Chain of Command c-12

by Keith Douglass

  At least I hoped they were our late hosts. I'd never wished men dead so badly as I wished they were.

  Aside from cuts and bruises, I was basically intact. The question about my testicles I'd leave for later, when I had a chance to check them out more carefully.

  The going was a little bit easier nearer the stream, although we didn't dare stay right on the banks. That would have made us entirely too visible from air, and I wasn't certain that just our own guys would be looking for US. However, since we'd heard no signs of pursuit for the last four hours, I was kinda hoping that all the people who should have been looking for us were dead.

  We did the nuts-and-bugs routine that they teach you in SERE School, choking down insects and hunting for anything that looked edible. As usual, Gator had studied better in school than I had ― we managed to find enough to eat to at least make us feel full, and not kill us right away. Maybe some of it wasn't edible, but at least we didn't feel hungry anymore.

  Buoyed up by feeling full, we moved a little faster now. We were still taking it easy, traipsing along in the thinner jungle that crowded the banks of the stream, but I think we both had a little sense of hope that we might actually make it out. Until that point, I had refused to believe it.

  Finally, it happened. I heard noise off to my right and up ahead, and Gator and I exchanged a worried look. "We need to take cover."

  Gator nodded. "Over there." He pointed to a clump of fallen trees. A natural hollow was carved out beneath them. "There're not a lot of options, Bird Dog," Gator said acerbically when he saw my doubtful look at it. "We cover up with some leaves, maybe drag some brush in front of it ― it's the best thing around."

  "Okay." We hobbled on over there, and stretched out as best we could. I tossed some leaves over Gator, smeared some mud on his face where the sweat had washed it off, then dragged a loose branch in front of the cover. I added some mud to my own exposed skin, then hunkered down next to him and burrowed into the foliage. We waited.

  10

  Admiral "Tombstone" Magruder

  29 September

  Northern Vietnam

  We hiked through the dead, decimated countryside for at least six hours. The jungle still smoldered in spots. The stench of the fire had long since infiltrated our lungs, and I no longer noticed it. Off on the horizon, I could see a vague glimmer of green, probably marking out the extent of the forest fire that had raged through our part of the countryside. However, as far as I could see to the west, the devastation was complete.

  With Than gone, the men were oddly silent. I'd expected some protests as to my request that we continue west. A few of the men spoke English, markedly better than they'd let on earlier. They translated for the rest of them. There appeared to be a little disagreement initially, but the majority of them were so stunned by the fire and our narrow escape from it that they fell back as soldiers always do on the original plan. West it was, whether Than was there to supervise the mission or not.

  In part, I think it was due to a loss of confidence in their abilities. They were skilled jungle fighters, adept at sensing danger even as it approached and seeking cover within the lush vegetation. In the earlier raid, they'd moved silently through the brush to seek out the guerrillas who were shooting at us, without sound or any other indication that they were even there. I'd admired those skills then. But here, no longer in their accustomed terrain, they moved more slowly. No matter that the going was easier, if you remembered to check for glowing embers under your feet. No matter that they could see further ahead, detect any hostile approach before it got to us. All those things that reassured me left them at a loss, uncertain and tentative, as they moved through the blasted landscape.

  Whether it was that further shattering of their world or simply the knot of command in my own voice, we continued on as a group.

  I tried to ask about Than, but the men's English disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared upon his departure. Whether they knew something they didn't want to discuss with me or were equally as ignorant, I could not tell. Questions about the radio, the one I was now certain they must have, also were met with stares of blank incomprehension. Frustrated, I gave up trying to communicate and simply walked.

  I suppose it would have been reasonable to abort my mission at that time. Now that it was past, the terror of the firestorm was fast fading. It is like that with most life-threatening situations, at least those you survive.

  I was content to proceed along ― well, perhaps not content, but at least determined.

  It was the second air strike that changed my mind.

  I heard them before I saw them, the vague, faint whine that indicates an aircraft at altitude inbound. It gradually grew in strength, and now I was certain that I heard the distinctive rumble of Tomcat engines. It shook me out of the course that I'd charted for us, and brought me back to a realization of what my primary duty was. I was an admiral of the United States Navy, not some New Age truth-seeker at liberty to hike this country for as long as I pleased. Bombing runs, air strikes ― there was no justification for me remaining in country. I knew which countries were doing the fighting ― and which side I belonged on. Knowledge of my father's fate had waited for thirty-some years, it could wait a bit longer.

  The Tomcats broke over the ridge in a tight bombing formation, the noise pounding at us, increasing in intensity, then suddenly dropping down to a lower frequency as they passed overhead. I saw them fitted out with ground-attack weapons, dumb iron bombs, and a couple of Sidewinders slung on wing tips just in case. No fighter pilot ever wants to go anywhere without some anti-air weapons in his load-out.

  They took no notice of us, proceeding inbound on what I knew was a precision bombing run. They bore in over our firescape, then peeled off one by one as they reached an area of green past the horizon. At that distance, I couldn't see the bombs leave the wings, but I recognized from the maneuvers of the aircraft what had happened.

  The dull, muffled thud-thud-whomp that came later was all the confirmation I needed. Bombs going off in the distance ― the sound travels for incredible ranges, and there is no mistaking it once you've heard it.

  "We have to go back," I announced, absolute certainty in my voice. "Go back ― now." I pointed back the way we had come.

  The man who had taken over lead of the unit in Than's absence shook his head. "West," he said carefully, mouthing the word as though it were unfamiliar. "Go west."

  "No, not anymore. Those fighters, see?" I pointed up at the place where the Tomcats had been. "I have to get back to my ship. Now."

  I was aware that my voice was becoming insistent, demanding, and tried to moderate it slightly. After all, I was dependent upon their guidance and good graces for surviving in this hostile land.

  "Go back to town," I repeated.

  With a rough gesture, the man summoned the rest of his troops to him. There was a short, hurried exchange, punctuated by harsh exclamations and angry voices. Finally, he looked up at me. "No. We go."

  I turned away from them, and made as though to start back down the track by myself, hoping that they would follow.

  They did ― but not for long. Two seized me roughly by the arms and dragged me back to the rest of the squad. The leader gazed at me impassively. He pointed west.

  Unarmed, not particularly skilled in surviving in the wilderness, I had few choices. It appeared that these men would use force to insure my compliance. As much as I needed to arrange transport back to Jefferson, it looked like I was going west.

  We continued on in silence, the balance of power now subtly shifted back to the men who owned this land. I was in the middle of the pack now, surrounded at all times. Two men stayed close to me, evidently with orders to prevent my leaving again.

  Another three hours, and we reached the point at which the fire had evidently burned itself out. The damage was not complete now, and tree trunks still stood erect in places. As we moved further west, there was foliage again, and within a short span of time we were back in t
he jungle. Only the smell lingered to remind us of what had taken place behind us. Another clearing, and a camp so similar that it could have been built by the same people that had constructed the first one. I dubbed the earlier camp "Horace Greeley" in my mind, just to have someway to refer to it in my notes.

  The physical layout was essentially the same, one main building surrounded by three barracks. The wire fence still stood, along with the guard posts.

  But there was one, very significant difference that I noticed immediately. This camp was occupied.

  "Who?" I asked, pointing at the camp from the cover of brush.

  The leader shook his head. "We go down there," he said. He gestured roughly toward the camp. I heard my two guards move closer, ready to insure that I obeyed.

  A prison camp ― an occupied one. But from here, I could see no indication of its purpose. Was it still a prison camp of some sort? Surely it couldn't be a POW camp, not after all these years. Every rumor or trace evidence of such camps had been no basis for believing that this might indeed be such a facility.

  Furthermore, there truly was no possibility that my father was alive and living in it. None at all. Despite my intellectual understanding of that, hope still beat wildly for a few moments in my chest.

  Hope that was quickly dispelled once we entered the camp itself. It appeared to be nothing more than a military garrison, not a place of confinement. I saw no one under duress or chained, or in any way constrained in their movements. Instead, men in uniforms, ill-fitting cheap tunics and pants, went about what looked like the normal duties of soldiers in garrison.

  "Was my father here?" I asked the leader. I did not know how much Than had briefed him on, but suspected he might know the purpose of my mission in his country. "Here?"

  He shook his head, and refused to say anything. Instead, he proceeded to the main building. My two escorts indicated that I should follow.

  He knocked once on the door, and stepped into the main building. The door opened onto a large area to the right. TO the left, there were a series of other doors, most of them closed. The leader walked in, held a short conversation with a sergeant seated at a desk, then walked back to the last office on the left. He rapped softly on the door and waited.

  Finally, the door opened. I strained to hear the words of the conversation, but could make out only the tone. Something in the second voice sounded familiar, very familiar. It was clearly not Vietnamese. The accent was wrong, something else ― Slavic.

  Seconds later Yuri Kursk stepped out of the room and regarded me across the twenty feet that separated us.

  He was just as I remembered him, although it had been several years since we'd last seen each other. He was the Ukrainian admiral who'd been on board Jefferson during our attempt to resolve a crisis in the Mediterranean. I remembered him well ― it had been he who had set me on this path to find my father. His words were as clear as though they were spoken yesterday "I knew your father."

  "He was here also, you know," Yuri Kursk now said.

  "You knew I'd come." It wasn't a question as much as a statement. "And you knew I was in country now. That whole charade ― why? Did you do it just to torment me?"

  Even as I asked the last question, I knew it was more than that. It always was, in the intricate game of cat and mouse that passes for politics within the former Soviet Union.

  Kursk nodded slowly. "I was not certain, but I suspected you would come." He shrugged, dismissing the matter. "We've studied you for a number of years, you know. While you're not entirely predictable ― ah, and I wish that you were ― there are some things we know about you. Your attachment to family, your sense of duty. If there were an indication that your father might have survived, I felt relatively certain that you would feel obliged to follow his trail, however cold it might be."

  "It was your plan."

  He nodded. "There is more tied up in this than you know, Admiral Tombstone Magruder. Your father, problems that have simmered since the last time American armed forces waged war in this country, and even more." His eyes glowed at me, intense and penetrating. "I have some small reputation as a political analyst, Admiral. My own reputation rests on the success of this as well."

  "So you win," I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "Some intelligence network bet, I guess. Can the great Yuri Kursk get Admiral Magruder on the ground in Vietnam? So what's the big prize? A two-week vacation on the Crimean Peninsula?"

  Yuri shook his head. "That may be the result eventually, but the stakes are much higher than that. Much higher than even you know." A faint look of amusement crossed his Slavic features. "As much as I would like to claim that I engineered this entire thing simply as a demonstration of my political acumen, I had other motives. Good motives."

  "Shall we play Twenty Questions, or are you going to tell me?" The conviction that I'd been a pawn in a game I neither understood nor wanted to play in grew on me steadily. Halfway around the world, away from Tomboy and everything I loved, threatened by the fire that could have killed us ― and for what?

  "I will have to show you," Yuri said finally. He motioned to a couple of men, barking out a quick command in Vietnamese. One looked stunned, started to protest, and Yuri dismissed him abruptly. He turned back to me. "We will need a vehicle. At least for the first part of the journey. Then we will proceed on foot."

  "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about."

  Yuri sighed. He gestured at a small table with two chairs pulled up to it in the center of the room. "Some coffee, something to eat? It will be a few minutes while they make preparations. I will tell you what I can."

  "You'll tell me all of it and answer any questions I have or I'm not going anywhere."

  "We'll see."

  A sergeant produced two mugs of strong, black coffee, along with a serving set containing sugar and cream. A few moments later, plates heaped with steamy stew were brought to the table as well. "It's not fancy, but it is better than field rations," Yuri remarked as he shoveled up a spoonful of stew. "Go ahead, eat."

  I glanced back at my Vietnamese contingent. "Feed them too."

  Yuri studied me for a moment, then said, "As you wish." His people scurried around to make sure that it happened.

  "This all began immediately following America's withdrawal from Vietnam," Yuri began. He broke off a piece of bread from a basket of rolls placed before us, dipped it in the stew, then bit into it. He chewed carefully, his eyes closed and appearing to think, then continued. "It left a power vacuum, you know. For decades, first the French and then the Americans were here, the primary powers within this country. Neither of you were able to accomplish what you wanted." He shook his head gravely, as though contemplating the mistakes of our respective countries. "This area is simply too alien to you, too foreign. It is my theory that peace was never possible here, not in any shape or form. Vietnam is a small country surrounded by more powerful ones, and she must inevitably ally herself with those more geographically close. But nevertheless, the presence of America here, or, I should say, the withdrawal ― worked major changes upon this country."

  "How so?" I asked, beginning to eat my own stew. It was a strong, slightly gamy meat, but the rich broth and sustenance were welcome.

  "China is the problem, of course," Yuri continued. "She always has been, always will be. At least in this portion of the world. And not just for Vietnam ― for Ukraine as well."

  "And Russia?" I asked.

  A slow, thoughtful smile spread across his face. "Ah, Russia. An entirely different matter, of course. We are bound together with Russia's future, for better or for worse. Ukraine and Russia are so similar, share so many parts of history, that I doubt that either of us will ever be what you would call a truly independent nation. But for better or for worse, there we are. It is something that Americans do not understand, the imperatives of geography."

  "What about China?" I pressed.

  "China views Vietnam as her own special protectorate. You may not
agree, but it is simply a fact. At least from the Chinese perspective. And you must understand one other thing as well ― China is very, very protective of her own soil. These two facts inevitably lead to one conclusion that any dangerous activities should be conducted in one of her protectorates, not within China's own borders."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as producing nuclear weapons." Yuri finished that statement and took another bite of stew, giving me time to absorb it.

  A Chinese nuclear weapons plan on Vietnam soil. I kept my face expressionless and considered the possibility. It was possible, all too possible.

  Since I'd been transferred from South Com and was awaiting a billet at one of the Fleet Commander headquarters, I'd been slightly out of the intelligence loop. It was entirely possible that the U.S. knew about this ― and I didn't. Still, it seemed I would have heard at least some rumors about it, perhaps the barest warnings and hints in intelligence summaries. Yet there had been no word, nothing that I'd seen.

  Batman? Did CVIC know about this? I hoped so, because it would surely influence whatever plans he was developing now to cope with this latest crisis. And hell, I didn't even know what the crisis was. All I knew was I saw Tomcats dropping bombs in country.

  "What kind of weapons?" I asked finally. "Strategic?"

  Kursk shook his head. "When you say strategic, I am assuming that you are referring to long-range missiles," he said. "it makes a difference for America ― but not so much for us. Most areas in Ukraine and Russia are reachable with a shorter-range tactical missile, particularly if such weapons are transported to the Chinese-Russian border. You see, even when we use terms like strategic and tactical, they have entirely different implications for each of our countries."

  "So the shorter-range missiles then?" I asked. "Is that what they're making?"

  "That's what our sources indicate," Yuri replied. "Ranges of approximately a thousand miles, maybe fifteen hundred. A little bit more, a little bit less ― we're not entirely sure. But we do know that they're making them. And not just for China's use ― we anticipate that these weapons will find their way onto the black market soon enough."