by Larry Bond
Either way, he’d get him.
“Let’s go,” Jing Yo told the army captain. His men were already heading for the helicopters.
“You’re going to just let the fires burn?” asked Sergeant Wu. “What if they spread?”
Jing Yo turned back. Black smoke billowed from the biggest barn; flames were poking from the others. Most of the houses were already destroyed.
“We’ll have the helicopters fly over them. The downdraft will beat the flames down,” he said, climbing into the chopper.
~ * ~
Josh slid down against the stack of boxes, holding Mạ with his right arm and leaning against Mara on his left. Trusting himself to fate was something he’d never been able to do. Completely letting go—it was impossible.
This was a time he should be praying, but it had always seemed the coward’s way, or a cop-out. Turning yourself over to God, or at least the unknown.
That was what he liked about science. You could measure the odds of something happening, the probability of a specific weather pattern and how it would intersect with the ecosystem, and you could measure the parameters of your guess. You could look at the possibilities and your models, and decide what to do.
Not that it guaranteed success. There were always a lot of variables. The climate crisis proved that. The outliers on the graph—the possibilities everyone had rejected—had proved to be the accurate predictors.
“Are you still conscious?” Mara whispered.
“Yes. You?”
“Well I wouldn’t be talking if I wasn’t.”
He laughed—quickly, briefly, and not very hard. But it was still a laugh.
“The helicopters sound like they’re leaving,” said Mara.
“You think they’re getting more soldiers?”
“I don’t know.”
Mara wore a cross around her neck, outside her clothes. Josh thought of asking her about faith—asking what she believed, and whether she was praying. But the ground began to shake, vibrating in sympathy with the rotor of a helicopter as it approached. There was a gust of wind through the basement, and then a pop, as if a balloon had burst. Something crashed above. Josh gripped Mara and Mạ tighter.
The helicopter moved away.
Mạ began to cry.
“It’s okay,” Josh said, bundling her close to him.
“Em,“ said Mara. “Bị làmasao?”
“What are you saying?” Josh asked.
“I’m asking her what’s wrong.”
“It’s going to be okay,” Josh told the girl. “We’re not going to let the bad people hurt you.”
“Does she understand any English?”
“She understands that.”
Mara reached across him, her hand grazing his chin as she felt for the girl. She found her forehead.
“I think she has a temperature,” said Mara. “She seems warm.”
“Maybe.”
Mara put her hand on his forehead as well. Her hand felt cool, and soft—softer than he would have expected.
“You feel warm too,” she said.
“Take two aspirin and call you in the morning, right?” he said.
This time the joke fell flat, and neither one of them laughed.
The air smelled more dank than smoky. Josh’s nose burned with the irritants. He leaned over and pressed his face into his shoulder, muffling a sneeze.
“Maybe we should see what’s going on,” he suggested after it had been quiet for a while. “If we just push the door up a little bit.”
“Good idea.”
The trapdoor wouldn’t budge at first, and Josh had to angle himself against the steps to get more leverage. When it finally started to rise, it made a very loud creak; he gritted his teeth, worried now that they had done the wrong thing.
“Can you see?” he asked Mara.
“Just junk.”
She turned and covered her mouth, beginning to cough. Josh leaned forward, pushing to the side to lift the door farther. Suddenly the mower shifted, sliding back with a crash.
He stood on the steps, waiting for the soldiers to run into the battered barn. Light streamed through the left side of the building; part of the wall had collapsed. There were charred beams nearby. A haze of smoke drifted through the interior. But the fire itself seemed to be out.
Where were the soldiers?
Outside, waiting?
It was a trick to make them think they’d gone.
Mạ ran up the steps past him, into the barn.
“Mạ. Wait,” he said. He pushed the door all the way open and followed her. But by the time he got to the floor, she had slipped through the plows and fallen debris and disappeared.
“Damn it.”
“Are they gone?” asked Mara.
“I don’t know,” he yelled, rushing toward the door where he figured the girl had gone. It was wide open, scorched but intact.
This is where I’ll die, he thought, springing into the open air.
Mạ was standing nearby, gulping the fresh air. The Chinese soldiers were gone.
~ * ~
15
Northwestern Vietnam
Contacting General Perry to give the launch go-ahead proved to be much easier than getting the troops off the bridge. Perry was waiting at a command bunker at the Hanoi airport; as soon as Zeus called in, he passed the order along to launch the Tomahawks.
Thieu’s controller, meanwhile, claimed he was in touch with the troops’ commanding general, and that the order had been given for them to withdraw. But if so, it had no effect, and after ten minutes, they remained on the bridge, roughly thirty feet from one of the Tomahawk’s detonation points. The missiles were just under twenty minutes away.
They spent five more minutes on the radio, trying to contact the unit and its parent themselves. As they banked around the southern end of the reservoir, Zeus saw the soldiers still on the bridge.
“You sure they’re not Chinese?” he asked the pilot over the interphone.
“Negative. They are our guys.”
“We have to get them out of there.”
“Yes. Hold on.”
Thieu pitched the plane forward. Zeus’s stomach immediately began doing flip-flops.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Sending them a telegram,” said Thieu.
A second later, the aircraft began reverberating as the pilot sent a few dozen cannon rounds into the bridge.
“That’ll get them moving,” said the pilot.
Thieu was right: the troops began running toward the other end of the bridge—fortunately toward the southwestern side.
They also started firing at the plane. Zeus saw their muzzle flashes as the plane banked away. “They’re trying to shoot us down,” he said.
“With those peashooters? Not a worry.”
Zeus tightened his restraints.
They climbed back up through fifteen thousand feet, sailing high over the water and nearby ground. The highways faded from thick ribbons to infinitesimal threads, dissolving into the fur of the ground.
The missiles would be coming from the east. Zeus lifted his binoculars, curious about whether he would see them coming. He scanned out of the left side of the cockpit first, then realized the plane was going east and he was looking north; the missiles would be coming from the other direction. As he turned, something caught his attention, a fleeting blur in the corner of his eye. He looked back and saw a silver finger in the air, tiny and small, not quite parallel to them. He thumbed the focus on the binoculars, trying to bring the blur into focus. It separated into two small sticks.
“We have company!” shouted Thieu, his voice reverberating in the helmet. “Chinese MiGs.”
~ * ~
16
Northwestern Vietnam
Mara surveyed the damage as she caught her breath. All but one of the houses had been burned to the ground. The exception was a charred ruin with its roof caved and two sides down. Two of the barns were fairly well desiccated,
more piles of charred black wood than buildings.
At the other extreme was the chicken coop. It seemed undamaged by the flames. The shed and the last barn were in the middle, badly battered, though largely intact.
“They’re definitely gone,” said Josh, returning from a quick check of the groves and nearby fields. Mạ had gone with him, refusing to let go of his leg until he picked her up. “Think they’ll be back?”
“I don’t know. Not soon.”
Mara reached into her pocket for her satellite phone. She hit the Power button, then realized the phone was already on. Either she’d forgotten to turn it off, or somewhere in the scramble the phone had accidentally been switched back on.
The battery was at 20 percent.
“Problem?” asked Josh.
“It’s nothing.”
She dialed into Bangkok. The Million Dollar Man answered.
“Where are you, darlin’?” he asked.
“You’re supposed to tell me.”
“Figure of speech. I have the GPS reading right. . . now.”
“Good. And where are we?”
“About two miles southwest of the spot where you grabbed MacArthur. What’s going on? You missed your check-in.”
Mara explained what had happened. “When are we getting out?” she asked.
“We’re working on that right now. We should have a plan firmed up in a few hours. It’ll be tonight,” he added. “I’m just not sure exactly when.”
“Or how?”
“How is a good question, too. Do you think you could stay where you are?” he asked. “Is it safe?”
“That’s a relative word.”
Peter Lucas broke into the line. “Mara?”
“Yes, Peter?”
“We have a plan. It will be in place soon. Right now, we need you to just hang tight. Okay? No more stealing bicycles and riding to Hanoi.”
“It wasn’t a bicycle.”
“Listen, I’m being serious. We may have someone land at that farm.”
“A helicopter?”
“No. It’s too close to their forward air base. But I may be able to parachute some SEALs in. They can escort you out.”
“I don’t need escorts, Peter. I need transportation.”
“I’ll call you back in an hour.”
“Wait!”
But the line had gone dead. Mara angrily pushed the phone into her pocket—then retrieved it to turn it off. The battery was now below 7 percent.
“What’s up?” asked Josh.
“Nothing.”
He glared at her. “You want me to trust you, but you don’t trust me.”
“They want us to wait here.” Mara struggled to get her anger under control.
“Staying here until dark isn’t that bad an idea,” said Josh. “We can eat the rice.”
The rice—she’d left it in the cellar. Her stomach growled in anticipation.
“We can build a fire to cook food,” added Josh. “It won’t look suspicious.”
“I’d rather be moving south.”
“Once it’s dark, right?”
“Yeah.”
He pointed to the rifle. “Maybe we can kill something substantial for dinner.”
“I’m not a hunter.”
“I hunt a lot,” he said, holding his hand out for the gun.
~ * ~
17
Northwestern Vietnam
Thieu turned the Albatros back north—directly in the path of the Chinese planes.
“What are we doing?” asked Zeus.
“We can’t outrun them,” said the pilot, as if that answered everything.
By heading straight toward the enemy planes, Thieu was making it harder for the MiGs to fire their heat-seeking missiles. All but the newest of the missiles had to home in on a tailpipe to be effective. Thieu’s maneuver also surprised the Chinese, who didn’t expect a Vietnamese aircraft to take them on.
The enemy aircraft began to separate, preparing to turn as the Albatros approached. They hoped to swing behind Thieu, jerk their throttles to max, then goose off the heat-seekers before he could get away. It was a tactic they had employed countless times in similar situations during training.
But they hadn’t encountered Thieu. As the two planes began to separate, he pushed his nose in the direction of the plane on his right and started to climb.
Had either of the MiGs been carrying medium-range homing missiles rather than laser-guided bombs under its wings, he would have been dead meat; the MiG could have lain back and fired, confident that the missiles would be close enough to stay with Thieu as he broke from his maneuver. But then the same could have been said for the Chinese planes had Thieu been equipped with American AMRAAMs or even Sparrows—something the Chinese pilot Thieu targeted clearly knew, since he immediately dropped his bombs so he could climb faster.
As soon as Thieu saw that, he jerked the plane to the left, hoping to get the other MiG to do the same. But this pilot wasn’t so easily spooked. He turned his nose in toward Thieu’s and accelerated.
The two aircraft closed so quickly that Thieu barely got off a few cannon rounds before he was by him. The MiG pilot immediately turned, hoping to get on his back. But Thieu turned as well, dipping his right wing down and then tipping it over so that he could twist back. The acrobatic moves took him so close to the MiG that if the canopy hadn’t been in the way, Zeus could have reached out and grabbed the other plane.
Thieu fired a few cannon rounds, but he was out of position to get a hit and began falling steadily behind as the MiG dumped fuel into his engine in an effort to pick up speed. The MiG headed north; Thieu broke off, turning to the south, running back toward the reservoir.
The MiG that had dumped its bombs earlier had not given up the fight—a fact Zeus didn’t realize until tracers shot past the canopy.
“Shit!” said Zeus.
“No worry, Lieutenant. You see.”
Thieu pushed the plane into a dive. The MiG, temporarily out of maneuvering energy, headed off farther south.
“The Tomahawks are going to hit any second,” said Zeus.
“Good idea!”
Thieu pushed the plane down toward the bridge. Zeus spotted the MiG banking about five thousand feet above them. The Chinese pilot was starting to understand how he had to fight the other plane; he swung out to the east and began a turn, undoubtedly plotting an intercept where he could open up with his cannon as he closed on the Albatros.
Behind him and much farther below, Zeus spotted a black pencil hurtling through the air, barely above the ground. As the MiG closed, the pencil leapt upward. It turned white and grew tenfold—a trick of the sun shining on the Tomahawk’s surface.
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 sw
amped by the wave. The water continued, flooding the valley.
“Holy shit,” said Zeus. “Wow.”