by Larry Bond
“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.”
The screen went blank. Greene turned to Jackson.
“What do you think, Walt?”
“The Chinese have a lot of troops there. If they land near Hue they’ll cut the country in half. They can skip Hanoi if they want. They’ll go down the coast, take the oil fields, then get the rice. Hanoi will have to surrender. Then, as soon as they’ve got Vietnam under control, they go into Thailand. After that, maybe they show their teeth in Malaysia.”
“I would look at Japan,” said Greene.
“No food in Japan,” said Jackson. “Besides, Russia will have something to say about that.”
“Russia will say go ahead.”
Greene walked back and forth in the room, his energy getting the better of him. He was overdue for his evening workout, but it was too late for it now. He still had to call the education secretary to discuss strategy on the new education bill.
“Russia and China will clash eventually,” said Jackson. “They’re natural enemies. Maybe we can encourage that. Maybe the Russians will go along with us in the UN.”
“The first thing we have to do is stop the landing,” said Greene. “We need ships there.”
Jackson’s silence spoke volumes. The national security adviser was hardly a dove, but clearly he thought the situation was hopeless. There were only two American ships in the general vicinity. Both were too far south to confront the Chinese aircraft carrier and destroyers that had steamed into the Gulf of Bac Bo and the waters off northern Vietnam. USS Kitty Hawk and her battle group were nearly two thousand miles away. And the Joint Chiefs of Staff were arguing vociferously that the carrier be kept there.
“I know, I don’t ask for small miracles,” said the president finally. He turned to the communications specialist. “See if you can get General Perry back on the line.”
“What are you thinking?” asked Jackson.
“If I’m going to ask for a miracle, I ought to talk to the miracle man, right?”
10
Hanoi
Half a world away from Washington, Zeus Murphy was waiting for General Perry to finish briefing the U.S. ambassador on the latest developments before going with him to the Vietnamese army headquarters. While he faced a long afternoon working the Vietnamese through the latest U.S. intelligence, Zeus wasn’t thinking about the language problems or the difficult tactical situation the Vietnamese found themselves in. He was worried about his Corvette back home in the States, debating whether to have his brother put it in storage in his garage. Which would necessitate allowing his brother to drive it—never a good idea, given his driving record.
One of the embassy employees, a Vietnamese woman in her early twenties, came down the stairs. She was thin, dressed in a skirt whose looseness somehow managed to emphasize the narrow contours of her body. Very pretty, yet brittle-looking at the same time.
“Major Murphy?” she asked.
“Call me Zeus.”
She smiled. Zeus wondered if there was some sort of rule against fraternizing with embassy employees, and if there was, whether she’d be worth breaking it.
Almost certainly.
“The general would like to see you upstairs.”
“Great. After you,” said Zeus.
She blushed, actually blushed—Zeus knew opportunity when he saw it. But before he could take advantage, before he could even admire the rise of her hips up the steps, he was rudely interrupted by Major Win Christian, who shouted from the front hall behind him.
“Yo, Zeus—we leaving today or what?”
“Ask your boss,” said Zeus.
“My boss. Yeah.” Christian walked to the foot of the steps, lowering his voice. “You’re his golden-haired boy.”
Christian was Perry’s chief of staff, and resented Zeus’s inclusion as Perry’s special adviser in Hanoi. Zeus had never been too crazy about Christian, though his opinion had warmed ever so slightly during their mission together to help the SEALs and Josh MacArthur. They’d taken a van and driven past an enemy ambush to grab them.
“The general just asked me to come and talk to him,” said Zeus. “He’s on with the president.”
Zeus didn’t actually think the president wanted to talk to him; it was just a way of tweaking Christian. He jogged up the steps, looking for the staffer with the magic hips. Instead he found one of the American employees, a middle-aged male CIA officer who naturally claimed not to be a CIA officer. The man led him to the secure room.
Zeus was surprised to find that General Perry was still on the line with the president, and even more surprised when Perry put him on the line.
“Mr. President,” said Zeus.
“You need to push to talk, Zeus,” said Perry. “And tone down the exuberance a bit. It’s not quite professional.”
“Yes, sir.” Zeus found the button. “Mr. President?”
“Major Murphy, good to talk to you again,” said Greene. “Nice work with our scientist friend. Excellent.”
“I just drove the van, sir.”
“Here’s why the general and I wanted to talk to you. Everyone agrees that the Chinese are going to launch a sea assault on Vietnam’s eastern coast.”
“Yes, sir. They have all those landing ships on Hainan, the island to the east. And meanwhile, their carriers—”
“Your job,” said President Greene, not allowing himself to be interrupted, “is to stop the invasion.”
“Um, stop it?”
“Yes. Come up with a plan to stop it. Then get the Vietnamese to implement it.”
“I’m not sure it can be done, sir. The Vietnamese—their navy is, uh, tiny to nonexistent.”
“Then use something different.” The president sounded like a high school football coach, telling him to find a way around the blitz. “Think outside of the box. That’s your job. You’re good at it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You figured out how to stop the ground advance,” added Greene.
“Well, temporarily.”
“Come up with something for the ships.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“That’s all we ask. General?”
“I’m done on my end,” said Perry.
“Very well. Keep up the good work, Zeus,” added President Greene. “We’re counting on you.”
The screen went blank. Zeus looked at Perry.
“It’s kind of impossible,” said Zeus.
“I thought it’d be better if you heard it directly from him,” said the general.
11
Hanoi
A certain amount of paranoia was absolutely essential to succeed as a covert agent. The problem was figuring out exactly how much was the right amount.
Mara had arrived in Vietnam knowing the CIA station in Hanoi had been compromised, so the theft of the money shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. And the fact that the box was actually where it was supposed to be could be interpreted as a good sign. Since her goal was simply to get out of Vietnam, whatever else was going on didn’t really matter. She’d learned long ago to focus on the goal rather than the messy stuff it took to get there.
Still, despite the fact that the U.S. was now covertly supplying advice and aid to Vietnam, she’d been told explicitly not to rely on the Vietnamese for help, not even transportati
on. The implication wasn’t simply that they had a different agenda than the U.S. did: the Chinese were legendary in their ability to penetrate Asian governments and their militaries, as Mara had learned to her detriment time and again in Malaysia. Asking the Vietnamese for help might very well be the same as asking the Chinese for help.
Her suspicions and doubts wrapped themselves tighter and tighter as she drove her scooter over to the shop Phai had mentioned to sell the sat phones. Mara didn’t particularly trust Phai, either, even though she knew him from Thailand. She rode around the block twice, making sure she wasn’t followed, then parked in an alley about a block away. Even so, she circled around on foot to make sure there wasn’t an ambush waiting.
Under other circumstances, Mara might have simply left the sat phones in the city somewhere. But she needed money as well as misdirection.
The fantasies she’d had as a child about being a spy—she’d grown up on Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?, then graduated to old James Bond movies—didn’t involve credit cards or ATM machines. But they turned out to be an agent’s best friend in the real world. When they weren’t working, life was a hell of a lot harder.
Gold shops were common in the city, combination pawnbrokers and banks as well as jewelers. Like others, the owner of Ha Trung Finest conducted several other businesses on the side concurrently—tourist knickknacks and bottled water were featured in the window, along with hand-woven place mats and a rug.
He offered her fifty thousand dong apiece for the two phones—a total of roughly six dollars.
“Be serious,” scolded Mara. She was in no mood to bargain.
The proprietor pretended to look at the phones again, then upped his offer to two hundred thousand dong.
“No,” said Mara loudly, this time using English. She turned to leave the store.
“Wait, wait, lady,” said a woman, rushing from the back room. She spoke in English. “Don’t worry about husband. Eels for brains.”
Mara showed her the phones impatiently. The woman turned them over, looking at them as if they were pieces of jewelry. She flicked one on.
“These active,” said the woman.
“I figured you’d take care of getting new accounts,” said Mara.
“Without accounts they’re worthless,” said the man in Vietnamese.
“You just have to reprogram them,” snapped Mara in English. “I know that happens all the time.”
What actually happened all the time—and what Mara was counting on—was that the phones would be used on the existing accounts until the phone company finally got around to shutting them off. That could be days if not weeks. Of course, stating that explicitly meant acknowledging that the phones were stolen.
The store owners didn’t just suspect the phones were stolen; they were counting on it. But if Mara said that, they wouldn’t take them.
The wife looked at her. “Five hundred thousand dong.”
“One million dong each.”
Mara pushed the phones into the woman’s hands. The woman tried to give them back. The man behind the counter harangued her for interfering.
“Eight hundred thousand,” said Mara, speaking Vietnamese. “The account is good.”
They settled on seven hundred and fifty, with the woman throwing in a sling bag Mara decided she could use for her gun. Once the money changed hands, the man became gracious, insisting on giving Mara a bottle of water. He would have tried selling her the rug if she hadn’t left abruptly.
* * *
Mara had expected the trains south to be packed, but the station was almost empty when she arrived. Kerfer, Josh, and the others were huddled at the far end of the large room, camped out around a dozen of the light blue chairs. They’d bought some civilian luggage, and used them to stow their weapons and other gear. The SEALs had even found some new clothes and a doll for Mạ. She held the doll in her arms, rocking it gently and humming to it as she leaned against Josh.
“I’m assuming you have some sort of plan,” said Kerfer when she arrived. All six of his men—Eric, Little Joe, Stevens, Jenkins, Mancho, and Silvestri—were sprawled nearby.
“Are the trains still running?” Mara asked.
“You sent us here without knowing?”
“They were running this morning,” she said defensively.
Kerfer made a face. Mara went over to the ticket stand, a small podium-style desk near the door. The clerk assured her that the full schedule of trains was operating. She asked for tickets for Hai Phong—the cheapest trip available—and tried to pay with her credit card. The clerk told her that they were accepting only cash. She tried to use dongs but he would only take dollars, greatly depleting her supply.
Josh sat on the chair, his head hanging down about midway over his knees. His face looked even whiter than normal, and his eyes were gazing into space. Mạ leaned against him, but he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her.
“You with us, Josh?” Mara asked.
“I’m here.”
“He’s got some sort of bug,” volunteered Little Joe. “He ain’t pissing too well.”
Great, thought Mara. She had the images Josh had made of massacre, but Washington wanted Josh and the girl as well. There was no substitute for a firsthand story.
She put her hand against his forehead. He seemed a little warm. “You take aspirin?” she asked.
“Eric gave me some. I think it’s something I ate,” he added.
Hopefully. Otherwise they’d all have it soon.
“Hang in there,” Mara told him. Shouldering her backpack and sling bag—her folding-stock AK-47 was in the pack, her pistol in the bag—she pointed to the door out to the tracks. “Our train leaves in ten minutes. Let’s go.”
Mara walked across to the southbound train. It wasn’t the one she had tickets to, but it was the one she wanted. This train traveled along the coast, with stops at Dong Hoi, Hue, and Da Nang, among others, before heading inland to Saigon. It was a sleeper, and ordinarily would have been at least half full with tourists and businesspeople. But it was empty.
“Hey, they even got TV,” said Little Joe, pointing.
They spread out in the cars.
“You gonna give us all tickets?” Kerfer asked.
“They’re not for this train,” said Mara, handing them out.
“What?”
“They aren’t going to collect them,” said Mara. “We’re not going to be on long anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head.
“Listen, I gotta know what’s going on here,” said Kerfer. “I don’t like being on a train to begin with.”
“Neither do I,” said Mara. “I didn’t have enough cash for the right train. Besides, we’re going to jump out down the line. A friend has arranged to leave some vehicles for us.”
“You should have said that before.”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference.”
“Well, that’s what we’re doing. It was a backup plan,” she added. “And now we’re using it. Because I don’t like the fact that the train is so empty. The ones this morning weren’t.”
Kerfer frowned, then went and gave his men the tickets.
Two minutes later, the train started out of the station. They still hadn’t seen a conductor.
* * *
Josh slumped against the window. His pelvis felt as if it were burning up. He breathed slowly, trying to dissipate the pain.
He imagined it was something he ate, but had no way of knowing for sure. Maybe it was a urinary infection, but he hadn’t had sex in weeks.
Three months now, actually. When he and his girlfriend broke up. So that couldn’t be the cause. It must just be something he ate or drank.
“They have bathrooms on these?” he said, feeling the urge to pee.
“Up there,” said Mara, pointing.
The small closet reeked of human waste and ammonia. Josh felt his stomach churning and leaned ove
r to retch. But nothing came out.
“Let it all out, man,” said Squeaky, who was standing outside. “Just let it go. You’ll feel tons better.”
“Trying,” muttered Josh, steadying himself against the side of the coach as the train began to pick up speed.
* * *
The train ran along a highway through the city and immediately south. It chugged along slowly, barely approaching thirty miles an hour. Mara nervously watched the countryside pass by. Knots of Vietnamese troops were parked every quarter mile or so along the road. This was the safest way past the military bunkers where most of the government and army officials had taken shelter to the south, but it took them perversely close to them, as well as to several military installations along the sidings.
Mara left Josh and Mạ in the seat near the back of the car and went up the aisle to the first row, not expecting a conductor but prepared to deal with one if he showed up. A small bribe would be sufficient to take care of any problem about their destination, especially since they weren’t going to be on the train for very long.
“So when exactly is it we’re getting off?” said Kerfer, settling down beside her. He leaned forward and rested his arm on the seat back of the row in front of him, leaning toward her.
“Soon,” she said.
“That ain’t good enough, kid.”
“You’re calling me kid now?”
“I call everybody kid. I figure that’s better than lady, right?”
“Mara works.”
Kerfer frowned. She could only guess at his age—late twenties, maybe thirties. He had a rough face that seemed made of unpolished stone. His green civilian shirt and blue jeans made him look more military, not less, even though he was unshaven and his hair edged over his ears.
“All right. So Mara—what are we doing?”
“We need to get south of Phú Xuyên,” she told him.
“Where’s that?”
“Twenty-one miles south of Hanoi. Things are less tense there. We shouldn’t have to worry about being stopped.”
“I thought Major Murphy said these guys are on our side now.”