by Larry Bond
“What if I wanted tea?”
“Oh. Um — ”
“Just busting you, kid. Coffee’s good.”
Though Little Joe called him “kid,” the SEAL seemed to be about his age. Maybe being in combat made him feel older than other people.
“So you’re a scientist, right?” said Little Joe. “What do you do? You know, science-wise?”
“I’m a weather scientist. Actually, what I study is the relationship between weather and biomes. We were looking at the plant life, how it’s changed in the last two years.”
“Global warming, right?” Little Joe smirked.
“I really hate that term. It doesn’t describe what’s going on. Vietnam’s average temperature is actually lower than it was a decade ago. People think everything’s getting hotter but it really isn’t.”
Josh began explaining that the effects of rapid weather change were extremely complicated. In Vietnam’s case, the changes had actually increased the arable land and lengthened the growing season.
Little Joe chortled. “What’s ‘arable’?” he said.
“Just farmland,” said Josh. “They grow a lot of rice, and what they’ve been able to do with increased crops — as much from genetic engineering on the rice as from the weather, but the weather did really help. Anyway, what they have now are two and even three crops per year, with yields that five years ago would have been unimaginable. They even do better than we do back home. That’s given them an incredible boost. That’s why China’s invading. They want the food.”
“Nah, it’s their oil,” said Little Joe. “They got tons of it offshore. That’s what this is about.”
“Oil’s important,” said Josh, who knew that the oil fields off Vietnam’s eastern shores were reputed to hold over twelve billion barrels, nearly double the estimate of a few years before. China was a voracious consumer. “But food is the reason people go to war. Vietnam has food and China doesn’t. Or not enough, anyway.”
“Nah. Always about oil, kid. It’s always oil.”
* * *
Mara tried to stay focused on what Phai was telling her about his cousin, but it was difficult. The SEAL and his submachine gun had drawn the attention of everyone in the room. It would be clear that they were together.
“The difficult problem in his village is thinking the Americans are friends,” Phai said. “No one accepts that. Always be on guard.”
“I understand.”
“Then good luck.” He started to rise.
“Wait,” said Mara, grabbing his hand.
It was a breach of etiquette, a mildly serious one, since they were different genders, and Phai immediately tensed. Mara let go.
She apologized. He nodded stiffly and asked what she needed.
“I have some things to sell. Satellite phones. I need to find a place — ”
“I can take them.”
“No. They may be bugged. I don’t want you connected to them.”
He named a gold shop on Ha Trung, and gave her directions. Then he rose and walked out quickly arms tight to his body as if he were trying to shrivel into the air.
Mara fished out money for the bill, adding extra dong to cover Mạ, Josh, and Little Joe. She got up and walked to their table.
“Leave. Now,” she said, and without waiting dropped the cash on the table and walked out.
The SEAL with the truck was waiting at the head of the alley. Nothing like being conspicuous. Mara gritted her back teeth.
“Hey, spook,” said Little Joe, practically swinging as he came out the door. “Where to now?”
“You jackass. What the hell did you go in there with your gun for?”
“Bunches of people have their guns with them,” said Little Joe.
“Bunches of people aren’t Americans. They’re the militia.”
“Nobody complained.”
“Get in the fucking truck,” said Mara. She turned to Josh. “You have to have more sense.”
“I uh — ”
“Get Mạ in the truck,” said Mara.
“Listen — ”
“You thought he knew what he was doing, is that what you were going to say?”
“No. I mean — ”
“He’s got a brain the size of a pea. They all do.”
The three walked back to the pickup. Josh started to get into the open bed.
“Joe goes back there,” said Mara. “You stay in the front with me.”
Inside the truck, she told Eric to take them to Hotel Nikko.
“I don’t know where that is,” said Eric.
“It’s on Tran Nhan Tong Street. In Dong Da.”
“If it ain’t in Michigan, I don’t have a clue.”
“It’s south,” said Mara. “Go up a block and take a left. Go clown Ba Trieu. There aren’t too many troops.”
“Direct me.”
The hotel was one of the city’s best. A large Western-style building near Hoan Kiem Lake, it was located in a neighborhood that included several embassies, and so far had escaped damage.
“Stay with the girl and the truck,” Mara told the SEALs as they pulled up to the thick overhang that marked the entrance. There were soldiers around the corner, but none in the plaza at the front of the hotel.
“No, we’re with Josh until the place is secure,” said Little Joe. “Orders.”
“Screw your orders,” she told him. “The more attention we attract, the less secure we all are.”
“Hey, I’ll go inside and scout,” said Eric, jumping out of the driver’s seat. “If I spin around, something’s up. You stay with Mạ.”
“Fine with me,” said Little Joe.
Eric pulled his shirt out, making sure the front concealed his holster. Mara frowned. She waited a few seconds, then led Josh inside. The lobby was crowded with foreigners sitting on the couches or milling around, making nervous conversation.
Kerfer was sitting near the bar, nursing a beer. “Took your time,” he said.
“I’m not on your schedule,” said Mara.
“Longer we wait to leave, the more chance the Chinks have to overrun the place.”
“I wish you’d watch your language.”
“That’s rich. You think any of these people would object? Fucking Chinks are breathing down their necks.” Kerfer took a swig of his beer. It was a Sapporo. “You know the restaurant’s supposed to be pretty good. I ate here a couple of years ago. How are ya today, Doc? You eat yet?”
“I’m not that hungry,” said Josh.
“Don’t blame you. Heard you didn’t sleep well.”
Josh shrugged. “I slept okay.”
Kerfer pushed the beer toward the bartender. “Couple more,” he said in English.
“We have to talk, Lieutenant,” said Mara. “Over there. In private.”
Kerfer got up and followed her toward the side of the room. “You sure this place ain’t bugged?” he asked.
“We’re not talking inside.”
She went down the hall through a staff-only door and out into the back lot.
“You know your way around pretty well,” said Kerfer.
“Listen, your men have to keep their weapons out of sight.”
“Eric’s is under his shirt.”
“Little Joe was swinging his around like he was exposing himself in a girl’s boarding school.”
Kerfer laughed. “Well, you got him pegged.” He took out a cigar. “Copped this from the bartender. Cost me ten U.S. You figure that’s a good deal?”
“Conserve your money,” she told him. “I need to run a few more errands. We’ll meet at the train station at noon.”
“Train station?”
Mara stared at him.
“You’re out of your fucking mind, lady.” Kerfer clipped the end of the cigar with a cutter, then poked it in his mouth. “We’re going to take a train?”
“Why not?”
“Chinese’ll bomb it as soon as they can spare the iron.”
“We’ll be in Saigon by then.�
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“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“I know my way around. I don’t need you to hold my hand.”
“I’m supposed to get you back in one piece. You and Junior in there.”
“You were assigned to get me out from behind the lines. You did a fine job. I can take it from here.”
Kerfer laughed. He puffed up his cigar, pushing the flame with a series of sharp breaths.
“You’re just good enough to be dangerous,” he told her.
“Just get Josh to the station in one piece, okay? If you don’t want to come with us, then you don’t have to. We’re probably safer traveling on our own.”
“You believe that?”
“Yes.”
He laughed again, then blew a ring of smoke from his mouth. “I’ll have him there,” said Kerfer. “You trust me to do that?”
“Not really.”
8
Hanoi
Jing Yo had first met Hyuen Bo three years before, when he was assigned to visit Vietnam as part of a training regime for the commando regiment. He’d already been in combat for nearly a year, assisting guerrillas in Malaysia; the assignment was intended mostly as a rest period, but also helped familiarize him with the country of a traditional enemy. It would turn out to be the first of several trips, though at the time neither he nor his superiors knew that.
Hanoi had been his base of operations. As cover, he had enrolled in the college of science as a biology student. It was there that he met Hyuen Bo.
She was working as a clerk for the registrar, and helped him with his paperwork. He stared at her long black hair as she showed him the forms, entranced by her face and the scent of jasmine surrounding her.
He found an excuse to come back the next day, telling her that he was confused about whether he was assigned to the right class. There was no mistake, of course, and she looked at him oddly.
Raised in the cloistered monastery, Jing Yo had always been shy with women. With Hyuen Bo he was beyond awkward. But his attraction was so strong that he delayed his plans to travel to Saigon. He went to class a third day, and afterward went to the registrar, determined to see her again, though even as he came through the door he didn’t know what excuse he would invent.
Another woman was in her place.
All the blood seemed to drain from his head. He had faced gunfire more times than he could count, but the fear he felt at the possibility of never seeing the girl again was more palpable than anything he had felt during war.
The woman at the desk explained that Hyuen Bo had been given a new job. She was due to start in the central ministry as an aide and translator within a few days. The office had given her the rest of the week off as a reward for her good service.
Jing Yo managed to get her address. He went directly to the house. Hyuen Bo wasn’t there. He waited, sitting on the pavement in front of the door as the afternoon grew into evening. When darkness fell, he began to feel sick to his stomach — the only reason she could be staying out this late, he reasoned, was that she must be seeing a boyfriend.
Hyuen Bo’s neighbors watched from a distance. He could see them stealing glances, but none approached. He would have ignored them if they had.
Jing Yo sat cross-legged near the door to the house, sitting and staring into the growing blackness. He emptied his mind. He had done the same thing at the monastery for years and years, and so it did not feel overly difficult or boring. But his stomach continued in turmoil.
And then finally a cab pulled up, and Hyuen Bo stepped out.
Jing Yo felt his heart stop.
She started to walk right by him. He couldn’t say a word.
“You want something?” she said, turning her head.
“It’s me, the student, Jing Yo. I heard you are gone from the college.”
“I… What are you doing here?”
He rose. His tongue felt frozen but he forced it to work.
“I wanted to ask you to go out with me,” he said.
“A date?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him. “When?”
“Now. Or another time. Now would be better,” he added, feeling his heart would never work again if she didn’t say yes.
“We could take a walk,” she said finally.
And so they did.
* * *
“Why are you here?” Hyuen Bo whispered as he pushed her gently away from him.
“I have to find an American,” he told her.
“What?”
“Is there anyone in your apartment?”
“No. Come on in, yes. You don’t want anyone to see you.”
The small apartment was exactly as he remembered it. Two thinly upholstered chairs dominated the front room. A table sat to one side. A stereo rested on the top, an MP3 player connected by a snaking wire to his USB port.
“Do you want some tea?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Jing Yo sat in the chair closest to the door. It was one he’d always sat in. If he closed his eyes, he might wake up and find out that everything that had happened since he had been here eighteen months before was a dream.
Hyuen Bo came back with a cup of tea.
“China has invaded Vietnam,” she said accusingly as she gave him the cup. “Why?”
Jing Yo shook his head.
“They are claiming Vietnam started the war,” added Hyuen Bo.
Jing Yo said nothing. There was no way to justify the actions of the government, and even if there were, he would not have expected Hyuen Bo to understand or accept the logic.
She knelt down at his feet, putting her head on his right knee. “Why have you returned now?”
“I have a mission,’’ he said softly. He leaned down, covering his face with his hands. They were barely inches away, their breaths intertwined. Yet he suddenly felt the separation of time and distance as an immense, uncrossable border. “There is an American agent.”
“Where?”
“He has come to Hanoi. I’m not yet sure where.”
“And you want my help?”
“Yes,” answered Jing Yo, though at that moment his mission was the furthest thing from his mind.
It was a moment of temptation — weakness. But what he wanted was not duty, not even adherence to the Way. He wanted her.
“My superiors would want to know why I was asking questions,” said Hyuen Bo.
Jing Yo steeled himself.
“A friend might be looking for him,” he said. “It’s not a lie.”
A tear slid from the corner of Hyuen Bo’s eye. A second and then a third followed.
“Why are you crying?” Jing Yo asked.
“Chinese bombs killed my mother at the theater the other night,” she told him, raising her face to gaze into his eyes.
Jing Yo didn’t know what to say. The woman had always been kind to him. She lived around the corner, with Hyuen Bo’s sister and brother-in-law and their children.
“I’ll help,” said Hyuen Bo. She collapsed onto his lap, shaking.
Jing Yo put his hand on her back.
“Tell me what to do,” she said between her sobs.
9
Washington, D.C.
President Greene hated videoconferences, especially when he took them downstairs in the National Security Council facilities. The larger-than-life screens made them feel like television talk shows, and there was always a certain amount of preening for the camera. Even one-on-one they seemed fake, promising intimacy and subtlety but ultimately failing to deliver.
But he couldn’t very well fly to Vietnam to hear what General Harland Perry had to say. Nor did he want Perry to leave Hanoi just then. So this would have to do.
“The attack on the reservoir stalled them, temporarily at least,” said Perry, speaking from the secure communications room of the U.S. embassy. “They didn’t anticipate it. They’ve sent some units on probing attacks to the east. So far, the Vietnamese have turned everything back.”
Greene le
aned his chin on his hand, his elbow resting on the large table that dominated the conference room. Besides the president and the communications specialist handling the gear, the only other person in the room was the national security adviser, Walter Jackson. Washington and Vietnam were twelve hours apart — when it was 11 a.m. in Vietnam, as it was now, it was eleven at night in Washington.
“How long do you think they can continue to hold the Chinese back?” asked the president.
“Yes, sir, good question.”
Which was Perry’s way of saying he had no way of knowing.
“The Vietnamese are shelling them from across the reservoir,” continued the general. “The Chinese haven’t dug in. That means they’re going to move again. If I had to guess, I’d say there’ll be a new push in a few days.”
“Which way?”
“If they’re planning an invasion from the coast, they’ll try to come east,” said Perry. “They’ve got to. Going into Laos now will slow them down. That’s what Major Murphy thinks.”
“His track record is pretty good,” said the president. He remembered Zeus — the major had correctly predicted the route of China’s surprise charge into Vietnam. “So how do we stop them from going east?”
“Short of deploying the Twenty-fifth Infantry in the highlands north of Da Bac, I don’t know that we can.”
The Twenty-fifth was an American light infantry unit stationed in Japan. There was no chance it was going to be thrown into the battle, even if it were able to get there.
“What’s your wonder boy say?” Greene asked.
“Zeus is looking to punt.” Perry grinned. “I think he’d like to see the Twenty-fifth Infantry here, too.”
“Not going to happen, General. The Vietnamese are going to have to hold them themselves.”
“We’re working on it, Mr. President. We are. But if there’s an invasion along the coast, the Vietnamese are going to have to withdraw some of the forces in front of the Chinese to deal with it. Once that happens, their line will be so thin a breakthrough will be inevitable. Frankly, sir, I don’t know how long they can hold out.”
“Understood. Keep doing your best. My best wishes to all your men.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”