by Larry Bond
Humming to himself, he opened the door, said something to the passengers in the front row, then hopped down the steps and trotted over to the building. No one moved; apparently he had told everyone to wait.
Zeus watched as the driver spoke to a pair of policemen standing next to a glass door, then ran back, hopped up the steps, and then said something in Chinese that Zeus assumed meant, “Everyone off the bus.” The passengers rose slowly and began filing out.
Zeus rubbed his temples as he joined the small herd walking toward the door. He hadn’t slept now for more than a day, not counting assorted fitful turning in a cot aboard one of the boats they’d commandeered. He hadn’t slept all that well for a few days before that, either.
The glass door opened on a narrow hallway, with rooms on the left and right. The passengers were directed to the room at the right, which was well lit by overhead fluorescents. It was a medium-sized office, bereft of furniture.
They organized themselves along the far wall. No one from the first bus was here; Solt was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn,” grumbled Christian, standing next to him. “I feel like I’m back in beast barracks.”
“A lot worse than this.”
“I guess.” Beast barracks was West Point slang for the freshman orientation period, traditionally a test for newcomers. Outright hazing by upperclassmen was no longer permitted, but the older students still found a way to make things hard for the new arrivals.
Christian cupped his face with his hands. “I gotta get out of here and get some rest.”
“I know what you mean,” answered Zeus. “We’ll have a chance soon. They’re probably just figuring out hotels and stuff.”
“Where’s Solt?”
Zeus shook his head.
A man in a dark suit came into the room after the passengers. He told them something in Chinese that didn’t seem to please anyone. They began murmuring and making clucking sounds with their tongues. The man behind Zeus said something out loud that made the airline official redden. The two men began arguing; other passengers joined in. Finally, the airline official left.
“What the hell is going on?” Christian asked.
“Does anyone here speak English?” asked Zeus, deciding there was no sense keeping quiet anymore.
A young woman—the only woman in their group—said something in Chinese, which prompted one of the older men near them to begin speaking to them. It was clear he was trying to explain the predicament, but Zeus had no way of understanding the words. He listened as carefully as he could, and nodded to encourage the man to continue, but the sounds flowed over him like the ocean.
“Let’s go find somebody that can help us,” insisted Christian. “Or at least get to Solt. Hell.”
“She may not be using that name,” said Zeus.
“I don’t care anymore,” said Christian. “I want to get the hell out of here. I feel claustrophobic.”
“Relax.”
“Don’t tell me that anymore,” said Christian, starting for the door. “My head’s going to explode.”
The airline official who’d been speaking inside was talking to another employee in the hallway. Christian strode up to him and in a loud voice demanded to know what was going on.
The airline official briefly glanced at him, then went back to his own intense discussion with his fellow employee.
Christian grabbed his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
The airline official jumped away from Christian’s grip.
“Easy, Win,” Zeus told Christian. “You’re not helping. He doesn’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
The airline official stepped back, hands out in horror. His companion began backing up the hall.
“He didn’t mean anything,” Zeus told them. “He’s just a little tired.”
The airline officials exchanged a look, then retreated farther into the building.
“Let’s go after them,” said Christian. “There has to be somebody who works for the airline who speaks English.”
“They’ll get somebody. Wait,” said Zeus. But Christian had already started after them.
Reluctantly, Zeus followed in the direction that the two men had taken. A pair of policemen stood in the hallway just around the corner, blocking the way.
“Excuse me,” said Christian.
Neither man moved. Zeus saw that Christian’s face was beet red again, and his voice was shaky.
“Do you speak English?” Zeus asked the policemen. “A little? We’re trying to find out what’s going on. No one seems to be able to help us.”
The man on the right said something in a sharp tone, then pointed behind them, indicating they should return to the room.
“What if we don’t want to go back?” snapped Christian.
The policeman began gesticulating, thrusting his finger toward Christian’s chest as he spoke in a rapid and clearly angry Chinese staccato.
Zeus suddenly had a premonition of what was going to happen.
“No!” he yelled, reaching for Christian.
But it was too late.
“I’m not taking this shit anymore!” said Christian, launching a left hook that caught his antagonist square in the side of the head.
~ * ~
11
Eastern Pennsylvania
Once the interviews were finished, the Marshal Service took Mara and Josh to a motel in eastern Pennsylvania where they could rest and not be bothered for the rest of the night. But even though they had rented an entire floor of the motel, they were concerned enough about security to tell Mara that she couldn’t go out for a walk by herself.
Josh went right to bed, and fell asleep as soon as he’d pulled the thin blanket over his chest. He slept soundly, and woke smoothly and quickly, rising in the unfamiliar room about a half hour before dawn.
The heat was on, but after Vietnam, it felt cold. He pulled on a sweatshirt, then went to take a walk.
“Hey now, where do you think you’re going, son?” asked the marshal sitting in the hallway when he emerged from his room. He had a Texas accent, accentuated by a pair of scuffed boots that poked far out of his pant legs.
“Walk,” said Josh.
“Uh, not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
The Texan blinked at him.
Josh shrugged and went to the stairs. The marshal hesitated for a moment, then got up to follow.
The crisp air outside felt bracing. The motel was located at the end of the town’s business district, a mix of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Victorian storefronts and 1960s-era highway development. The stylistic mishmash was comforting to Josh—it reminded him of the area where he’d grown up. A large Mobil sign lit the corner ahead. Josh walked to it, thinking he would find a cup of coffee there. But the station wasn’t open yet. He continued through the lot, trailed by his bodyguard, who for some reason didn’t seem inclined to get very close.
A light shone through the window of a cement block building across the street. Josh glanced both ways, then crossed toward it. The place turned out to be a bagel shop, and there were people inside—the baker and his helper, along with two customers who sat talking at a corner table as Josh came in. Coffee was served at a counter to the side. Josh helped himself to a cup, then went and got two bagels.
“I’ll get it,” said the Texan, coming into the shop.
“Thanks,” said Josh. He stood back and waited while the marshal poured himself a coffee. The two customers were talking about a high school football game, apparently played years before.
“Feel like walking some more?” asked Josh when the marshal finished paying.
He nodded.
Josh started to go out the door when the headline on the local newspaper caught his eye.
QUESTIONS RAISED ON
CHINA INVASION CLAIM
Invasion? It was a massacre, not just an invasion.
He nearly bumped into the marshal as he turned back
to look at the paper. It was a tabloid, and the headline, in large bold type, ran over an unrelated photo of a local house fire. It referred to a story inside the paper.
Josh went back and bought the paper. He stood back from the counter, folding the paper over so he could read it.
Chinese officials immediately questioned whether the footage was authentic.
“All along, the Vietnamese have been very adept at manipulating public opinion,” said Xi Hing Lee, a Chinese representative to the UN. “They have posted things on YouTube that are clearly fake.”
“And I guess the missile on the bridge was made up, too?” said Josh aloud.
“Not here,” said the marshal, in a gruff, though barely audible voice.
Josh continued reading. The story basically called him a liar, reporting the Chinese claims that the talk of atrocities was propaganda initiated by the Vietnamese.
He folded the newspaper beneath his arm as calmly as he could, took a small sip of coffee, then left the shop. This time, the marshal stayed with him as he walked down the street.
“What the hell?” said Josh, turning toward him. “I mean, what the hell?”
“Ah. Never believe what you read in the papers.”
“How can they think I made it up? I gave them a video for crap’s sake.”
His bodyguard shrugged.
Josh shook his head. He was walking back in the direction of the hotel, but he was too mad to go back to his room—he needed to burn off some energy. He reversed course, steaming back past the bagel shop practically at flank speed.
“You can’t take shit like this personally, kid,” said the marshal finally. He was taller than Josh, but he seemed to be having trouble keeping up.
“You like being called a liar?” Josh asked.
“Well—”
“Yeah. That’s exactly my point.”
~ * ~
12
Beihai Airport, China
Zeus saw in slow motion:
Christian punching the policeman, the policeman falling against his comrade, Christian launching another punch, this one catching the man full in the face and throwing him backward.
Bowled over by his comrade, the second policeman sprawled on the ground. Zeus’s first instinct was to reach down and help him up, but as he did, the man began pushing himself backward to get away.
“It’s all right,” said Zeus. “This is all a mistake. It’s just a mistake.”
The frightened policeman had a whistle attached to a ring on one of his fingers. He put his hand to his mouth and began to blow.
“Damn you!” yelled Christian.
Zeus grabbed him before he could kick the policeman. He pushed Christian back against the wall.
“This is just a big misunderstanding,” yelled Zeus, still thinking he could calm the situation.
But it had gone far beyond that—the other policeman reached to his holster for his gun.
“We gotta get out of here!” yelled Christian. He slipped from Zeus’s grasp and ran down the hall toward the door.
Zeus saw the officer pulling the gun out. He took two steps and kicked it away. Then he started running. Shouts and whistles echoed through the hall. The passengers in the room crowded around the door, gaping as Zeus passed.
Christian flew through the door to the outside. Zeus followed. There was no other choice; running was the only option now.
Eventually, though, he was going to kick Christian’s head in.
Zeus hit the door with his left shoulder, jolting it open. The two policemen who’d been outside were yelling at Christian to stop. The one on the right raised his pistol to fire. Zeus launched himself at the man. He hit him hard in the back, toppling him over. The gun fired, then flew from the cop’s hand as he hit the pavement. Zeus scrambled after it, scooping it up in his right hand before jumping to his feet.
Where the hell is Christian?
Zeus saw someone beyond the circle of light running behind the dark shadow of the nearby bus. He threw himself forward, tripping, but then regaining his balance. He pumped his legs. They felt as if they were thigh-deep in mud, each stride an effort. His heart pumped hard in his chest, the beats thick in his throat as he ran for the bus.
“Christian! For crap’s sake, where the hell are you!” he yelled. “Christian!”
There was no answer, or at least none that he could hear. But the second bus pulled out from around the first. Zeus veered toward it, still running at top speed. The bus lurched, then slowed, its door open.
Zeus heard a pair of gunshots just as he reached the vehicle. He grabbed the bar inside the door and pulled himself up, holding on as Christian stepped on the gas.
“What the hell are you doing?” Zeus yelled.
“Getting the hell out of here! You got any better ideas?”
They barreled down the apron area for a few hundred feet, lights off, then veered left as Christian ran out of pavement. The bus tipped hard on its wheels, squealing ferociously but remaining upright.
“Where are you going?” demanded Zeus.
“Out of here!”
“You’re heading for the runway.”
“Tell me something better.”
A white light cut across their path. The bus began to shake. The white turned black, then flashed red. A plane passed overhead so close Zeus thought it was going through them.
By the time Christian reacted the plane had already passed. He braked hard, then overcorrected as the bus veered left. They fishtailed back and forth. Zeus flew to the floor, arms curled around his head. He was sure they were going to roll over. But somehow the bus remained on all four wheels, weaving a little less wildly as Christian fought to find something approaching a straight line. By the time Zeus got to his feet, Christian had found a service road. There was a fence ahead; beyond it, an open field.
Christian headed straight for the fence.
“What!” yelled Zeus.
Christian didn’t answer.
“Stay on the road! Turn!” yelled Zeus.
Christian, eyes glazed, drove straight through the fence. The bus wheezed as it went down a short hill. Shaking and groaning, its front wheels sunk into the loose dirt as it hit the field, but the vehicle had enough momentum to keep going, plowing through a shallow irrigation ditch and then continuing into a field.
In better days there would have been wheat or soybeans here, but the land was dry and hard-packed by the lack of rain over the past two years. The bus plowed on, hurling dust in a whirlwind around them. They continued across for a good three or four hundred feet, until they drove into a second ditch. This one was deep enough for the front bumper of the bus to strike the embankment as it came to the bottom. The bumper ground into the earth like a spear and the back of the bus flew to the right. For a moment it seemed to Zeus that he was flying. Time stopped in midair, everything frozen. All of his thoughts were frozen before him, snippets and shards of ideas and sensations: the war, the U.S., his prize Corvette, Solt Jan—they were all there around him, like playing cards spread out on a table.
Then time went fast again. The bus crashed onto its side with a thud. Zeus sprawled against the glass, bashing his face as he fell. His knee hit the top of a seatback as he fell, and he felt his kneecap pop. He rolled through the bus, arms flailing as he tried to grab a handhold.
Zeus lost his breath, his side collapsing from a sharp blow against the side of something in the bus. He fell on his back, trying to will his diaphragm and lungs to work again. He squeezed and squeezed until realizing that was exactly the wrong thing to do. He relaxed and his breath came back.
His vision widened from the black dot it had fled to. He saw the bus’s interior, dust filtering in a yellowish-red glow that came from the dash lights and the LEDs on the floor and ceiling.
Christian groaned behind him.
“We have to get the hell out of here,” said Zeus, getting to his knees. He rose and moved tentatively down the row of windows to one marked with red LEDs. He put his hands
on the bottom, and pushed. His left wrist hurt; he wedged his elbow against the frame instead and popped out the emergency window.
“You comin’?” he yelled, climbing halfway out.
Christian groaned in response. Zeus looked around. The airport was straight ahead, quiet in the distance, at least for the moment.
There was a highway not fifty yards away, up a slight hill.
“Come on,” said Zeus, ducking back into the bus. “There’s a road.”