Shadows of War rdr-1

by Larry Bond

“Of course we suspect that.”

  “But if the public had proof. Would it make a difference to you?”

  “Well, if we had public opinion on our side, in that case…”

  “Then let me ask you a favor. Do nothing. For a few days — take no stand on the resolution.”

  “You have proof?”

  “We’re working on it,” said Greene.

  6

  Northwestern Vietnam

  Jing Yo had been following the enemy soldiers for nearly ten minutes before he spotted the blood. It was a bright splotch on a long blade of grass. He stopped and crouched, wondering if the enemy had managed to set another ambush nearby. When he saw nothing, he moved forward again, staying as low to the ground as he could.

  More blood. A big splotch and a little one.

  Two more steps and there were three drops, all very large.

  The brush got thicker. More branches were broken as they passed, the enemy’s haste making its path easier to follow.

  It might be a trap. They’d been very clever so far.

  Jing Yo moved ahead carefully, his eyes straining to see through the brush. There was a shadow ahead.

  Stealthily, he crept toward it. It wasn’t until he was three meters away that he was sure it was just a tree.

  A few steps beyond the shadow, the scattered splotches of blood became a steady line, thin and narrow, then wider. After a few strides, Jing Yo heard a groan ahead.

  He strongly suspected a trap. He circled to his right, moving quietly through a group of trees. The enemy soldier had fallen against a bush and was leaning there, half suspended, facedown.

  But he was still alive. His hand was clawing at the ground, as if he were a turtle trying to right itself.

  Jing Yo sprang forward, rushing toward the man. The enemy soldier had dropped his rifle on the ground.

  The gun was Chinese. He wore Chinese uniform pants and top under a bulletproof vest and a regular-issue camo tac vest.

  Was he Chinese? What was going on?

  Jing Yo reached him just as the soldier managed to push himself faceup.

  He looked Chinese.

  “Who are you?” demanded Jing Yo, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him. “Comrade, what unit are you?”

  The man grimaced, clearly in pain. His eyes opened and closed. He was barely conscious.

  Jing Yo squatted down. The bulletproof vest was not Chinese; it was cut higher and was thinner. The inserts seemed to be made of a thousand spheres rather than the stiff plates used by the Chinese and most other militaries.

  His radio was foreign as well. He had German-made field glasses, unusual in Asia.

  Jing Yo’s bullets had caught him in the thigh and groin, tearing apart the flesh. Not serious at first, the wound had been made much worse by the soldier’s exertions running through the jungle. Blood was now oozing out onto his uniform at a steady pace.

  “Who are you?” Jing Yo asked again.

  The man groaned.

  “Tell me your name. What unit are you with? Or are you with the Vietnamese? Tên anh là gì?” he added, switching to Vietnamese as he asked him his name again.

  The man didn’t respond.

  “You’re American?” Jing Yo asked. “Are you CIA?”

  No answer.

  “Where is the scientist?”

  The man yelled in anguish. Jing Yo reached to his vest and took out his morphine injector. He removed the cap, then plunged the needle into the man’s leg.

  “Lieutenant, what’s this?” asked Ai Gua, plunging out of the brush.

  “Our enemy is wearing our uniform.”

  Sergeant Wu and three other commandos came up behind Ai Gua. Though the explosion had been fearsome, the IED had wounded only two men, both lightly. Wu had left two of his soldiers to care for them.

  “Are they Vietnamese?” asked Wu, looking at the man.

  “I don’t think so, but it’s possible,” said Jing Yo. Years of intrigue had taught him not to rule out any possibility; though remote, there was even a chance the man was actually Chinese.

  “They must have gotten the uniforms from whoever they stole the trucks from,” said Wu.

  “Yes,” said Jing Yo. “We’ll continue to pursue them. The best odds are that the scientist is with them, or behind them somewhere.”

  “If they reach the road they’ll be gone,” said Wu.

  “The helicopters will continue to patrol the area,” said Jing Yo. “It’s the best we can do.”

  Ai Gua had dressed the man’s wounds and checked him for identification. He had none, not even a wallet. But he did have money — nearly a hundred Vietnamese five-hundred-thousand-dong notes were wadded in his pants.

  Not a bad amount of cash for a soldier wearing a private’s uniform.

  “Who are you?” Jing Yo asked the man.

  The man began to babble. If he was speaking coherently, it wasn’t in a language Jing Yo recognized.

  “Stay with him,” Jing Yo told Ai Gua. “We’ll go after the others. Kim, you’re with me.”

  As Jing Yo started back through the jungle, he tried to visualize where the various forces were. The enemy soldiers had retreated eastward; both he and Wu were moving in the same direction and parallel to each other, separated by about a hundred meters. They covered a wide area, but there was still room to lose their enemy. The jungle to Jing Yo’s right was thick, and from the satellite maps was almost impassable farther south. The area where Wu was moving was sparser, and backed into a series of farm fields about a kilometer away. Jing Yo had sent troops there before heading to the area of the mine shaft; they should be in place by now, though they had yet to report any contact.

  The jungle pitched upward abruptly at a set of rocks that swung in a diagonal to the north. Jing Yo stopped, examining the ridge carefully. It was a perfect ambush point, with a good line of sight to the north.

  Just as he started moving to his right, a gunshot cracked through the jungle. He raced forward, throwing himself against the rocks as the gunfire suddenly thickened.

  It took him a few seconds to realize that the firefight was at least a hundred meters away. Wu and his men must be under fire.

  Jing Yo told Kim to move left, sending the private sweeping around his flank. Then he climbed up the rocks, digging his fingers into the thick moss and hauling himself through the bushes at the top. He rose and started to trot, jogging forward as the gunfire continued. When he had run nearly a hundred meters, he saw something running to his right. He raised his rifle and fired off a burst, then threw himself down. The answering fire came from two distinct directions, right in front of him and to his right.

  The one on the right began to run through the jungle.

  The enemy had split up. Most likely the man running was with the scientist.

  Assuming the scientist was with them at all.

  Jing Yo took a few steps back, then started moving to his right. There was a loud pop, and something flew through the trees.

  “Grenade!” he yelled, throwing himself down.

  The grenade soared over his head and exploded. Jing Yo started moving again, tamping down the impulse to run. He picked his way through the bushes, trying to stay low.

  Something green moved through the trees about fifty meters ahead. Jing Yo went down to his knee and fired two bursts.

  There was a scream.

  Jing Yo leapt to his feet and ran. There was no need for stealth now, no sense in trying to blend into the jungle. It was a race — he had to get to the man before he recovered enough to shoot back.

  He saw him lying on the ground, writhing in pain, half groaning, half screaming. He was dressed in black fatigues — no Chinese uniform.

  Something about his agony touched Jing Yo, provoking sympathy. He stopped, suddenly filled with compassion.

  The man rolled over onto his back. He had a weapon — an FN 40 mm grenade launcher.

  Jing Yo leapt to his right as the grenade fired. The projectile passed so close that he felt
the wind rushing past, the breath of a dragon provoked from its lair.

  He hit the ground hard, rolling as the grenade exploded in the trees some eighty meters away. Jing Yo got to his feet and, before he took a full breath, killed the man who had tried to kill him, crushing his windpipe with the heel of his foot.

  The monks had taught him this lesson long ago — save your compassion for the appropriate moment. In battle, it is weakness.

  The dead man had no ID, but like the other man, he had a considerable bankroll of Vietnamese money. He was out of bullets and had no more grenades. His face, big and gruff looking, seemed European; in any event, he was clearly not a Chinese or Vietnamese native.

  Was he the scientist?

  He was dressed like a warrior, with combat boots. He looked nothing like the man Jing Yo had seen the first night, or what Jing Yo imagined a scientist would look like, it was much more likely that he was one of the rescuers.

  The stutter of automatic weapons interrupted his thoughts. Jing Yo put a fresh magazine in his gun, gazing back to his left. He waited, watching for movement, but there was none. Finally the gunfire stopped.

  “Lieutenant!” yelled Wu. “Lieutenant!”

  “Here!” answered Jing Yo, finally allowing himself to relax. “It’s clear!”

  “We got two of them,” said Wu when he arrived a few minutes later.

  “I have a third,” said Jing Yo.

  “Only four men held us off?” said Wu. “There must have been more.”

  Jing Yo said nothing. The soldiers had been very skilled. Certainly there must be more, someone with the scientist. But where?

  “The scientist has to be farther along,” said Wu. “Should we pursue?”

  “Yes,” said Jing Yo, but even as the word left his mouth he realized he had made a mistake. The scientist had escaped down the stream; the enemy had distracted him, and he had done the logical thing, pursuing them rather than his target.

  7

  Washington, D.C.

  The president flipped off the television and turned to his national security director, Walter Jackson.

  “I cannot believe such a bald-faced lie can possibly succeed in the General Assembly,” said Greene.

  “They’re scared they’ll be next.”

  “That’s an excuse for Malaysia, not Germany.”

  “It’s not the Chinese they’re worried about. The Russians want Poland.”

  “They may get it if the Chinese aren’t stopped.”

  “Vietnam is lost, Ches. The Chinese are pouring armies across the border. The Vietnamese don’t know it yet, but they’re toast. We have to face that reality.”

  “We have to help them,” Greene told Jackson.

  “General Perry should be there shortly. If they take us up on the offer of advisers, we can have people inside the country in a matter of hours.”

  “That’s not enough. They need more than pictures and at-a-boys.”

  “You want to send troops?” Jackson asked.

  “I know I said I wouldn’t.”

  “If you do anything sizable, you’ll need an authorization from Congress. They’ll never pass one. God, Ches, you’d be lucky to get half of your own party behind it. Especially after what’s going on in the UN today.”

  The phone buzzed, preventing Greene from unleashing his full and candid view of Congress.

  “Mr. President, the director of the CIA is on the line.”

  “Put him through.”

  Peter Frost always sounded a little hoarse when he began a conversation, as if he’d just come inside the building. “Mr. President, there’s something up in Vietnam I think you should know about. Something we’ve been working on.”

  “Go on.”

  “We have a witness who saw the Chinese staging the attack they used as a pretense to invade Vietnam. He has a video showing the massacre of a village by Chinese soldiers the day before the attack,” continued Frost. “And he saw the Chinese staging the incursion.”

  “What?”

  The president listened as Frost told him about Josh MacArthur and the scientific team. He told him everything, including the fact that one member of the team — not MacArthur — had been persuaded to spy for the U.S. That fact, if it ever came out, might compromise MacArthur’s testimony. But if he had a video, his credibility would be nearly unassailable.

  “We’ve been working on getting him out,” said Frost. “But we’ve run into trouble.”

  Greene put the call on speaker. He knew Vietnam well enough to know the area Frost was talking about. It was a very long way from the coast, and sufficiently far from the border with Laos to make retrieval from that direction difficult as well.

  And then there was the little matter of the Chinese wanting to keep Josh MacArthur for themselves.

  “How do we get him out?” asked Greene.

  “I have a CIA officer with him, someone who was in the country already. But to get him out, we’re going to need to take a bigger risk. We need U.S. personnel. It’s the only way now.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “It involves a SEAL team.”

  “Do it,” said Greene. “Do it now.”

  8

  Hanoi

  After seeing the spartan bunker where the head of the government was working, Zeus was not surprised to find that General Minh Trung was working in an office that couldn’t have been much more than eight feet wide and ten long.

  What was surprising was that he wasn’t in a bunker; instead, his headquarters was in a barracks building in the middle of an army base about a mile from the bunker complex. The general was conferring with several aides when Zeus arrived. The lieutenant who had escorted him from Hanoi directed him to wait in the hallway, then disappeared.

  There were no chairs. The door to the office was open, and while the men inside were speaking softly, Zeus could easily hear the discussion. Unfortunately, it was in Vietnamese, and the translator had stayed with General Perry and the ambassador.

  Zeus stared at the light gray wall, visualizing a map of Vietnam and the route the Chinese army was taking. The Vietnamese did not have very long to implement his plan; if the Chinese got beyond the reservoir, it wouldn’t work.

  They might even be there by now. His last intelligence update was before they left Washington, several hours ago.

  Zeus began to pace, trying to conjure a follow-up plan. In Red Dragon, he could have bombed the hell out of their supply line and hit their spearhead with medium-range missiles. But that wasn’t an option for the Vietnamese. They lacked missiles and a strategic bomber fleet. The few MiGs that they could have used as attack aircraft had been heavily targeted by the Chinese already, and the remainder would undoubtedly be shot down if they attempted an attack.

  “Major?”

  Zeus looked up. General Trung was standing in the corridor.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. Um — I am Major Murphy, sir — ”

  “I know who you are,” said the general. “Come.”

  The general was thin, like many Vietnamese, and very tall — an inch or two taller than Zeus. His close-cropped hair was gray around his temples, but otherwise he looked youthful, even younger than the fifty-one years Zeus remembered from the briefing paper on Vietnam’s military leadership.

  “I’m Major Murphy from the U.S.,” Zeus told the officers who were crowded into the room. “I, um, I’m afraid I have to use English, because I can’t speak Vietnamese. My translator is with General Perry.”

  Trung nodded.

  “I’ve analyzed the intelligence and I have a presentation on my laptop,” said Zeus. As he started to unclasp his briefcase, General Trung put his hand on it to stop him.

  “We have no electricity.”

  “It’s a laptop. My battery — ”

  “Tell us in your own words.”

  Zeus spotted a map of the country on the wall and walked over to it.

  “I admit my intelligence is a few hours old,” said Zeus. “From what I heard last
, the Chinese took the airport at Na San and were consolidating for a fresh push — we believe toward Ninh Binh and the south.” He stopped for a moment, locating the point on the map. The Vietnamese characters made it hard to read, but there was only one airstrip in that part of the country He put his finger on it, then traced a path southeastward, following the mountains and river valleys until he came to the massive reservoir.

  “We would recommend breaking the reservoir at Hoa Binh and attempting to block their path,” said Zeus. “At that point, they would have to redirect their attack toward Hanoi, and you get a chance to fight them on your own terms. Otherwise they simply take over the rest of the country and bomb Hanoi into submission.”

  One of the officers in the room, a colonel, said something to General Trung in Vietnamese. The general held out his hand, encouraging him to speak directly to Zeus.

  “Why do we want them to attack toward Hanoi?” said the colonel.

  “Two reasons. One, it’s not their plan, and two, that’s where you have your best defenses. If they go south, which is what I believe they’re planning to do, you’ll be swamped.”

  “The capital would be destroyed in an all-out attack,” said the colonel. “Our job is to protect it.”

  “It will be subject to bombing in any event,” said Zeus. “But you can bottleneck the tanks if you wipe out the reservoir. They’ll have a hard time getting over the Da — you can hit the bridges, try piecemeal attacks. Get them a little at a time. And if you can get them to come after you, you’ll have a chance to use your dug-in defenses. They’re trying to avoid them. They’ve stayed away from all of your serious troop concentrations. This is a game plan straight out of Shock and Awe — our campaign against the Iraqis. They’ve been studying it for years.”

  The general’s lieutenants started talking among themselves in Vietnamese. General Trung said nothing. He stood perfectly erect and motionless. While he couldn’t have helped hearing what they were saying, he didn’t react to it in the slightest way.

  “What makes you think we could hold out against the Chinese?” asked another of the officers finally.