I think…” Zeus cleared his throat. “What I think is irrelevant.”

  “We’re speaking off the record, Major.”

  Zeus didn’t answer.

  “I think they should be helped,” said Behrens flatly. “I think the Chinese have to be stopped.”

  “You should tell Washington that.”

  “I already have.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. Sensing that she might be a good ally, Zeus was tempted to tell her what he was thinking, but he was too worried about the downside if his impressions were wrong.

  “How long do you think the Vietnamese can last?” she asked.

  “If they can do something to stop the Chinese advance, get them to reassess, then maybe they can hold out,” said Zeus. “Once the Chinese armies stop, they have trouble getting their momentum back. Their commanders are extremely cautious. But at this point, doing that would probably take a miracle.”

  “And if there’s no miracle?”

  “Another week or two. At best, the Chinese will cut Hanoi off and starve it out. The people are already getting crazy.”

  * * *

  Harland Perry rolled over onto his side, his body stiff and cramped. Though in good shape for his age, he had lost a considerable amount of flexibility in his joints and the tissue that connected them. His muscles no longer had the lithe energy they’d had in Ramadi or Baghdad, where he had spent many nights curled up literally on the floor.

  The cot they’d set up for him in the small room was barely much better. The crossbar dug into his neck. His neck and spine vibrated gently the way a shocked funny bone would; he felt like a tuning fork that had been accidentally dropped.

  “All right,” said Perry aloud. He pushed his legs off the cot and got up unsteadily. He was still wearing his jeans and T-shirt; he and the rest of his small delegation had been ordered to wear civilian clothes during their stay.

  He walked over and picked up his service Beretta and holster from the top of the desk. Belatedly he realized it had been foolish to keep it there—too far away to be of use while he was sleeping.

  Perry held the gun in his hand a moment. He’d had it a long while. It was a plain weapon, standard-issue: he wasn’t a pearl-handle general like Patton.

  Then again, no one was like Patton. Patton wasn’t even like Patton, at least according to his biographers.

  Perry stretched his arms behind his back, trying to loosen his muscles. He sat down on the edge of the cot and pulled on his Merrells, snugging the laces tight before tying them. He picked up his sweatshirt, adjusted his gun belt, then went out into the hall.

  He was still getting his bearings when he saw Zeus Murphy in the hall.

  “Zeus … Major. What are you doing?”

  “Coming to see you,” said Murphy.

  Perry frowned at him. “We have nothing to discuss, Major. A helicopter will pick you up this afternoon at thirteen hundred. That’s our flight out.”

  “You’re going to be on that?”

  “That’s up to the president.”

  “I have a plan. Sir, I’d like you to at least hear me out.”

  “I’m in no mood, Zeus,” snapped Perry. “I’ve been damn patient with you until now. Damn patient.”

  Perry saw Zeus biting the corner of his lip, and immediately felt bad. He’d chosen the officer because he had a head on his shoulders, which to Perry meant that he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind—to go against not just what was popular or accepted, but to stand up to a general officer and give his unvarnished opinion.

  That was a critical quality, an important trait in a subordinate, or so Perry had always believed. Yet here he was barking at him for doing just that.

  Hubris. The occupational hazard of being a general.

  “All right, look, I’ll listen,” Perry told him. “One more time. After I get some coffee. You look like you could use some, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  They went first to the kitchen, then to the ambassador’s office, which she had said Perry could use. They sat in the chairs in front of her desk, Perry upright, sipping his coffee, Zeus pressed forward, his cup on the floor.

  Zeus summarized his plan as simply as possible:

  Strike the Chinese army group headquarters at Kunming.

  It was a DA, or direct action. They’d hit the headquarters, kill the officers, and leave. The Chinese would react with alarm—and not just because they had lost some of their top generals. The entire offensive would grind to a halt while they reevaluated.

  “But their headquarters will be well guarded,” said Perry.

  “You would think so,” said Zeus. Unlike the regimental or even divisional headquarters, the army group posts were still staffed as they had been before the start of the war. Security there had always been minimal—which made sense, given their locations.

  Zeus knew from the Red Dragon exercises that DAs on group headquarters had been practiced. Even if they hadn’t, they were the sort of operation SEALs did all the time. The company that had re
scued the American scientist would be Zeus’s first choice, but if they weren’t available, then he might be able to cobble together a team from the Special Forces unit he had worked with.

  Or from Delta. Or a number of other groups, including the CIA.

  Zeus stopped speaking. The general brought his coffee slowly to his mouth. The sips he took were quick and small, like a bird nipping at a fountain, thinking any moment it would have to fly off to avoid being swarmed by others higher on the pecking order.

  “You don’t believe the Vietnamese can pull this off on their own?” asked Perry.

  “No,” said Zeus. “The Marines who went with me against Hainan weren’t disciplined enough to pull it off. They’re brave,” added Zeus, feeling he should say something positive. “But in this—for this—it would require a lot of skill. And frankly, if we’re providing the transport, then it makes sense—”

  “You have intel on the location?” asked Perry.

  “There’s plenty. Kunming’s been well mapped. From what I’ve seen, there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary there.”

  “I can’t endorse this,” said Perry. “I just can’t. There’s too much…”

  He stopped speaking and rose from the chair, the coffee cup still in his hand.

  “There’s too much history here, Zeus. Bad history.” Perry paced slowly across the room, looking down at the floor. “And the Chinese are going to win. It’s inevitable. They haven’t lost; they’ve only stopped moving. They’re way too cautious, but in the end, that doesn’t translate into a victory for the other side.”

  “The Chinese have to be stopped before they go beyond Vietnam.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Perry raised his voice almost to a shout. Zeus was surprised—he hadn’t realized how angry the general was. “This isn’t the place or the time to make a stand. Not with the Vietnamese as our allies. It’s … it’s futile, damn it. And I’m not going to be known as the idiot who told the president anything to the contrary. Damn, it’s so obvious … Take a step back, Zeus. Take a step back.”

  Perry lowered his voice. The knuckles on his fingers gripping his coffee cup were white. He put the cup in the other hand, then stared at the fingers, flexing them slowly.

  “I’m not going to get into an argument with you, Major,” said Perry, still looking at his hand. “I realize you’ve been through a lot. And that you may have personal complications. I have to do my job. And so do you. I expect you on that helicopter.”

  It took every ounce of will power for Zeus to walk from the room without saying anything else.

  He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he got downstairs. He took a step toward the front entrance, then remembered where he had parked and realized it would be easier to get there from the side door. He turned in that direction.

  “Zeus,” said Kerfer, stepping out from under the stairwell. “We need to talk.”

  “All right.”

  “Not here,” added the SEAL officer. “You got a car?”

  8

  Forthright, Ohio

  Josh MacArthur slumped into the big chair in his cousin’s living room. He had a beer in his hand but he didn’t feel much like drinking. Nor did he want to watch television, though his cousin’s wife had left it on for him when she went off to bed—“scooted” was her word.

  He was alone in the room. Free not only from his relatives but his bodyguard.

  Not for long, however. He heard the toilet flush down the hall and waited for Tex to appear.

  Tex was a U.S. marshal who had been assigned to watch Josh after his return from Vietnam with evidence of Chinese atrocities there. At the time, the news was considered explosive, even world changing—more than enough to provide the motive for an assassination.

  Tex had stayed on even after Josh appeared before the UN general assembly with his taped evidence. It seemed beside the point now—there were so many different reports coming out of the region, all of them contradictory. And though the UN had condemned China in an initial vote, nothing tangible had come from it. The U.S. was slowly building support for sanctions, but Josh was not needed for that; no one had objected when he bolted for home.

  His cousin’s home, actually. He himself had no real home; he’d led the life of a nomadic scientist for several years before stumbling into notoriety in northern Vietnam.

  “Hey, what are we watchin’?” asked Tex. He had a very un-Texan-like first name—Terrence—but otherwise the nickname fit him as well as his custom-made boots.

  “Anything you want,” said Josh. “You want a beer?”

  “Can’t while I’m working.”

  “It’s after nine.”

  “Yup.”

  Tex picked up the remote control and fiddled with the channels. He stopped on the Weather Channel, watching the summary for the next day: clear skies, highs in the fifties.

  “Warm, right?” said Tex. “Global warming, huh?”

  Not long before, Josh would have grimaced. As a scientist who had devoted himself to studying the effects of climate change, he felt personally insulted, even assailed, when people spoke so cavalierly about it. The phenomenon was extremely complex, and not one event, let alone temperature or precipitation pattern, could be ascribed to it.

  Now it didn’t bother him. He wasn’t even sure if he was going to continue in the field—any scientific field. Maybe he’d work the farm. With the recent bump-up in commodity prices, it might actually provide a good living.

  Tex continued to channel surf. He settled for a few moments on a rerun of an old ’60s era black-and-white sitcom.

  “You ever see this?” he asked Josh. “Andy Griffith Show.” Tex laughed. “Andy Griffith is this small-town sheriff and he’s got a little kid. Screwball deputy named Barney. Pretty funny.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

  “Kinda funny.”

  Tex settled back in the chair. On the screen, the sheriff was trying to find a way to rehabilitate a local ne’er-do-well, who was more misunderstood than evil.

  Did sheriffs do that sort of thing anymore?

  Did they do it ever?

  “Ya know, they’re thinking I should go back,” said Tex.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “My bosses. They’re wondering if it would be all right to pull me back. They want to leave it up to y’all.”

  “It’s OK with me.”

  “They think the guy in New York—they figure that was an isolated incident. I mean like the end of it. After he went off the bridge, no one else was assigned to get you. It’d be besides the point. See, there’s been so much publicity and everything—”

  “It’s not a problem,” said Josh. “Really, it’s fine.”

  He looked at the beer bottle.

  “You’re kind of down about Mara, right?” said Tex.

  “What are you, my shrink?”

  Tex laughed. “We’re a full-service shop.”

  But the marshal let the matter drop. Mara was Mara Duncan, the CIA officer who had rescued Josh from the jungles of Vietnam after he’d been caught behind the lines. They’d fallen in love during the ordeal.

  He had fallen in love. She seemed to have forgotten him, not answering his texts, or picking up the phone when he called.

  Maybe he should try harder.

  “Well, maybe I’ll turn in.” Tex rose. “I’ll make arrangements. Probably leave around noon.” He was quiet for a moment. “But if ya’ll want me to stay, that’s not a problem at all.”

  “I like you, Tex, but they’re right. I’m kind of irrelevant now.”

  “You’re not irrelevant, Doc. You did an important thing.”

  “Past tense. Time to move on.”

  Tex curled his lower lip around the upper, then nodded.

  “See ya in the morning,” he told Josh.

  “Have a good sleep.”

  Josh angled himself against the corner of the chair, watching Andy Griffith instruct a miscreant on how to improve his lif
e and become a worthy member of society. The man nodded thoughtfully, and promised to try.

  Did they ever do that anywhere other than television, Josh wondered. If so, what had happened to that world?

  9

  Hanoi

  Kerfer had Zeus drive over to Da Dinh Square, the center of the large area honoring Ho Chi Minh and the soldiers who had fought to liberate the country. Always a shrine to “Uncle Ho,” as the patriarch was known, the area had become an open-air camp for refugees and pilgrims. People whose houses had been destroyed crowded next to others who saw Ho Chi Minh’s spirit as their only hope.

  Thousands of Vietnamese sat on the grass squares in front of the large mausoleum where Ho’s body was interred. Many more thronged around the entrance to the mausoleum itself, waiting to get in, either not knowing or not caring that the leader’s body had been removed for safekeeping. They had come to seek solace or guidance from the dead leader’s spirit; they hoped somehow that it could be impressed to save them from the destruction their enemy to the north had unleashed. The crowd was so large that the procession of supplicants seemed barely to move from the distance.

  Here and there, tents and cloth shelters had been erected, but most of the people who’d spent the night here had done so in the open air and were wet from the morning drizzle. Though the rain had stopped, the gray sky added to the sense of doom that Zeus felt as they left the car at the side of the road and walked up along the police barriers, edging along the crowd.

  Candles and makeshift altars had been left under the barriers, remnants from the very start of the war, when the area had been temporarily closed off by the police and army. Those forces had been moved to more important tasks, and there were now no guards visible anywhere.

  Unlike the streets Zeus had passed through earlier, there were no teenage thugs here, no disorder at all. Here, the traditional spirit of Vietnam and the calm stoicism of the people prevailed. Perhaps it was because of the age of most of those in the square—they were mostly old, too old to join actively in the fight except as a very last gesture of desperation.

  Many were women. A few had young children with them, so that as Zeus walked he had the sense that an entire generation of Vietnam had gone missing; anyone from fifteen to their early fifties was manning the defenses somewhere.