by Larry Bond
“Asshole,” said Zeus. “Proves my point.”
Christian began pounding the ground. Zeus, disgusted, shook his head. Then he realized his companion was crying.
“I am an asshole,” Christian sobbed. “I screwed everything up. I’m a wimp. I’m no good. I’m useless.”
All true, thought Zeus. But this was one hell of a time for such a revelation.
He squeezed his fingers against the corner of his temple. They were coming apart—Christian obviously, but he was, too. He already had. The fatigue of the last few days, the stress of the mission, and then the danger behind the lines: they’d reached their breaking point.
God, was it this easy to crack?
Zeus had heard dozens of lectures about battle stress and fatigue and posttraumatic stress, but in every story, the flash point had come after real duress: guys being shelled for hours on end, or marching through jungles for days, getting bombed by their own planes.
What the hell had he been through? One mission.
Actually, several. And getting to Hainan Island had been an ordeal in and of itself. But still, it shouldn’t have been enough to break him.
It wasn’t. He was a goddamn, well-trained soldier, for Christ’s sake—a freakin’ major, a MAY-JOR, not some skinny pimple-faced skateboarder tossed into his first firefight without a weapon or a radio.
Goddamn.
“Pull yourself together,” he said, addressing himself as much as Christian. “We gotta get our butts out of here.”
Christian didn’t answer. But his back stopped heaving, and he slowly rose from the ground.
“We’ll hide in one of the trucks, and go as far as he takes us,” Zeus said. “Come on.”
He walked back to the line of trucks. He decided it would be better to hide in one of the smaller vehicles, since they wouldn’t have to worry about opening the rear door. But the cargo area of the first truck was jammed tight with canisters that appeared from the colors to be acetylene and oxygen, and there was no room except on the top of them. The second was only half full: some furniture and boxes were secured in the front, leaving a good space on the bed. The truck was a flatbed with sides made of wooden staves, covered by a canvas tarp. Lying on his belly, Zeus could see off the sides as well as the rear, while from the distance he figured he would look like one of the furled rugs poking between the cab and the boxes.
“Say nothing,” he whispered to Christian as he slid into the back.
Christian, head hanging down, complied.
* * *
A week before, Zeus would have enjoyed seeing Win Christian crumble. The truth was, he hated the son of a bitch with a passion. He’d been an obnoxious, holier-than-thou type at West Point, and had gotten worse as time went on. Most recently, he had been Zeus’s main antagonist at the Red Dragon computerized war simulations, cocky and full of himself before the simulations, brimming with unjustified overconfidence. Cutting him down in the sims—Zeus had won every confrontation—had been the highlight of his posting.
But now Zeus only felt disgust at himself, not Christian. Because, if the truth be told, he suddenly felt just as weak. He should have stopped Christian from going nuts back at the airport. That was his responsibility, wasn’t it? He’d known Christian was getting edgy. He could make excuses, explanations—he was damned tired himself—but what did they matter? They were where they were because he hadn’t done anything to fix it.
Kill a civilian?
That was murder, pure and simple. Even if they were at war, it was wrong. Wrong. He had been trained, taught, better than that.
Much better. Zeus had served as a captain in Special Forces. He’d seen combat, real combat; not as much as a lot of other guys, including most of the men he’d led, but enough to have been tested and survived. And now he was falling apart without anyone even firing at him.
The truck rocked on its springs. Zeus turned back to Christian, ready to punch him for moving. Then he realized it was the driver in the cab. He’d woken up.
Zeus put up his finger and held it to his lips. Christian nodded.
They waited for a minute or two, lying silently on the bed of the truck. Finally, Zeus realized that the man had gone back to sleep. He curled back and put his face close to Christian’s ear.
“We have to just be patient,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“We’ll get out of this.”
One of the tractor-trailers ahead of them rumbled to life. The motor was loud, and the vibrations from the tailpipe so strong that the bottom of their truck rattled.
Zeus squirreled himself around, trying to make himself more comfortable. He also took the gun from his belt, keeping it ready in his hand.
He didn’t want to kill civilians. But if it came down to it, if it was him or them, what would he do?
He’d always thought kill-or-be-killed was an easy question. But now he wasn’t sure. Was survival more important, or surviving as a moral man?
If you believed in eternity, if you believed in God and heaven, then surely being a moral man was more important.
But hell, he was Catholic. He could always confess his sins.
The irreverence struck him as funny, and it was all he could do to keep himself from laughing.
There was more shifting in the cab. The truck started. Its muffler was shot, and the whole vehicle vibrated with the engine’s loud, uneven rumble.
The truck backed up slightly, then eased out onto the highway.
Zeus tried to quiet his mind. The jumbled emotions were due mostly to fatigue. He could get out of this—he would get out of this. All he had to do was keep his head.
They had driven for about twenty minutes when the truck began to slow down, then pulled off to the side. Zeus pushed himself tight against the boxes, holding his breath. He felt the gun in his hand.
Zeus caught a glimpse of the driver as he got out and went around the back of the truck, continuing into the nearby field. He was taking a leak.
Now’s our chance.
Zeus slipped quietly along the truck bed, and climbed down. Glancing back, he saw Christian’s eyes open, watching him. He motioned with his hands: Stay there. Quiet. Then he ran around to the front of the truck.
Zeus still had the gun in his right hand. He took it in his left, then quietly opened the driver’s side door. But as he started to climb up into the cab, he saw that the keys weren’t in the ignition.
Cursing to himself, he slipped down and gently closed the cab door. He took a deep breath, then another.
Come on, he told himself. Get to it.
Zeus slipped along the front of the truck, hiding behind the hood. He couldn’t see the driver. It made more sense to wait for him to come back, but Zeus’s adrenaline was rising. The urge to go and grab him was irresistible. He started to rise—and was startled to see the driver just turning the corner of the truck, not three feet away.
Zeus threw himself forward, striking the man awkwardly with his left fist. Had the driver been less surprised than Zeus, or perhaps a larger man, he would have been able to easily parry the blow; it was delivered off-balance, and Zeus was wide open for an easy counterpunch. But the last thing the man expected was to be confronted by a thief, and his eyes widened as Zeus’s blow landed. Zeus swung the pistol toward his head, catching him at the side of the temple. The man collapsed on the pavement, his eyes shut.
Zeus dropped to his knees, anxious. The man was still breathing, but he was unconscious.
The keys were on a long chain at his belt. Zeus unhooked them, then dragged the man off the side of the road.
“What are you going to do with him?” Christian asked, limping around from the back.
“Just get in the truck,” said Zeus.
“You gonna kill him?”
“Get in the truck.”
Christian blinked, then did as he was told.
Zeus dragged the man about twenty yards from the road. He bent down, making sure one last time that he was still breathing, then r
an back to the cab.
* * *
There was a large map among the papers in the cab’s glove compartment. Between the map and the large compass on the dashboard, they figured out that they were headed toward National Road 325, headed for Qinzhou.
The map could get them all the way to Beijing, but they’d need to stop for fuel several times; they had barely a half a tank. Zeus unfolded the map and held it over the steering wheel, thinking how he might get fuel without only American money. Fifty dollars might very well cover a full tank—he had no idea what the price would be, let alone whether a station out here would even accept American money.
Surely not.
Robbing a place would be even more foolish.
Christian sat pitched into the corner of the cab, quiet, sullen. Zeus thought he should say something to him, give him some sort of morale booster, but he didn’t feel like talking to him, much less cheering him up, so they drove in silence.
As best he could figure, they were on G050, the expressway heading westward. Qinzhou would be off to the right, to the northeast. They were so far from Beijing that it wasn’t even on the map. Zeus pulled the map away from the wheel, folding it before handing it to Christian. The major took it wordlessly, holding it in his hand as if it were a train ticket waiting to be collected.
The highway was not very much different than those in the States. There were few other vehicles; most were trucks, and the majority were going the other way. Every time Zeus saw a set of lights growing in his side mirror, he eased off the gas, hoping to let them slip by him with a minimum of fuss. As they approached, he felt a quick pinch of fear. He worried that the vehicle would turn out to be a police car.
None did. As each passed, he felt a small burst of relief, enough to cheer him and push him on for a few miles, until more headlights appeared. This rollercoaster of emotions made it harder for Zeus to concentrate on a plan, and it was not until he saw the glow of Qinzhou to the north that he finally formulated one.
“Give me that map again,” Zeus told Christian.
Once again he spread it along the top of the steering wheel. Rather than going all the way to Beijing, the best thing to do was to turn south. Vietnam was relatively close—the border was perhaps fifty miles away. True, there would be troops and border guards, but the fighting was much farther west, and in the jungle it should be relatively easy to find a place to slip through.
Even better: they could steal a boat from the coast and sail south. He already knew from the briefing for the mission that the Chinese weren’t able to patrol the entire coastline, and were concentrating their ships to the east and south. A few hours in a small fishing vessel would be far less risky than trying to drive to Beijing.
“Take this,” he told Christian, handing him the map. “We want to stay on G050 to S221. Can you follow it?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t guess.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know the road system. It looks like it’ll be a lesser road. Like a state highway compared to an interstate. Something like that.”
“Mmmmm,” said Christian, studying the map.
Though the map included Western letters and numbers for the highways, the road signs they passed were exclusively in Chinese. Christian worked on correlating the Chinese highway designations with the Western figures, and found the turnoff for S221, which cut south. But as soon as they pulled around the access ramp off the expressway, Zeus realized they had another problem. There was a toll booth ahead.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Do we have money?”
“What?” said Christian.
“Tolls. Look around—maybe there’s change in the glove compartment.”
Christian opened it and rifled through even though they’d already looked.
Zeus wasn’t sure what to do. There was a small, thin gate barring the lane; he could roll through easily enough. But surely the toll collector would alert the local police. They’d be pulled over in minutes.
He could play dumb foreigner. But why would a dumb foreigner be driving a truck?
He eased into the toll lane, deciding he would hit the gas just as he drew even with the booth. That would take the collector by surprise, and he might not get out quickly enough to see the truck’s plate.
A bare hope, but all he had.
“Money!” said Christian. He’d found a small change purse between the seats. “How much?”
Zeus tapped the brake, jerking the truck to a stop just even with the window of the booth. A woman who barely came up to the handle on the truck’s door peered up quizzically.
“Give me the biggest bill,” Zeus whispered to Christian.
Christian handed him a twenty yuan note. Zeus leaned his hand down to the toll taker, hoping that she wouldn’t get a good glimpse of his face and realize he was Caucasian.
The woman began jabbering at him. He guessed she was asking if he had something smaller, since she hadn’t taken the bill.
He shrugged, holding his hand out in an empty gesture.
“We should just go,” said Christian under his breath.
The gate was down. He could break through it easily enough, but that would mean they’d have to ditch the truck.
Zeus glanced to his right, looking to make sure there wasn’t a police car on the shoulder ahead. He was about to stomp on the gas when Christian tapped him across the chest.
He held out a toll card.
Zeus took it and handed it down. The tollkeeper said something in an exasperated tone, probably accusing him of being a dope. She kept talking, asking for something else. Maybe his license—were foreigners allowed to drive in China?
It didn’t matter. He didn’t have a Chinese license—or any license. And he certainly wasn’t going to give her his passport.
The woman scolded him. Zeus realized finally that she wanted more money.
“Give me another bill,” he told Christian, turning to him.
“What?”
“Just give me some more money.”
“There are two tens.”
Christian gave them to him. Zeus held them down. The woman took them.
The gate remained down.
All right, thought Zeus. That’s it. He put his foot on the gas. But instead of revving, the engine stalled, flooded by the sudden surge of fuel.
His throat tightened in an instant.
Quickly, he reached for the key. Nothing happened. He slipped the truck into neutral. Before he could try again, the tollkeeper banged on the door. He glanced in the mirror, saw her holding her hand up.
Change.
He reached down, took it, and with his hand shaking, restarted the truck. The gate was open; he eased through.
“Here,” he told Christian, handing him the money.
* * *
They drove in silence for another fifteen minutes. Zeus’s eyelids started to droop. Despite the anxiety and adrenaline, he teetered on the edge of sleep. Sleep was what he really needed—sleep would erase much of the fear; sleep would restore his strength; sleep would help him think clearly. If he slept, he could sort everything out. He could figure out how to get back to Vietnam.
He could decide what he felt about killing civilians.
He knew how he felt about that: he should not kill civilians. He could not. Even if he were at war, it would not be right.
If they tried to kill him?
Then they weren’t civilians.
What if they didn’t try to kill him themselves, but told other people who would try to kill him? What if they were going to do that, but hadn’t yet?
Where was the line?
“Hey—you fallin’ asleep?” asked Christian.
Zeus shook himself back to full consciousness.
“I’m okay,” he said.
“You got a plan?”
“We go south. We get close to the water. We get a boat.”
“Right.”
“So you gotta get us close to the water. But not a big town. A
small one.”
“If we’re gonna steal a boat we gotta do it soon,” said Christian. “It’ll be light maybe in an hour. Less.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d like to sleep,” added Christian.
“So would I,” admitted Zeus. “But we can’t.”
Christian checked the map. They were driving in the direction of Fangchenggang, a large port city. Would they have an easier time getting a boat there, or just outside it?
Outside, Zeus thought.
“We have to find a good road to take us around the city, into the suburbs but near the water,” he told Christian. “It would be better south—the closer we are to Vietnam, the better.”
Christian studied the map.
Zeus spotted a truck off the side of the road ahead. He slowed, saw it was two trucks. Then he realized both were army trucks.
“We’re getting the hell off this road right away,” he told Christian. He spotted a turnoff ahead. “Figure out where we are.”
13
Beijing
Cho Lai shook his head as his interior minister continued speaking. There had been more food riots overnight in Harbin. Meanwhile, the governor of Guangdong Province had sent police to “guard” a number of factories owned by party officials—a move meant as a threat to get more aid from the central government.
“All of this disruption when the country is at war,” said Cho Lai finally. “It is treason.”
The minister bowed his head.
“Criminals will be dealt with harshly,” continued the premier. “Remind them of that. And note, too, that we will not be blackmailed.”
“Yes, Premier.”
“You’re dismissed.
Cho Lai struggled to maintain his calm. On the one hand, he realized his people needed food—the shortages were severe, even here in Beijing: he had seen them himself on unannounced tours of the markets. On the other hand, he was solving the country’s problems. All he needed was time.
The premier rose and walked around his large office, working off some of his frustration. Things in Vietnam were not going as planned. His generals were like frightened children, afraid to take even the smallest of losses.