by Larry Bond
Two barrels. Which made them… what?
Russian ZSU-57s?
No way. Too old.
They weren’t aligned very well for defense. The positioning was the sort of thing you would see if you were expecting some sort of civil disturbance.
They were still in that mode, not quite ready for the war they were actually fighting.
A vehicle moved from the shadows ahead. It had its running lights but not its headlights on. At first glance, Zeus thought it was a sedan, but as it approached he realized it was a crew cab pickup. There were soldiers standing in the back, leaning over the roof.
The man who had been leading them raised his hand as it pulled up. There were two soldiers sitting in the front seat. The man opened the rear passenger side door and gestured toward Zeus.
“We can’t get in,” whispered Christian. “Who the hell knows where they’re taking us?”
“We don’t really have much choice at this point,” Zeus told him. “Just relax. We’ll get through this.”
“Fuck you, relax.”
“Listen to me. Just play along — we’re businessmen. Do not change your story.”
“Businessmen get arrested by half the army?”
Zeus climbed in. The cab smelled funny — like roasted peanuts, he thought.
Neither of the two men in front said anything. The soldiers who had escorted them slammed the door shut after Christian got in.
“What the hell?” hissed Christian.
Zeus shook his head. The truck started forward in a gentle glide, barely moving at first, then gradually picking up speed. It moved toward the terminal building, on the opposite side from where they’d come out. The personnel carriers were on their right. Then the driver found a road marked with reflectors across the wide asphalt concourse and turned sharply. Their speed gradually increased as they moved away from the terminal building. They passed some maintenance vehicles, then slowed as they approached a hangar.
A two-engined Fokker 50 passenger plane sat out front. The truck stopped.
Zeus pulled the door handle next to him, only to find it was secured by a lock that allowed it to be opened only from the outside.
They sat in the dark for a moment. Zeus considered the odds of overpowering both men in the front. He could strangle the driver easily enough; could Christian take the other?
Push the man aside, flip over the seat — he’d probably be able to make it before anyone in the bed behind them or outside could react. Once in the driver’s seat, he could simply back up, drive around to the front.
Desperation move.
Was it better than just doing nothing?
Yes.
He was just turning to Christian, intending on miming what he wanted to do, when the door next to him opened.
It was Solt Jan. “Out. On the plane. Let’s go!” she ordered.
* * *
Zeus took a slow breath as he pushed out of the truck. Solt was already halfway to the plane.
“What the hell?” asked Christian under his breath.
Zeus followed Solt to the stairs leading to the aircraft. He walked deliberately, trying to observe the surroundings without being too obvious. There were some mechanics or maintenance personnel in the hangar, but no soldiers.
He glanced back at Christian, who was still back near the truck.
Was Christian thinking of making a break for it?
Don’t, thought Zeus. Play this through.
Christian started walking. He was mumbling when he reached the steps.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
“There’s probably food on the plane.”
“Right.”
Zeus went up and found Solt waiting just inside the door.
“Take the seats in row six,” she whispered. She handed him their passports. “Say nothing.”
“Where are we going?”
“Say nothing,” she hissed. “Good luck.”
8
Beijing
Premier Cho Lai folded his arms as the defense minister continued. He was losing the struggle to keep his temper.
“The attack a few hours ago on our invasion fleet illustrates a capacity we had not realized the Vietnamese had,” continued Lo Gong. He turned to the large display at the front of the war room. “There have been attacks on the harbor, and encounters all along the coast. We dare not move the fleet forward until we have cleared the waters.”
“How many were true encounters, and how many were sailors having panic attacks?” said General Qingyun Pu sharply. It was not a question. Qingyun headed the air force, and was Cho Lai’s most aggressive general.
“We have images of the attack and casualty reports,” answered Lo Gong. “We’ve already lost two patrol boats and several landing craft. Perhaps the air force believes it can do a better job.”
“We could flatten Vietnam in a day.”
“You haven’t even conquered Hanoi,” answered Gong.
“Enough,” said Cho Lai. The premier liked Qingyun Pu, but the defense minister had a point. “What is the impact on our plans?”
“We are shifting our resources,” said the general. “We will be ready to launch a different attack along the coast within hours.”
“Good.”
“The next question is what the American Navy will do,” said Lo Gong. He pointed to a spot near the southern Vietnamese coast. “The American destroyer sent to test the blockade has been moving north. We are continuing to shadow him. At the moment, it is the nearest vessel. Most of the American fleet is near Taiwan.”
“How do we know the destroyer didn’t launch the attack?” asked the premier.
“The destroyer was out of range, Your Excellency.”
“What about an American submarine?”
The defense minister lowered his gaze. “As for an American submarine, I can assure you, the Americans would have made a much larger attack. We have our aircraft carrier to worry about. No, this was a surprise and beyond what we thought the Vietnamese could launch, but far less than the American capacity. They are still out of the war. They are afraid to attack.”
Cho Lai kept his thoughts on that subject to himself.
The discussion continued. The main thrust of the Chinese army had been slowed by the destruction of the dams west of Hanoi. The flood-waters were gradually subsiding, and the attack could be resumed within a few days. Ho Chi Minh City would be theirs within a week.
“Assuming the political winds remain in our favor,” said the defense minister.
“I will worry about the winds,” said Cho Lai. “You push our generals to be more aggressive. They act like old women, afraid of their own shadows.”
* * *
Cho Lai still pondered Lo Gung’s assessment of the Americans a half hour later as he sat in his office, listening to the latest intelligence briefing on the UN speech. The American president was certainly doing his best to urge a confrontation.
The intelligence reports said American public opinion was against intervention. Cho Lai wasn’t so sure.
Even with their well-documented decline, the Americans were a force that must be dealt with carefully. Militarily, they were still ahead of the Chinese in many areas — not all, however, and the gap was closing rapidly, but Cho Lai knew it was best to avoid direct conflict for at least another year, perhaps two or even three. He needed the time not so much to catch up with their weaponry — the estimate there was closer to a year and a half — but to get his people healthy again. The drought that had spread from western China had devastated much of the rural population. The impact could be measured in calories — the average peasant in Yunnan Province ate five hundred calories per day.
Five hundred. A quarter of what was needed to live. Those who had fled to the cities fared somewhat better, but even in the places where food was plentiful, wages were unable to keep up. He was not surprised that there had been food riots; the wonder was that there hadn’t been more.
Just enough to bring him to power. But surely that wouldn
’t last. He needed Vietnam, its oil, but mostly its rice, its soil, and its climate. And he needed Cambodia and Thailand. The shifting of the weather patterns had favored them all at China’s expense.
“Your Excellency?”
Cho Lai looked up. His intelligence minister, Ludi Yan, had returned to his office after taking a call outside.
“The agent we sent almost reached him on the bridge,” said Ludi Yan. “But the plan fell short.”
Cho Lai nodded.
“The man — we believe he died. We are looking for his body.”
“Better that he is dead than captured.”
Ludi nodded.
“We have already begun blunting the American propaganda,” continued the intelligence minister. He handed Cho Lai a touchpad tablet. There was a video in the middle of the screen, poised to play. The premier touched the arrow. A scene outside the UN began to play, showing a press conference the scientist had held.
“I have no time for more of his lies,” said Cho Lai.
“Wait for a moment, Your Excellency It will pause.”
The camera moved to the right, looking over the crowd. Then the image stopped on a young American woman. Her face zoomed to fill half the screen. Next to it, a black presentation-type slide came up.
“She was called the Dark Horse in Malaysia, we believe,” said Ludi. “A very skilled operative.”
“A woman.”
“A CIA officer who has accompanied the scientist. Who is to say that she did not plant the information for him to discover?”
“His story is that he witnessed the massacre,” said Cho Lai.
“He ran from the camp where the other scientists were, so he doesn’t know what happened there. We have already begun to attack his credibility. Videos have been prepared. We have several operatives ready to contact media. It will be a subtle, but all-out campaign.”
Cho Lai frowned.
“If you do not wish us to proceed, Your Excellency — ”
“Do what you can to discredit him,” said Cho Lai. “Do not harm the scientist. That will only make it look as if we are guilty. As for this girl — kill her if it is convenient. That would bring some measure of satisfaction for our agent’s demise.”
“It will be done.” Ludi bowed deeply, then left the room.
9
Aboard Air Force One
For the briefest of moments, George Chester Greene thought he was going to get everything he wanted: a near unanimous censure of China in the UN, a vote in the Senate and House to provide troops to enforce a cease-fire in Vietnam, and a ten-point boost in his approval rating.
The last was always a pipe dream, but with Josh MacArthur’s dramatic appearance before the UN, the first two seemed well within his grasp. Yet within hours, everything began to disintegrate. The UN vote was postponed by Iran, either as a payback for oil deals between it and China, or as the latest in a campaign to tweak America’s nose — or very likely both. Senator Phillip Grasso, who had been among Greene’s biggest critics since the start of his presidency, had fallen into line, thanks largely to a thwarted attempt by the Chinese to kill him and Josh Mac-Arthur as they traveled together in New York. But Grasso’s influence in the Senate only went so far, and as soon as he came out in favor of intervention, the antis began mounting an offensive.
Then there were the lies from China itself. Greene knew the Chinese would attempt to pass off the American information as so much propaganda. What he hadn’t quite expected was how much the news media would play up that angle. Every story he saw seemed to focus on the Chinese counterarguments, rather than the clear evidence Josh MacArthur had brought back.
Greene had seen a confrontation coming with China for a long, long time. But the one thing he hadn’t seen was that it would be over Vietnam.
It was a supreme irony. He’d spent several months at the end of the Vietnam War as a prisoner in Hanoi. And now he was trying to figure out a way to save the bastards.
Not for them. China, and more specifically its despotic premier, had to be stopped. Vietnam was clearly intended as just the first of Cho Lai’s coveted prizes. The rest of Indo-China really would fall easily. The question was where would they go after that: Taiwan? Japan, perhaps?
Greene got off the exercise bike. The first time he had used it in Air Force One, he had thought it very strange indeed — he was literally pedaling at just under the speed of sound. Now, like much he had experienced in his brief tenure as President, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
He poked his head out the door of his private room. His national security director, Walter Jackson, was sitting on the couch of the executive office, talking to the National Security situation room for an update.
“Walter, I’m going to take a shower,” said the President.
“Mr. President, a moment?”
“All right,” said Greene, frowning.
Jackson hung up. “Can we get Lin in here?”
Linda Holmes was the legislative coordinator.
“It’s your meeting, Walter.”
Greene stooped down to the small beverage refrigerator. He paused over the selections — a beer would go down pretty well right now — then pulled out a bottle of water.
Linda Holmes came into the conference room holding a large binder in front of her chest. Now just past fifty, in younger years she was quite a beauty. Greene still found her attractive, though there wasn’t a hint of flirtation between them. It would have gone nowhere in any event — she’d just celebrated her thirty-year marriage anniversary.
“Mr. President.”
“Drink?” asked Greene, settling down on the couch.
“I just had coffee.”
“How’s it look?”
“Well.” Holmes opened the binder. She had an iPad 3 in the pocket. She fired it up, then flipped about midway through her book. She tapped the iPad twice, coordinating whatever was on the screen with her documents. “You need eight more votes.”
“In the House?” asked Greene.
“That’s the Senate. The House is even tougher.”
Greene cursed. Now he really wished he’d chosen the beer.
“It’s because it’s Vietnam that’s being attacked,” she added. “Anywhere else, even Taiwan — ”
“I know,” said Greene. “All right. Just tell me: Is there any hope?”
She made a face Greene had seen all too often in his short tenure as president. He called it the Bad News Grimace — I don’t want to be the one to tell you this, sir, but…
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” said Holmes. “If you could make some calls, it might help.”
“Give me a list,” said Greene.
Holmes tapped her iPad. The printer at the far end of the room began humming.
“I’ll let you know how I do,” said Greene.
He got up. As Holmes left, he took a swig from the water bottle and turned toward the back to his private suite.
“George?”
“Yes, Walter?”
“Are you thinking of sending the troops without the authorization?” asked the national security director.
“Possibly.”
“That’s risky. Legally.”
“Agreed.”
“The worst thing would be to send them too late.”
“I’m well aware of that, Walter. Do you mind if I take a shower now?”
“Couple of other things,” said Jackson. “The operation against Hainan seems to have been successful. NSA has intercepts telling the fleet to look for Vietnamese submarines. The admiral who was supposed to lead the invasion force has been recalled to Beijing for consultation.”
“Excellent.”
“Yes and no. There’s still a sizeable force on Hainan. They won’t stay there forever. And the CIA thinks there’s some sort of operation being planned against Hai Phong. The details are sketchy.”
“What sort of operation?”
Jackson shrugged. “Details are sketchy.”
“Get a hold
of Frost and tell him to sharpen it up,” snapped Greene. Peter Frost was the head of the CIA. “Tell him to stop sending me the latest fake YouTube and Twitter posts, and get real intelligence.”
“One other thing you should know, George,” added Jackson, his voice notably lower. “The two American Army officers involved in the Hainan operation as advisers? They’re missing.”
“Missing where?”
“Hainan.”
Greene pursed his lips. Just what he needed — another public relations nightmare.
“Very possibly they’re dead,” added Jackson.
It was a horrible thought, yet in this circumstance their deaths would be far more desirable than their capture.
A terrible thought, especially for him. Would Nixon have thought that about his capture? And yet it was certainly true for the country.
Or at least for him.
Was that the same thing?
Absolutely not. He had to be clear about that.
“Keep me advised,” Greene told Jackson, opening the door to his private suite.
10
Hainan Island, China
Zeus relaxed a little as the Fokker 50 lifted from the runway. They were off Hainan at least. The farther from the scene of the crime, the better.
The turboprops made a loud, droning noise that reminded him quite a lot of the turbocharger he’d installed in his old Firebird.
Odd to be thinking of the ‘Bird now. She wasn’t nearly as nice as the Corvette he’d kept, but she had been a pretty car in her own right, old-school muscle and gas guzzler. He’d done a good job with her, and she’d paid him back nicely, returning a decent premium over what he’d paid when he sold her to a millionaire on eBay. At least he assumed the guy was a millionaire; he didn’t even bark about the price.
The Fokker banked sharply, pushing Zeus against Christian.
“Something’s up,” Christian told Zeus. “We’re turning north.”
“Solt’s got it under control.” She was sitting a few aisles away.
“I’ll bet.”
“You come up with a better plan, let me know.”
Casually glancing to his right and then left, Zeus tried to get a read on the other passengers. He could only see a handful. They were all Asian, probably Chinese. They didn’t seem particularly worried or thrilled to have escaped Hainan. He thought of striking up a conversation to see what they knew of the situation on the island, but decided it was too risky; there was no sense calling more attention to himself.