Larry Bond’s Red Dragon Rising: Blood of War

by Larry Bond

  “Why are we walking here?” Zeus asked Kerfer. They had barely spoken since leaving the embassy.

  “Only place I’m sure we can be alone.”

  “In a crowd?”

  “Damn straight. You never heard of that?”

  “But the car?”

  “It’ll be OK.”

  “You think it’s bugged,” said Zeus, belatedly deciphering Kerfer’s paranoia.

  The SEAL just smiled.

  A Chinese bomb had made a crater at one side of the square earlier in the war. The space had been trampled down by the feet of the supplicants, the jagged edges of the blast area smoothed away like ancient stones in a riverbed. It was now simply a dirt-lined depression, a feature of the landscape barely noticed by the people sitting and in some cases lying there.

  Kerfer threaded through the crowd, moving around so he could survey the area behind them and see if they were being followed. Zeus was too absorbed in looking at the crowd to see anything but the faces of the people near them. He expected maybe despair or blank hopelessness, but that wasn’t there. The expressions were more purposeful, eyes set and mouths taut at the edges, the way people on their way to work might face a hill or some other physical obstacle—not an impassible barrier, just something they knew they had to get past to get where they were going. The expressions surprised him; he wanted a neat package of emotions, one way or the other: triumph or despair.

  There were a few puddles on the concrete portions of the square. The grass between the paths had been flattened into dirt and red mud; the few bits not covered by people were streaked with ash and soot.

  The two Americans drew a few stares as they passed among the crowd, but most of the people were indifferent to them, glancing and then turning back to whatever it was they’d been doing. A number had small hibachi-like stoves and were making breakfast. The charcoal smoke stung Zeus’s nose.

  “All right, tell me exactly what you’re thinking,” said Kerfer, stopping. “What’s your plan?”

  They were almost in the exact middle of a large group of Vietnamese gathered around a half-dozen barrels being used to cook fish and a few vegetables. Steam rose from the makeshift grills, the moisture-laden air sizzling.

  Zeus glanced around.

  “They’re not going to worry about what we’re saying.” Kerfer frowned, then turned and squinted in the distance, surveying the area. “Not one in a hundred speak English.”

  “They’re going to strike north,” he told Kerfer. “Beyond the border. Trung.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We could use it as a diversion,” he told him.

  “I’m not following you.” Kerfer folded his arms across his chest, then turned around, gazing in the direction of Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum. “Damn food’s making me hungry.”

  “I want to chop the head off at Kunming,” said Zeus, trusting Kerfer would figure out what he meant. “A quick action. Direct.”

  Kerfer didn’t respond. A little girl nearby started to sob. A woman who looked old enough to be her great-grandmother came and folded her against her legs, stooping over to comfort her. She shot Zeus a nasty look, and suddenly he felt as if everyone was watching him. He turned his head left and right, trying to reassure himself that he was still anonymous here—or at least ignored.

  “Grab the brass,” Zeus told Kerfer. “That’s what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean, Major,” said the SEAL, his voice tired. “You don’t think I guessed? You don’t think the Chinks will? They’ll be ready.”

  The slur bothered Zeus for some reason he couldn’t express, or even fathom—after all, he wanted to kill them all.

  “They don’t think they can be attacked,” he told Kerfer. “Their security’s not the best.”

  Kerfer didn’t answer.

  “You don’t think it can be done?” asked Zeus.

  “Anything can be done, Major. Shit, let’s go get some food. I’m starving.”

  * * *

  Ric Kerfer liked to think of his brain as having two very distinct parts. One half he thought of as a doctor—a surgeon, actually, the man he might have been had his interests taken him in a different direction. Kerfer in fact came from a family of doctors, something no one would guess and Kerfer would never admit, not willingly anyway.

  The surgeon half was analytic, careful, intelligent. It stood above the world, or at least the patient, analyzing and dissecting, planning coldly what should and must be done. It weighed the odds mathematically, and rendered decisions with cold precision. It did not gamble.

  The other half was all impulse and rage. That half loved war and fighting. Action and adrenaline were like oxygen, necessary, craved when missing for only a few moments.

  The two halves were at war now, the sensible side saying the plan was outrageous and ridiculous, too far a long shot; the adrenaline side said it was brilliant, genius in its daring, and the only hope for Vietnam.

  It was all these things at once, idiotic and beautiful. And Kerfer wanted to be the one to pull it off.

  Was that just the crazy, feeling half talking, the side that had managed to get him through BUD/S and then let him survive and thrive in the Teams? Or was the surgeon there, too, thinking, debating, weighing: there was glory in brilliance, and triumph. As smart as the surgeon was, he, too, wanted to show off and be celebrated.

  Kerfer had never seen the Chinese headquarters buildings at Kunming, but he knew well how the security would be arranged—he’d practiced a mock takedown against an army corps command post three months before with the Japanese. In fact, Zeus’s idea could have been lifted from the doctrine that they had been practicing: guillotine the leaders, and the Chinese would stop dead in their tracks.

  It might not even take a successful mission to do it. The Chinese were so risk adverse. Kerfer could see it in the way they had stopped almost immediately when Zeus had blown up a few of their tanks near the coast.

  They drove to the Discovery Best Hotel, a Western-style luxury building not far from the square. Its restaurant was packed with journalists and probably more than a few spies, but Kerfer knew he could trust the food.

  Zeus said no more than a few words as they ate. Kerfer, letting his two sides battle unconsciously, waved for the waiter to take the egg-stained plate from the table.

  “Get me a beer,” he told the man.

  The waiter gave him a slightly disapproving look; it was still well before noon. Kerfer laughed.

  “War rules,” he said.

  The man disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I’m assuming you don’t want one,” he told Zeus.

  “No.”

  “Probably help whatever hangover you got from last night.”

  “I don’t have a hangover.”

  “You look like you do. You sleep lately?”

  “Not really.”

  “Figures.”

  Kerfer looked up as the bartender approached. He carried a Tsingtao, but seemed oblivious to the irony. Kerfer thanked him, then gave him a twenty to pay for their bill. It was American, the only currency now being accepted despite the strict laws against doing so.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” said Kerfer, taking the bottle. He rose and led Zeus out into a courtyard at the side. They were alone in the Buddhist-style garden, but as Kerfer sat down on one of the stone benches, a jet screamed overhead, reminding them of the war, the ultimate intruder.

  Kerfer took out his small bug detecting device and set it between them. He spoke a few words, making sure it didn’t pick up anything, then put it away. The device only detected transmissions, but this was an unlikely place for a bug in any event. Still, Kerfer was cautious, and spoke cryptically.

  “Tell you right off, you’re not going to get the Teams to do it,” said Kerfer. He studied Zeus’s face to make sure he understood what he meant—Teams being a slang stand-in for SEALs.

  “I’ve pretty much come to that conclusion,” said Zeus.

  “But that doesn’t mean it can’t
work.”

  Zeus’s eyes, which had been drifting back and forth in the direction of the building and the boarded windows facing them, shot back toward Kerfer’s.

  Until that moment, Kerfer hadn’t been exactly sure what he was going to do, hadn’t known which half of him would win out. But now it was clear: he was in, all the way in, because this was too beautiful, too perfect, to miss. His caution melted. He was gung-ho.

  “I know a group run by a guy who works for the agency,” said Kerfer. “Nasty guy. Very dark.”

  “Worse than you?”

  Kerfer laughed. “I’m Miss Mary Fuckin’ Sunshine compared to him. I am fuckin’ Gandhi. This guy could do it. His people. I worked with him before.”

  “How do I talk to him?”

  “You don’t. I do.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I can. I may have to go back to the embassy and use the SCIF. I have to talk to a middleman.”

  “I’m supposed to leave here by one. Helicopter’s supposed to pick me up.”

  “Miss it.”

  “Go AWOL?”

  “Just be late.” Kerfer took a long pull from the beer. He didn’t like Tsingtao all that much, he decided. Too watery. “Get stuck in traffic.”

  “Yeah. OK.”

  “Or you can leave if you want. I can do this on my own.”

  “You’re going to need help from the Vietnamese. I can arrange that.”

  “I don’t want them helping.”

  “You have to coordinate it with their attack. They’re going up to Malipo.”

  “China?”

  “Yeah. You could leave from there. This way, you could use Vietnamese equipment. They’d never trace it to the U.S.”

  “OK. Yeah. You should hang around then.” Kerfer eyed the beer. “Why are you helping them? Not the girl?”

  Clearly it was. Zeus didn’t answer.

  “Where is she?” Kerfer asked.

  “I don’t know. Can you help me find her?”

  “Probably not. The only prison I know of is north of the city. It’s a place called Nam Hong. Pretty nasty.”

  “How do I get up there?”

  Kerfer didn’t know, and wasn’t sure he’d tell him if he had.

  “Maybe I’ll check it out.”

  Zeus glanced at his watch. Kerfer lifted the bottle and took another swig. “Sure you don’t want some?”

  “No.”

  “Wise.” He let the bottle fall from his hand. It bounced rather than broke, the remaining contents swirling on the ground. “Give me a lift back. If you drop me off around the block, no one’ll see.”

  10

  Langley CIA headquarters

  Mara Duncan ran her fingers through her hair, then reached across the desk for her cola. The can was warm. She’d gotten it hours ago but had forgotten about it.

  She’d also lost track of time. That wasn’t particularly hard to do in the windowless room Group 86 had taken over. The unit was an ad hoc collection of Vietnam and Southeast Asia experts and others assigned by the CIA to “monitor and affect” the situation in Vietnam and China. It was a subgroup of two larger units, established to study Chinese methods and look for opportunities to sabotage the Chinese advance.

  “I’m going to go get something to drink,” Mara told Jon Harmuth, who was the only other officer in the room at the moment. “Want anything?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  There was a soda machine at the far end of the hall near the stairwell. Mara got a Coke—she needed the caffeine—then decided to stretch her legs a bit. Not wanting to get too far away, she walked back in the direction of the subgroup’s room, passing it and then turning back around. One of the agency’s monitoring rooms used to keep track of various news reports around the world was located at the far end. Mara walked down past the doors, turned around and started back. An analyst nearly knocked her over as he came out the door; he fell back apologetically, a bashful smile on his face.

  The smile made her think of Josh. She wanted to see him.

  Wanted to make love to him, more accurately.

  Stop thinking of him, she told herself. She needed to focus on her job. She took a sip of the soda, then started walking again, feeling a little awkward about following the man who’d just bumped into her. He stopped at the soda machine, getting himself a Coke.

  “Busy night?” he said as she approached.

  “Moderately.”

  He gave her a smile so tight it could have been a grimace, then bent down to get the soda. Mara sipped hers pensively. This wasn’t a place for small talk, but she felt trapped, not wanting to be rude. The man glanced at her as he straightened, perhaps expecting her to flirt. He was about her height; ten years older, heavier. He was wearing a button-down shirt tucked into jeans, and the pants were baggy just below the hips, in her mind the sign of a once-athletic man who’d let himself go to pot. He smelled slightly of sweat.

  “Interesting times,” he said.

  “Oh yes.”

  His eyes left hers and swept downward, clumsily checking her out.

  “See ya,” he said, turning and leaving.

  The tacit rejection was such a relief that she didn’t mind it, rolling her eyes mentally as she watched his sagging rump walk down the hallway. She fished in her pocket for more change; when she couldn’t find it she resorted to a five-dollar bill and got another soda for later.

  Even with her creds programmed to allow entry, she had to be buzzed back into the task group room—a bit of oversensitive security added since her last return to the States, or maybe just a procedure she’d never been lucky enough to encounter. As she was waiting for Harmuth to go over and look at the monitor, Peter Lucas came out of the elevator and down the hall.

  “You’re up early,” said Lucas.

  “Never went to bed.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Lucas was chief of station for Southeast Asia, and until the crisis had been operating out of Bangkok, Thailand. He’d come back to the States to deliver a personal briefing to the president. Given everything that was going on, it was easier to monitor the situation from the States than Thailand, and so he had stayed.

  “So—where are we, Mara?” he asked once they were all inside the room. “Do they have a dirty bomb or not?”

  “It looks that way, but I still don’t have proof. I have the missile shipments, the material—”

  “It’s not like you’re going to find a blueprint,” said Harmuth. “It’s always going to be circumstantial.”

  “If they have a weapon there, don’t you think they’d be preparing to use it?”

  “If they have missile launchers in the mines, they can be ready inside an hour,” said Mara. “The roads between Hanoi and the Yen Tu Mountain are open. The area is still a no-fly zone.”

  “So which mine is it in?” asked Lucas.

  Harmuth folded his arms. They didn’t know.

  “I’d like to go up there and find out,” said Mara.

  “Take too long. If we’re going to have somebody go in there, Mara, it’ll be somebody closer.”

  The area was thick with mines, and they were too widespread to simply destroy each one.

  “When are you talking to the president?” asked Mara.

  “Soon.” He rubbed his chin. Mara noticed for the first time that he hadn’t shaved that morning. “How long before they collapse?”

  “Any day,” said Harmuth. “If not sooner.”

  “We have to push that off,” said Lucas.

  “It’ll take a miracle.”

  Lucas pushed his chair over to one of the empty terminals and began scanning the latest updates. Mara went back to hers, and saw that there was a message from Ric Kerfer. He was at the embassy and wanted to talk to her on a secure line.

  “OK,” she typed on the message system, unhooking her headset from the lamp arm next to the computer.

  11

  Outside Hanoi

  When he left Kerfer, Zeus found himself in a cont
emplative mood, unsure and unfocused. He wanted to find Anna, but he doubted he had enough time. If he missed the helicopter out, Perry would think he had disobeyed him.

  He’d think that because he had. On the other hand, if Kerfer could help him put together the plan to hit the Chinese army group headquarters, that was worth staying for.

  So was Anna. More so.

  The weight of what he was contemplating—going against Perry’s orders—had suddenly become real to him.

  He hadn’t disobeyed his commander yet. He’d gone pretty far, helping the Vietnamese when he was expected to be getting ready to leave. But once he missed that helicopter, he’d be on dangerous ground. What would happen next depended completely on Perry.

  Zeus’s mind rolled around and around. He drove over to his hotel. He started to go up to his room, then instead went to the desk and asked how he would find Nam Hong.

  The clerk wanted to know why. Zeus told him he needed to see a soldier there.

  The instructions were easy, once he was out of the city. Zeus thought he might have enough time to get there and get back before the helicopter left. If he could find Anna, they could leave together. He’d insist.

  Zeus was a dozen blocks from the hotel when the traffic suddenly thickened and then stalled. He waited for a little while, then saw an opening to his left. He turned down the street, took another left and headed south, trying to remember the way to the road that ran along the west side of West Lake; he knew he could use it to get on the highway north.

  But he quickly became lost. To his surprise he found himself at the circle near the Cu Giy bridge, a major crossroad in the southwestern part of the city. He managed to get onto the main road heading north, but he hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards or so down the divided highway before he came to a blockade.

  It was manned by two soldiers, who were blocking off the two lanes north with a troop truck. Neither man seemed particularly alarmed as he came to a stop. They left their AK-47s slung over their shoulders and looked at him quizzically, more like a visitor to a zoo might examine a species he’d never seen than soldiers wary of a saboteur or spy.