Shock of War

by Larry Bond

  He touched her elbow. The slightest frown came to her face.

  “Your English is very good,” he told her. “Is your accent British?”

  “I went to school in Australia.”

  Zeus looked around. The nurse who had scolded him had gone off to see another patient. Two attendants were watching from the far end of the room. The patients in the beds across from him were too sick or injured to pay much attention.

  A real shame, Zeus thought. Every eye in the place should be on this nurse.

  “Where are my clothes?” asked Zeus.

  “You must be released by the doctor to leave. Then you can get clothes.”

  “Good, let’s find him.”

  “You feel okay?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. I could do a dance or something.”

  She smiled, this time amused.

  Finally.

  “Come this way,” she told him.

  “I’m Zeus, by the way. Zeus Murphy. Zeus is an unusual name in America. My father was Irish. My mom Greek. Zeus is an ancient god of Greece.”

  He babbled on, knowing he wasn’t making much sense, but not really caring. Maybe they had doped him up.

  A pair of metal desks sat at the end of the ward, pushed together to form an L. Folders and papers were stacked high at the one close the door; the other was covered with small wooden baskets that were filled with rubber gloves and common medical supplies like bandages and shrink-wrapped syringes. A stern-faced man in a pin-striped black business suit sat behind the desk, looking over the material in one of the folders—a patient’s chart, Zeus assumed. He was about fifty, and even seated looked tall.

  The expression on his face could have soured milk.

  “Hey, Doc,” said Zeus. “I’m good to go.”

  The man looked up at him. He wasn’t wearing a tie, but his Western-style button-down shirt was cinched so tightly at the collar that Zeus wondered how any blood got to his head.

  “I’m ready,” said Zeus. He made a motion with his thumb, then pretended to scribble. “Can we sign out?”

  The man frowned at him and started speaking in Vietnamese. The woman responded.

  “Tell him I’m good to go,” said Zeus. “Right?”

  Neither paid any attention to him. Zeus thought of slipping away, but the idea of leaving the woman’s side voluntarily seemed … foolish.

  Finally the man behind the desk reached to the pile of folders, took the top one, and slid it across the desk. Sighing, he handed the woman a pen. She jotted something in the top corner, and handed it back.

  “You’re coming with me, right?” Zeus asked her. “For dinner?”

  She shook her head. “Much work.”

  “But you have to have dinner with me. To eat. For my strength.”

  She frowned, but not in a mean way.

  “And my clothes,” added Zeus. “You’re going help me with my clothes.”

  “Clothes are at the desk, the hall end,” she said, pointing. “To the right.”

  Zeus leaned out the wide doorway. There was a cage at the end, with a person working behind it.

  “I can do that,” he said. “When are we having dinner?”

  She tilted her head slightly, looking him over though her gaze never moved from his eyes.

  “Please,” said Zeus. “Tell me when you get off.”

  “Midnight.”

  “That’s when I’ll be back,” he told her. “Where should we meet?”

  “I…” She smiled. “I will meet you upstairs.”

  Zeus hadn’t realized until then they were in a bunker. They went down the hall, where an older woman sat behind floor-length bars that blocked off part of the hall and a side room. She had white hair, sunken cheeks, and a deep frown. Her arms were covered with large liver spots. Before Zeus could say anything, she got up from her chair, said a few words in Vietnamese, and went into the room.

  “She’ll get your clothes,” said the woman.

  “Your name,” said Zeus. “So I know who to ask for.”

  “Doctor Anway.”

  Of course she was a doctor, not a nurse. Duh.

  “Doctor,” said Zeus, bowing his head.

  She smiled, shaking her head—not quite a laugh, but certainly amused.

  * * *

  The matron found army fatigues about an inch too tight in the crotch and two inches too short everywhere else. But they were the best she had. The clogs she gave Zeus were a little undersized as well, but better than walking in bare feet. Making his way up the large flight of stairs at the opposite end of the hall, Zeus felt as if he were a character in a play—an elementary school play, the unlucky child who had to play a forest tree in a costume a size and a half too small.

  He went up four flights, stiff-legged, clogs clunking the whole way. A guard stood at the top of the last flight. He wore a helmet and a flak vest, and stared at the wall opposite him, unsmiling, his hand near the trigger guard of his AK-47. He said nothing as Zeus passed.

  The doors at the end of the landing opened into a large, dimly lit space that smelled like damp concrete. Zeus shuffled toward a red light at the far end, where another stairway led upward. The top of that landing was guarded by two soldiers, who snapped to attention as soon his feet clapped on the first tread.

  Zeus walked past them into the ground floor of a building that at first glance seemed entirely abandoned. The wide hall before him extended some twenty feet, where it opened into a wide room of desks and low partitions. The overhead lights were off, but sunlight flooded through from the left side of the building. The air smelled like dust and ozone, as if there had been an electrical fire. When Zeus reached the open area, he saw rubble to the right; two more steps and he realized that the far side of the building had collapsed.

  A woman in a light-brown khaki uniform stood at the far end of the room. She was talking on what looked to Zeus like a cordless phone. Looking up, she gestured to him, signaling for him to approach as she continued her conversation.

  The floor tiles had been freshly mopped. Aside from the crumbled stone that had been part of the building wall, there was no other sign of wreckage or destruction—no scattered papers, no debris or refuse. The desks Zeus passed were immaculately clean.

  “You are the American,” she said, still holding the phone. It was a satellite phone, an older model.

  “Yes,” said Zeus.

  “Go through the door that way,” she said, pointing to Zeus’s left. There was a large red door that opened outward. “That is the exit.”

  “Is this building okay?” he asked.

  “Go through the door to the left,” she repeated.

  She looked at him, obviously expecting an answer.

  “All right,” he said. “Okay.”

  She resumed her conversation on the phone as if he weren’t there.

  The crash bar on the door gave way reluctantly. Zeus had to muscle the door open, the edges chafing against the sides.

  The door opened into a concrete courtyard. The sunlight was intense, washing out his view. Piles of stone and construction rubble lined both sides of the space. A gray-brick building rose some fifty feet away. There were no windows, just a blank wall of bricks.

  As his eyes adjusted to the light, Zeus saw that the opposite wall had the outline of another structure—the building, or part of one, that until very recently had stood where the courtyard was. It had been reduced entirely to rubble by the raid.

  Zeus found a path to the street. Two troop trucks idled next to the sidewalk, but there were no soldiers nearby.

  He had no idea where he was. He was about to go back and ask the woman to get him a ride when a boy of twelve or thirteen called to him from across the street.

  “Joe, you need ride?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess I need a ride,” Zeus answered.

  The boy turned and darted to his left. The buildings across the street were three stories high, storefronts topped by apartments. All were intact, though the closest one to the right
had large boards covering what had been plate glass windows. As he stared, Zeus noticed that some of the apartment windows had been blown out; curtains poked through the empty spaces, fluttering with the light wind.

  A bicycle rode up to his left. It was the boy who’d called to him.

  “Where you go, Joe?” asked the kid.

  “Hanoi’s Finest Hotel,” said Zeus. It wasn’t a description—that was the name of his hotel.

  “Very good. Five minutes.”

  “How?”

  The boy started describing the directions, speaking in a mixture of Vietnamese and English.

  “No,” said Zeus. “I mean, where do I get the taxi?”

  “No taxi. No more. I ride you.”

  “On this bike?”

  “Very strong.” The kid rattled the bike, as if its sturdiness were the actual issue. “It hold you good.”

  “There’s only one seat. Where are am I going to ride?”

  The boy stood over the frame; Zeus would sit on the seat while he pedaled.

  “I’ll pedal,” said Zeus.

  The kid made a face.

  “What’s your name?” Zeus asked.

  “Lincoln.”

  Clearly, that wasn’t the case. But it made Zeus smile. He took the bike, positioned himself over the seat and the pedals, then told the kid he could sit on the handlebar.

  “You pay first,” said the kid. “Five dollars.”

  “Five dollars?”

  “Three good.”

  “I don’t have any money with me,” said Zeus. “I’ll pay when we get to the hotel.”

  “No pay, no ride,” said the boy, grabbing the bike with both hands. His look was so ferocious Zeus laughed.

  “I’ll give you ten when we reach the hotel,” said Zeus. “Okay?”

  “Deal, Joe. You pedal.” He climbed up on the front of the bike.

  “Where’d you learn English?” Zeus asked.

  “School.”

  “Just school?”

  “Internet. Very good teacher.”

  “I guess. Tell me when to turn.”

  Zeus struggled to get his balance and to get going—the tight pants and clogs made it difficult. He finally kicked off the clogs and managed a steady pace.

  The boy began talking, showing off how much he knew about America. His name was Linkin, not Lincoln; he had adopted it not from a study of American presidents but from Linkin Park, the rock bank, which apparently he knew from YouTube. He described a video of the latest Transformers movie, punctuating his enthusiastic review with directions to turn.

  It took nearly fifteen minutes to reach the hotel, which was guarded by a platoon of Vietnamese soldiers. Zeus had to argue with the platoon commander to get him to allow the kid to come into the hotel so he could be paid. The boy’s English was better than the lieutenant’s.

  When Zeus had been here last, the hotel lobby and bar had been filled with foreigners. Now they were empty except for a desk clerk and four security officers. The security men, all in their mid-fifties, refused to allow the boy upstairs. Zeus told him to wait by the elevator and he would get his money.

  “No no,” said the kid fearfully. “You leave, Linkin out.”

  “You think they’ll kick you out?”

  “You leave, Linkin gone.”

  Zeus glanced at the guards. The kid was undoubtedly right. He walked over to the desk clerk.

  “Major Murphy,” said the man brightly. “We are glad you have come back to us.”

  “I need to pay my friend here,” Zeus said. “He gave me a ride.”

  The clerk glanced at the boy, then made a face.

  “You have ten bucks?” Zeus asked.

  The clerk began scolding the boy in Vietnamese. The boy answered back, defending himself.

  “It’s all right,” Zeus told the clerk. “I have it upstairs. I’ll pay you right back.”

  “I do not have any money to lend,” said the clerk.

  Zeus knew the hotel did keep small sums of money, both American and Vietnamese, at the desk; Perry had borrowed some a few days before to pay a local driver.

  “Can’t you just lend it to me for a minute?”

  “These children are thieves,” said the clerk, getting to the heart of the problem. “You pay, it encourages them.”

  “Zeus, what are you doing out of jail?”

  Zeus turned around and saw Christian striding out of the elevator.

  “Hey, you got ten bucks?” Zeus asked.

  “Ten bucks?”

  “Kid gave me a ride. I gotta pay him.”

  “Get outta here.”

  “Come on, Christian. I’m good for it.”

  Christian pulled out his wallet. “All I got’s a twenty.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Zeus took it and gave it to Linkin. The worried look immediately vanished.

  So did the twenty.

  “You need help, you ask for Linkin,” he said. “Linkin best guide to Hanoi.”

  The boy turned and ran from the lobby, undoubtedly escaping before the hotel people could intervene.

  “You owe me twenty,” said Christian.

  “And you owe me your life,” said Zeus. “How come you’re not in the hospital?”

  Christian shrugged. “I’m tougher than you.”

  Zeus laughed. “Your problem, Win, is that you believe it.”

  12

  Alexandria

  Mara knew something was up when she didn’t see the marshal in the hotel hallway. She knocked on Josh’s door anyway, then called his room from hers. There was no answer.

  After changing, she went down to the lobby and sat on one of the plaid-fabric couches next to the plastic ficus tree to wait for him. There was a television in the corner of the room, tuned to CNN. Mara went over and changed the station to a sports network showing a tennis match.

  An hour later, when he still hadn’t come in, she knew he had left.

  Without saying good-bye?

  Impossible.

  She waited another hour. She had no way of contacting him—she didn’t even have the marshal’s cell phone number.

  She could get it from the marshal’s service.

  Mara held off, thinking it would seem too … what, exactly? Like she was worried about him? Or infatuated with him.

  More the latter. Which she wasn’t. Except she was.

  Finally, after she’d been sitting for nearly three hours, Mara’s cell phone rang. She nearly jumped from the couch.

  “Hello?”

  “Where is he?” demanded Jablonksi.

  “What?”

  “Mara, where the hell is Josh?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “The marshal service says they’re taking him home. What the hell is going on?”

  “I have no idea what’s going on. You’re supposed to be helping him. Why did you let him go before that committee? They made him look foolish.”

  “They’re the ones who look foolish. I told him not to say anything about the Chinese,” Jablonski added, flustered. “I specifically told him not to call them murderers. I told him not to use that word.”

  She clicked off the phone and got up. Time to get something to eat, she decided. And think.

  13

  Aboard the McLane

  “They’re too far away.”

  Silas looked at the image on the computer screen. The McLane’s present course was plotted against the expected course of the merchant vessels he’d been assigned to intercept. The line ended at Hai Phong—about ten miles shy of the vessels.

  “That’s at flank speed,” added Lt. Commander Li. “And it assumes the merchant ships will continue moving slowly. They’re only doing about six knots.”

  “We need to go faster,” said Silas.

  He turned and looked around the destroyer’s combat information center, or CIC. Stuffed with data screens and high-tech gear, the space was the McLane’s nerve center, literally the brain and spine of the vessel’s
warfighting ability.

  Long before Silas’s time, a destroyer’s chartroom served as a primitive information center, in some ways as much a library as think tank. But the advent of sensors such as radar and sonar greatly increased the size and function of the combat information center, and by World War II, the CIC was the most important compartment on the ship, with due respect to the bridge. Its function since then had not so much changed as it’s been refined and expanded with advances in technology. The destroyer’s sensors—and the information beamed from elsewhere, generally via satellite—put unparalleled intelligence at the commander’s beck and call.

  The downside of all of this information was that it had to be processed, which meant not only machines but people who could help make sense of what the instruments told them, and not bombard the captain or weapons officer with isolated bits of intel. The modern CIC—also known by the more modern names of Combat Display Center and Combat Direction Center—was as high-tech as the bridge on a fictitious starship, and in her own realm just as dangerous.

  “Commander, with due respect, we’re moving as fast as we can,” said Li.

  “Good,” said Silas. “Find me a few knots more. Let’s get to those merchant ships before the storm hits.”

  14

  Hanoi

  In the first hours of the war, the Chinese planes and theater-launched conventional missiles had been aimed primarily at radar, SAM, and antiaircraft sites, following the time-honored strategy of reducing the enemy’s ability to contest control of the skies. But with most of those sites neutralized, and the Vietnamese air force a marginal factor, the Chinese had intensified their attacks on the Vietnamese command and control centers. This meant a step up in their attacks on government buildings, including the one in Hanoi whose basement housed the hospital ward where Zeus had been treated.

  Vast swaths of the capital had been struck over the past two days as part of this campaign. The accuracy of the bombs and missiles was impressive—for the most part, they had avoided the area of west Hanoi where foreigners had their embassies and hotels like the one where Zeus stayed were located. And where they hit, the damage was generally contained to the actual target, as Zeus had seen leaving his building.