by Larry Bond
The MiG pilot didn’t know that the bridge was about to be blown up. He had no idea that the Tomahawk was fixing itself on its final target, rising so it could dive down in X-marks-the-spot fashion. All he knew was that a missile had suddenly appeared very close to the rear quarter of his aircraft. He did what any self-respecting pilot would do when taken completely by surprise — he hit his flares and his chaff, turned the plane hard into an evasive maneuver, and prayed to his ancient family gods.
And his dry cleaner.
The Tomahawk hit dead center on the bridge, exploding it. Four seconds later, a second missile arrived, smashing what was left of the northern terminus to smithereens.
In the meantime, the MiG had fled.
“Bridge is down,” said Zeus. “Get east — check the dam.”
“The dam is gone — look,” said Thieu, pointing at the side.
The destruction of the two dams created a wall of water nearly fifty feet high, which rolled down the vast expanse of the lake, gathering strength as it went. From three thousand feet, the man-made tsunami looked like a small, frothing ripple in a puddle, but Zeus had only to look at the sides of the reservoir to judge its real impact. Buildings and trees that had been along the shore disappeared in a gulp as it moved. Both sides of the road where the bridge had been were swamped by the wave. The water continued, flooding the valley.
“Holy shit,” said Zeus. “Wow.”
“Job done?” asked Thieu.
Zeus pulled up his glasses and looked at Highway 6 north of the bridge. There were trucks on it, driving south.
Not trucks, but tanks. Six of them, with a command vehicle. The vanguard of the Chinese force.
Thieu circled, and they watched as the tanks stopped. Then the lead vehicle lurched forward into the stream, followed by a second and a third.
Five yards from the road, the rear end of the first tank swung east. Within seconds it was drifting in the water. The second tank simply sank. The third stopped on the bank.
Thieu couldn’t resist peppering them all with his cannon before heading back to the base.
18
Northern Vietnam
Josh didn’t find any animals big enough to eat in the jungle beyond the fields. Nor did he spend much time looking. Part of the problem was that he didn’t want to leave the others for very long, Mạ especially. But mostly it was because his patience had evaporated. He’d spent it all waiting in the shed and now wanted, needed, to move.
To get out of here. Maybe they should just start walking and the hell with waiting for the night, as Mara seemed to feel.
Or help. What more help did they need?
When he got back to the shed Mara was sitting next to Mạ, listening as the girl spoke. They were so intent that he didn’t want to interrupt; instead, he took a seat on the ground next to them. Mara had found more rice and oranges in the basement storage area, and cooked them together in the pot where she’d cooked the rice earlier.
He helped himself to the concoction, listening as the girl spoke, even though he had no idea what she was saying. The words seemed to rush out of her mouth, as if they were pushing against one another. She gestured with her hands, motioning up and down, pointing, mimicking, illustrating her narrative with her emphatic body language. Her eyes were wide and darting, as if she were watching what she was describing, conjuring it from the shadows in the room around them.
“Mạ was born in a small village on the other side of a river or a stream, I’m not sure of the word,” explained Mara when the girl finally paused. “It wasn’t too far from where you found her, or where she found you.”
“Is this what happened to her?”
“Yes.”
The soldiers had come at night. They seemed to be Vietnamese, or at least one of them had spoken Vietnamese. But clearly something was wrong. The villagers — about two dozen people lived in the small community, all related to one another through blood or marriage — were taken out of their houses and told to wait near a truck that sat in the middle of the settlement. The soldiers didn’t say where they were going.
Mạ was scared. She wanted to bring her blanket with her — it had been a special blanket that she had had since she was a baby. The soldiers said she could not.
As the people were being marched into line, Mạ decided to go back for it. She snuck away, not thinking that anyone was watching. But someone was — as she darted toward the house, the soldiers began shouting.
Then firing.
Petrified, Mạ ran into the jungle, dodging and darting through the trees in the darkness, running until she couldn’t run anymore. In the meantime, the soldiers had killed everyone in the line.
She had caused all the deaths. It was her fault that her brothers and sisters, parents and relatives, had all died.
Mạ collapsed in tears. Both Mara and Josh held her, trying to console her.
“It wasn’t her fault,” said Josh. “Tell her that.”
“I don’t have all the words,” said Mara.
“Tell her.”
“I’m trying.”
He’d felt the same when his parents died. He still felt that way, deep down, after all these years. It was a deep pit of regret and guilt that could never be filled, even though he knew, logically, that it was the killers’ fault, not his.
“Tell her it wasn’t her fault,” repeated Josh.
10
Bangkok
“You’re going to have to give me a better fucking location than that,” growled the stubbled face on the video screen. “I ain’t jumping into a six-mile-square box.”
“I’ll give you a precise location,” said Peter Lucas. “You’ll have realtime data down to the millimeter when you’re in the air.”
“I fuckin’ better.”
Lucas pushed his chair from the console. He liked working with the SEALs because they got results. But there was always a price to be paid in terms of ego. The most easygoing SEAL held anyone who was not another SEAL in contempt.
The man on the screen, Lieutenant Ric Kerfer, was hardly easygoing. Kerfer wasn’t civil even to other SEALs.
But he was absolutely the man to rely on in this sort of situation. Lucas had worked with him before, with excellent results. There were even indications that Kerfer liked working with him — the high cuss count, for example.
Still, he was one grouchy and disrespectful SOB.
“You arrange exfiltration yet?” Kerfer asked.
“At the moment, you’re going to have to walk out,” said Lucas.
“Fuck that.”
“I can’t get a helicopter in there,” said Lucas calmly. If he had been able to get a chopper, he wouldn’t need the SEALs. “I thought maybe you’d be able to steal local transport.”
“You just told me the area was evacuated. What did these people use to get out of there? You think they just left their vehicles parked around? Hell no, they drove. Or fucking walked. What’s my solution?”
“I don’t know, Kerfer,” said Lucas, finally losing his patience. “You tell me what your goddamn solution is.”
For the first time since he came on the videoconference line, Kerfer smiled. “Bicycles.”
“Bicycles?”
“We ride them out of there. I did something like that in Pakistan,” the SEAL lieutenant added. “Almost like a picnic.”
Lucas reminded him that there was a little girl with them.
“So we get her a little bike.”
“If you think bikes will work,” said Lucas, “go for it.”
“All right. Get them to the drop area.”
“Me?”
“Helicopter picks us off the sub in half an hour, Petey. We fly straight to Okinawa and leave as soon as we get there. You either get the bikes aboard the jet, or get them there yourself. Your call.”
“All right. They’ll be on the jet.”
“I ain’t biking all the way to Hanoi. It’d be okay for me and my boys, but your people are going to crap out. Arrange a truck t
o meet us somewhere halfway.”
“Not a problem.”
Maybe he could find a Vietnamese national to leave a track somewhere. He could use the embassy.
Not that he trusted them worth shit, as Kerfer would have put it.
“We’re set, Petey?”
“Yeah, we’re set,” said Lucas. “And don’t fuckin’ call me Petey.”
“Always a pleasure, Petey,” said Kerfer, laughing as he killed the connection on his side.
20
Northern Vietnam
Jing Yo’s unit had to return to the forward air base so the infrared searching gear could be installed. The device itself was relatively small — it fit on a long spar at the side of the helicopter, making it look a little like a catamaran with a rotor on top. The control panel, however, was the size of a small desk. Two had to be loaded into the helicopter, each with its own operator. The gear, less than three months old, was considered so valuable that four soldiers had been sent to guard it. They had insisted on flying in the Sikorsky with the operators. That cramped the small helicopter, forcing Jing Yo to put his men and Sergeant Wu in a second helicopter. It also lowered the size of his assault force, limiting him to just two other regular army soldiers instead of the entire squad he’d had earlier.
The operators were a pair of sergeants from Beijing who went about their work very quietly, communicating with each other rarely, and then mostly by nods and an occasional one-word question. Jing Yo leaned over them, watching as they finished calibrating their equipment.
“We can take off anytime,” declared the lead operator as a loud tone sounded from his panel. “We are prepared.”
Jing Yo picked up the microphone on the helicopter’s interphone headset and told the pilot to take off. Within minutes, the aircraft was pushing forward across the field, tilting slightly to the right as it rose.
The main display screen looked very much like a standard television display, except that everything was shaded blue and red. The color scheme was preset to toggle through several variations, each one keyed to a different range of temperatures. The system automatically notified the operator when it found something within a specified range — in this case, roughly the temperature range of a human body. The operator could then “zoom” in by switching to a more sensitive heat band.
The infrared system was not magic. It had trouble “seeing” through thick jungle canopy, though it was better than most commercially available systems at filtering through the trees and brush, even from a distance. It also couldn’t “see” in the rain — a problem shared by all infrared systems.
The forecast called for rain. So far it had held off.
A yellow cursor opened around a red squiggle at the bottom left of the screen. The operator circled it with his index finger, then put the tips of his fingers on the screen and pulled up. The image inside the circle expanded, then changed to a collection of muted greens and blacks.
“What is it?” asked Jing Yo.
“A man,” said the operator.
Jing Yo went over and looked out the window toward the ground. The sun was setting, and there were long shadows everywhere. All he could see were the tops of the trees, puffy patches of black punctuated by shadow.
“Is that our target?” he asked.
The operator smiled. “A soldier, having a cigarette by the side of the road,” he said. “A half kilometer from the field. He’s a guard.”
“You’re sure?”
The operator double-tapped the screen. The image expanded again, once more changing color, this time to yellowish brown.
Except for the tip of the stick that jutted from the yellow blotch. It flared red, then went back to orange.
“Very good,” said Jing Yo. “Let us get to work.”
21
Noi Bai Airport, Hanoi
“What do you say we have a beer?” Zeus asked his pilot after they landed and were trundling toward the parking area at Noi Bai Airport.
“I like it,” replied Captain Thieu. “You pay.”
“You got it.”
In the two hours since they had been gone, dozens of antiaircraft guns had been brought onto the airport property and lined up opposite the hangars. There were also two mobile missile batteries out on the edge of the apron area, older Russian ground-to-air missiles that Zeus guessed would not be any more effective than the launchers on the perimeter that had failed to strike the intruders the night before. But the Vietnamese had to do something; a second strike at the airport would almost certainly be launched, and if it was half as devastating as the first, the field would have to shut down indefinitely.
Thieu turned the jet around at the far end of the cement, parking it about thirty yards from another Albatross. That one had holes in its wings, and the tail fin looked as if something had taken a bite out of it.
“Are you coming, Lieutenant?” Thieu asked, popping out of his seat as the canopy rose. “I’m thirsty for my beer.”
“Aren’t we getting a ladder?”
Thieu laughed, then jumped to the ground. Reluctantly, Zeus unstrapped himself, gathered his gear, and followed.
His binoculars slipped from his vest as he landed. He fumbled for them awkwardly, managing to grab them before they hit the ground.
He dropped them as the pilot slapped his back.
“You did all right for a soldier. Maybe you should learn to be a pilot,” said Thieu.
“Thanks.”
Zeus scooped up the glasses — fortunately not broken — and followed Thieu toward the hangar. They were still about ten yards from the entrance when a jeep came charging around the corner of the building. General Perry was in the passenger seat.
“About time you got back. I need you, Zeus,” said Perry. “Get in.”
* * *
By the time Zeus and General Perry arrived at General Trung’s headquarters, the U.S. had established a link that allowed real-time satellite data to be displayed on a pair of computer screens. The link came to the barracks via a landline that was strung from the embassy, a precarious arrangement that used up a good portion of the capital area’s available fiber-optic cable. But the real challenge was finding power for the two screens. Though they were relatively small and drew very little current, the electric lines to Trung’s headquarters were still down. A portable generator had been sent over from the embassy; the computer system taxed it severely. In an attempt to balance the load, the lights in the command room, dim to begin with, were completely shut off. The glow of the screens barely illuminated half of the conference table at the middle of the room, and when the image changed, the room temporarily went black.
Still, seeing the pictures was better than hearing the situation described over a phone. Zeus pressed closer to the screen, looking at the satellite photos of the air base at Na San, and of the now clogged road south. A squadron of A-10As, and he could have wiped out half the Chinese armor in a day.
There would still have been a lot left. Swarms of tanks and men were pouring in over the border to the north.
One of the Global Hawks — there were now three on continuous station overhead, authorized by the Vietnamese — streamed live video from the Da River valley. The video showed that the Chinese had not yet adapted to the problem in front of them. They were moving forces down along Route 6 as if the way south were clear, sending very small teams to the east to either probe or act as pickets in case of attack.
“You can turn these off for a while and pop on the lights,” Zeus said after he finished going over the images.
The room plunged into darkness as the gear was unplugged and the lights were reenergized. Zeus felt a little like he was with the American army of 1812, trying to stop the British from ravaging the country while equipped with a thousandth of their resources.
When the lights came on, General Trung nodded at him, encouraging him to continue.
“The Chinese haven’t adapted yet. They may try and cross the reservoir. We know that’s not going to work,” said Z
eus. He pointed to the map on the table. “The Chinese are stopped here, for the moment, along Highway 6 before the intersection with 15. They have two choices — they go into Laos, maybe try coming all the way down to Highway 217, or they change their game plan. Which do you want them to do?”
“An attack against our neighbor is always preferable to being attacked ourselves,” said Trung soberly. “As lamentable as it is. But if they try that way, they will face much difficulty.”
“We have cut off the passes at the border, General,” said one of his aides. “It will be a grave for them.”
“I would suggest you alert the Laotians,” said General Perry.
“It has already been done,” said Trung. “The evacuations have begun.”
“Eventually, they’ll come for Hanoi,” said Zeus.
As if on cue, an air raid siren sounded. Zeus gritted his teeth and looked at General Perry. Perry simply folded his arms.
“Continue with your thoughts, please,” said Trung.
“Hit them along the road while they’re stalled, the more often the better,” said Zeus. “Hit and run — Vietnamese style.”
Trung smiled broadly. Zeus suspected that the attacks were already being launched, since he had seen some activity on the Vietnamese side of the line in the Global Hawk video.
“What they will probably decide eventually is to use 113 as a conduit for an attack,” Zeus said, pointing to the east-west highway south of Na San. “It’s the best road in the area, given where their forces are collecting. It’s not as narrow as the others.”
Trung’s staff started talking among themselves. Zeus felt frustrated — Perry’s translator had not been allowed into the room, and in fact it was clear that the Vietnamese really didn’t care to discuss the situation with him; they only wanted him to give them intelligence. Trung tolerates my ideas, he thought, primarily out of politeness.
“General, I have another idea,” Zeus told Trung. “The Chinese haven’t taken Route 109 behind the airfield at Na San. You could get the hills back, and they’d be sitting ducks down there. Just like the French.”