Edge of War

1

Josh slept through the bombing. He slept through the wail of the sirens. He slept through the rumble of the Plaza Hanoi across the street imploding. He slept through the strike at the new education ministry a half block away, and the collapse of the Vietnamese Private Commercial Enterprise Bank building a half mile away.

Josh MacArthur slept and slept, oblivious to the sounds of the war he had suddenly found himself in, a war that he was not only witness to, but a critical part of. He missed the grating har-ush of the Chinese jets as they roared overhead, the last-minute shriek of the air-to-ground missiles just before they struck, and the steady rattle of the antiaircraft guns, twin-barreled 23 mm and the larger 57s and 85s, their shrapnel exploding in an irregular pattern.

He missed the glass shattering everywhere, panes breaking like the thin ice over a pond on a late winter’s day. He missed the rumble of the gas lines as they blew up, muffled by the ground. He missed the sharp cracks of old wood splintering beneath the weight of collapsing roofs and walls.

What woke him was the light touch of her footsteps in the hall, passing in front of his room on the way out.

They belonged to the woman who’d rescued him, Mara Duncan. Against all odds, the CIA officer had found Josh behind the lines of the Chinese advance and pulled him with her through the jungle, across the hills to a rendezvous with American SEALs, who had brought him to a truck commandeered by two U.S. Army officers. Together, they barely managed to make it past the advancing Chinese troops, but managed nonetheless.

The adventure would have been unimaginable for most people. But for Josh MacArthur, a weather scientist of all things, it seemed as unlikely as it could get. Josh had come to Vietnam to study the effects of the weather on the jungle. Instead, he had become a witness to man’s more immediate impact on the environment — the cold-blooded massacre of a Vietnamese village in the hills by the Chinese.

The Chinese had also murdered his own colleagues. He’d missed that by chance, complete chance — his allergies had woken him and sent him away from the tents, out of concern for his colleagues and their sleep. His sneezing had saved him.

He’d run when the fighting began. Except that it wasn’t fighting; it was a massacre. The scientists and their support staff had been killed in their sleep, without any possibility of resistance.

The killers had chased him as well. He’d run for his life, lost in the darkness in a country literally halfway around the world from his home.

He’d been defenseless and alone, and yet running seemed like an act of cowardice, of weakness, as if he might somehow have made a difference.

It was a foolish notion — the Chinese soldiers outnumbered him greatly, and in fact had barely missed him several times before his rescue. Josh had killed several himself, including one with his bare hands. There was no question, or should be no question, of his bravery.

And yet that idea, that feeling of failure, woke with him in the gray light of the Hanoi hotel room.

Josh sat upright in the bed. The hotel had never been one of the city’s best, nor a favorite with the international tourist crowd. The furnishings had been old and battered well before the war. There was only a pair of bare sheets on the bed. They hadn’t been changed in days, not since the war began. Josh had found them covered with dust and small bits of glass from the shattered windows, blown out from the attacks on the first night of the war. Too tired to talk to the staff — and guessing it would have been worthless to try — he’d pushed the small shards off on the floor and simply collapsed in bed a few hours before. Now he found grime stuck to him, held to his skin by his sweat.

He put his hands on his chest, gently brushing downward, more to reassure himself that he was still there than to clear the clinging grit.

As unglamorous as it was, the hotel was a solid, squat structure, dating from colonial times and overengineered by its French architect. Its sturdy walls had protected it from the shrapnel when the building across the street had collapsed, and while nothing was truly safe against a direct hit by one of the Chinese army’s larger weapons, the hotel was one of the safest buildings in the city still open to foreigners. And of course it was obvious that Josh and his friends were foreigners.

He swung his legs out of bed. They were creaky and stiff. Josh had considered himself both athletic and in fairly good shape — he had taken letters in cross-country and baseball in high school, despite the asthma occasionally provoked by his allergies — but his ordeal in the jungle had tested his body. Both knees were sore, his right calf muscle had been pulled, and his neck felt as if it were a bolt twisted too tightly into its socket.

Glancing at the gray twilight outside the window, he guessed it was roughly 5 a.m. His watch had been lost during the initial attack.

He walked slowly to the door, mindful of the glass. There were small piles of it along the front of the room, which faced a side street away from the hotel that had imploded. Someone had come in and swept the larger pieces into the piles, but neglected to come back and remove them.

Or maybe they had been killed before they got the chance. Several thousand civilians had died in Hanoi since the bombing began.

Josh undid the lock and pulled open the door. A large man stood in front of him, blocking the door. It was Jenkins, aka Squeaky, one of the SEALs who had rescued him.

“Hey, sir, where you going?” said Squeaky.

His nickname was Squeaky because his voice occasionally cracked, jumping a few octaves. He sounded like a teenage boy on bad mornings as his voice begins to deepen. There was no precise pattern to the squeaks; they seemed to occur a little less under pressure, the opposite of what Josh would have expected.

Squeaky was a big man, six ten and solidly built, stocky but not fat. He wore a pair of dungarees and a button-down shirt, in the Western style common in Vietnam’s urban areas. The clothes were all black; they seemed to merge with his black skin, making him look like a dark spirit haunting the building, a hungry ghost looking for its ancestral offerings, as the local folklore would have it. He had an MP-5 submachine gun, and held it down next to his body discreetly, almost as if he were hiding it.

“I gotta use the john,” said Josh.

“I’ll walk you down.”

Josh fell in behind him. Squeaky rocked a little as he walked, shoulders nearly scraping the walls.

“Hold on,” the SEAL told him when they reached the doorway to the restroom.

He poked his head in, then reached back, took Josh’s arm, and tugged him in. For a second, Josh thought he was going to stay — a problem, since Josh liked privacy — but Jenkins was just making doubly sure the place was empty.

“I’ll be outside. Stay away from that window, you know?”

Josh nodded and stepped over to the commode. Fortunately, it was a Western-style toilet. But the water had been shut off sometime during the night, a fact Josh discovered when he tried to flush.

Squeaky was waiting outside.

“Water’s off,” Josh told him.

“Yeah.”

“I late to be the next guy that uses it.”

“I’ll remember that.”

They started back for the room.

“What time is it?” Josh asked as they walked.

“Oh-four-ten,” said Squeaky, his voice cracking. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

Jenkins didn’t say anything. Josh wondered if he was self-conscious about his voice.

“I heard someone walking in the hall before,” said Josh when they reached his room. He suddenly didn’t feel like going back inside. “Was it Mara?”

“You heard that?”

Josh shrugged. “What was up?”

“Ms. Duncan had to go out.”

“At four?”

“I don’t set her schedule, bro.”

“What about Mạ?”

“The little girl?” Jenkins’s face noticeably brightened. “Sleepin’ like a peach. Cute little kid.”

“Yeah,” said Josh.

Josh had rescued the little girl after her parents and the rest of her village had been massacred by the invading Chinese. She was six or seven years old — Josh wasn’t sure.

“We taking her with us?” Josh asked.

“Decision’s above my pay grade.” Jenkins grinned. “Why don’t you go get yourself some sleep? Cap’ll be looking for you in a few hours. We got a long way to go. Rumor is no flights out of the airport.”

“We flying out of here?”

“We were supposed to.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t know how the hell we’re getting out of here,” Squeaky added. He smiled. “Swimmin’, maybe.”

2

Lieutenant Jing Yo knew better than to interrupt Colonel Sun Li when his commander was in the middle of a tirade. Neither patience nor understanding was among Sun’s strong points under the best of circumstances, and at times when he was angry, like now, saying anything would only deepen his rage.

It was galling that Sun was bawling him out for failing to do the impossible. It was infuriating that the colonel’s decision to ignore Jing Yo’s advice had led to the very failure he was now complaining about. But making the slightest excuse would only lengthen the storm. The only solution was to weather it, as the young cherry tree weathers an unusually fierce winter, or the bamboo withstands the typhoon.

The metaphors were not strictly poetic. Jing Yo had seen both, time and again, during his time at the monastery where he had studied Shaolin. He had passed one particularly brutal winter night in bare feet, seated across from one of his mentors in a mountain pass they called Claw. Ostensibly they were there to help any lost travelers caught out in the storm. The unstated reason, Jing Yo was sure, was to test his dedication as a follower of the one true way, a walker along the path that has no name and no presence, and yet endlessly exists, without beginning or end.

That was what Shaolin was to him. The path of life. To others it was kung fu — the fighting way, the way of a monk warrior. Or an old, musty superstition.

“You are expressly ordered to kill him. Do you understand that?” thundered Sun. “Wherever you find him. Kill him. No matter the personal consequences to yourself.”

Jing Yo tilted his head slightly. The colonel had jumped directly from his rant to the order. Jing Yo felt as if he had missed something.

“Colonel, if our spies say he has reached Hanoi,” said Jing Yo softly, “how do you want me to proceed?”

“You call yourself a commando?” thundered Sun. “I have to outline everything for you?”

Jing Yo pressed his lips together. In truth, Sun was no more irrational than the monks had seemed when Jing Yo first came to the monastery. But in their case, the seeming illogic masked a much deeper sense and purpose. Sun’s was chaos for chaos’s sake — emotion, as those drunk on the surface of reality would perceive it.

“Our agents believe he is in the city already. You will be given instructions on how to contact them,” said Sun. “And a briefing from intelligence. My advice to you is to leave as soon as you can. It will be more difficult to get into the city after dawn. Take whatever men you need. Here is a phone. Use it wisely.”

Jing Yo took the satellite phone from Sun. It was a precious commodity. Even the army could not be trusted in the political upheaval roiling China.

“Do not fail,” said Sun. He folded his arms. “You have tried my patience already.”

3

Mara Duncan slumped in the backseat of the car, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, even though it was the sedan, not her, that would attract attention. It was the only vehicle on the road that wasn’t connected with the military.

Even before the war, Hanoi was generally deserted at four in the morning. Now it was like something out of a Dantean painting, the fires of hell burning around the city. The moonless night was tinged red by the flames, their glow occasionally clouded by black smoke furrowing from their center. The smoke threw vaporous shadows into the air, darkening the city beyond what seemed physically possible. It was as if Hanoi were at the epicenter of a black hole, its matter being pushed together into a mass that defied reason but was nonetheless mathematically correct. And Mara Duncan was a witness to it all.

“Train tracks, twenty meters,” said Ric Kerfer. The SEAL lieutenant was sitting in the passenger seat, next to the driver, a Vietnamese man whom Mara had bribed to drive the vehicle. She figured that having a Vietnamese driver would help her cover story if they were stopped. She’d told him not to speak if that happened, and from the looks of his shaking hands, that wouldn’t be a problem.

“Di thắng,” Mara told the driver. “Go straight over the tracks.”

The driver slowed and inched over the crossing as if afraid a train might materialize out of the darkness.

“Phải,” said Mara. “Right. Here.”

He found the narrow trail parallel to the tracks and started down it. The car, a two-year-old Toyota, bounced violently.

“Stop here,” Mara told him after they’d gone about thirty meters. She opened the door. Kerfer opened his.

“No, you stay,” she told the SEAL lieutenant.

“What the fuck would I do that for?”

“How about so the car’s here when I get back.”

“Slant-eyes ain’t gonna steal it.”

“You’re so damn charming,” Mara said, closing her door. “Stay with the car.”

She slipped her hand behind her back and pulled her Beretta pistol from her belt.

There was just enough glow to see the track to her right. After thirty meters, she spotted a signal box. She stopped and looked around carefully. Then she resumed walking, glancing left and right and continuing to watch everything around her. After she’d gone another thirty meters, she stopped and dropped to her haunches, listening.

Every so often in the distance she could hear automatic weapons being fired, undoubtedly by nervous soldiers on guard duty. The real war was still some miles to the west. Hanoi was safe enough for now, except for the missiles and bombs.

And spies, which she expected China would have here by the dozens.

Satisfied that no one was nearby, Mara crossed the tracks and walked back in the direction she had come. She stopped when she was roughly parallel to the signal box, then walked into the weeds.

There was supposed to be a footlocker with supplies here. She didn’t see it.

Mara moved forward slowly. There were many possibilities about why it might not be here, and she tried not to think of them. She also fought off her inclination to start composing a Plan B. There was no sense devoting her energy to it yet; better to make sure first that it was needed.

Besides, she was already on Plan Z, not B. She’d have to start the alphabet over.

Her foot kicked something. She stopped, bent to it slowly.

It was a bottle.

Mara straightened, walked again. There was no box here, nothing but weeds and a few stones.

Mara retraced her steps to the bottle and knelt down, patting with her hands in the weeds until she found it. It was a Coke bottle, an old-fashioned, hourglass-shaped Coke bottle.

And there were no other bottles in the area, or along the tracks now that she thought about it. Trash like that wouldn’t be unusual in America, where railroad tracks were often used as open-air trash bins, but in Southeast Asia, northern Vietnam especially, trash was a valuable commodity. An intact bottle had dozens of potential uses.

Including, perhaps, a signal that the box was buried below.

She poked the dirt with her fingers. The ground in front of her was hard, but the weeds to her right came up easily.

They’d been removed, then replaced.

Her fingers scraped the top of the footlocker within a few seconds, but it took her nearly ten minutes to clear enough of the dirt away so she could lift the box from the ground. She stopped several times, listening, still afraid that this might be a trap.

As she reached for the latch, she hesitated again, worried that it might be booby-trapped. It had been left by a contact sent by the CIA station at the American embassy — a station she knew had been penetrated by Vietnamese spies. It was because of that breach that she had been sent to Vietnam in the first place; then the war had begun, and her mission morphed from routine to interesting.

Interesting.

Would someone who wanted to kill her go to the trouble of burying the box? He’d have just left it out where it would easily be found.

But burying it would make her drop her guard. Burying it might lull her into complacency. Burying it would be exactly the sort of precision, the exact attention to detail, to expect from a smart enemy.

There was no way really to know. Mara took her folding knife from her pocket and opened it, teasing the latch. She started to run the point around the edge — but what was the point?

Because she mustn’t drop her guard, ever. She’d learned that lesson many times, long before Vietnam.

Mara worked the knife around the box, opposite the latch. When she reached the first hinge, she pushed it in, levering it up.

The hinge snapped. She froze for a moment, then lowered her ear to listen.

“Shit, you gonna kiss it next?”

Mara dove over the box, pistol raised. She just barely kept herself from firing at the voice behind her.

She would have hit the driver, not Kerfer, who was standing behind him, MP-5 in the poor man’s ribs.

“Calm the fuck down,” said Kerfer.

“You’re lucky you aren’t dead,” said Mara, getting up for her knife.

“Jesus H. Christ — you really think one of your own people booby-trapped it?” said the SEAL.

Mara ignored him. She snapped off the second hinge.

“Stand back,” she said, first in English, then in Vietnamese. “Just in case.”

Kerfer snickered, but he pulled the driver back a few steps with him. Mara slid the top to the left, then to the right, then finally pushed it open.

There were old clothes on top. She took her small LED penlight and shone it around the interior of the box. Two AK-47s, ammunition, a satellite radio, two cell phones, which most likely would be worthless, and maps. A backpack.

That was it.

Son of a bitch.

Mara unfolded the backpack, made sure it was empty. She looked at the clothes — peasant wear, useful in the countryside but out of sync here, and in any event similar to what she already had — a black pair of baggy pants, Vietnamese style, with a longish black shirt.

She took the weapons, made sure the box was empty. Then, following an impulse, she dropped down and examined the hole again, digging deeper and on the sides. But the ground was hard. She worked her light around, making sure there was nothing else.

“We set?” asked Kerfer, standing over her.

Mara didn’t answer. She rose, and tossed him one of the rifles.

“Come on,” she said, heading for the car.

“You expecting something else?” Kerfer asked.

“Money,” she said. “A lot of money. The fucks.”

4

Jing Yo steadied himself in the door frame of the Harbin A180, watching the gray and black tops of the trees pass by. The Harbin — a Chinese “interpretation” of a Cessna 180 — was flying barely twenty meters off the ground, skimming low to avoid any possibility of being picked up on Vietnamese air defense radar. Every so often the pilot had to pull up to avoid colliding with something in his path. Several times branches of trees had brushed against the belly of the plane, tiger claws scratching the metal, hoping to rip it open and expose the meat inside.

The near misses suited Jing Yo fine. They meant the pilot was doing his job. Stealth was all-important.

“Hanoi is ahead,” said the man.

He was a member of the air commando brigade. Jing Yo knew him slightly; his unit had worked on some exercises with the brigade the year before.

“Third time I’ve been here,” said the pilot when Jing Yo didn’t reply. “Twice last night. Fires get brighter.”

He seemed to mean that as a joke.

“Won’t be much left to burn soon,” added the pilot. “Uh-oh, watch out!”

The plane tilted abruptly to the right. A yellow cone of light rose just behind them: a searchlight, activated by someone who had either seen a shadow or somehow heard the heavily muffled engine.

The plane began to rock. A stream of red and yellow fire arced into the air above, first behind them, then all around them.

“Hang on,” said the pilot. The bonhomie was gone from his voice; he spoke like a machine, cold and impersonal.

Jing Yo welcomed the change.

The intelligence service had identified his subject: an American scientist named Joshua MacArthur. He was in Hanoi, but not at the embassy — the service had excellent contacts there, and the briefer assured Jing Yo that they would know if he was there. A spy had been designated as a local contact, and important information would be delivered by sat phone if necessary, but for the most part, Jing Yo was on his own.

The plane zigged to the left, then to the right, then turned hard in a bank. It seemed to Jing Yo that they were turning around. He waited by the door, silent, watching the fires in the distance. On an ordinary night before the war, there would have been at least a few lights on below, and many more in the distance, in Hanoi itself. But now it was a black hole in the landscape, marked only by fires and a few searchlights.

More lights flashed on. They worked across the sky, pens crossing out sections they had examined. The pilot ducked around them, trying to fly into the areas where they weren’t.

Fountains of red appeared, fresh gushes in the night. Their glow came from tracer rounds, showing the gunners where their bullets were going. The tracers were loaded every five or six bullets — Jing Yo wasn’t sure; perhaps it was even less. So for every streak he saw, there were several more bullets he couldn’t see. The slugs were large, thick pieces of metal the size of a clenched fist. They would tear through the light aircraft like a knife poking through paper. One hit and the tiny airplane would go down.

“Three minutes,” said the pilot calmly.

“Are we going east?” asked Jing Yo.

“South. Don’t worry. You’ll go out where planned.”

Jing Yo waited. The flak from below had not abated. He took a slow breath, counseling the muscles in his body to relax. They had been battered severely over the past several days; they would be battered again in the next few.

Jing Yo had chosen to carry out the mission by himself. This was partly a practical matter. It seemed to him that it would be easier to slip into the city under the cover of darkness, and with dawn rapidly approaching — it was already almost six — even the few minutes it would have taken to return to his unit’s temporary barracks at the captured Vietnamese; base and have one of his men gather his things could not be spared.

Even with more time, Jing Yo would most likely have chosen to come alone. He trusted most of the men in his squad, and could have found one or two on short notice worthy of such a difficult mission. But he had been trained to act alone, and preferred doing so.

Alone, there was less chance of a random error preventing him from accomplishing his mission. Alone, he could focus on the task at hand, and not worry about an underling’s welfare. For even on a mission such as this, a commander had responsibilities to his people.

The nose of the plane tilted upward. They were getting close.

“The flak trucks are very close to the first position,” said the pilot. “There will be ground patrols there, guarding them, and perhaps they will see you. Would you prefer one of the fallback zones?”

“Which?”

“I can drop you exactly two kilometers south of Bay Mau Lake,” said the pilot. “Will that do?”

“It is fine.”

“The Vietnamese have moved all of their army headquarters south of the city,” said the pilot. He was back to being friendly. “They have bunkers. They’re out there, three kilometers south. They think we don’t know.”

Jing Yo stared into the darkness. If there were bunkers, they were well beyond the flak, where he couldn’t see them.

“Hold on now, we’re turning,” said the pilot. “We’ll either go into a calm spot in the sky, or we’ll be shot down.”

He laughed.

Jing Yo gripped the handle at the side of the door. The plane jerked hard, making the turn. Its nose came up abruptly. Jing Yo felt his stomach fall toward the bottom of his chest.

They flew like that for five seconds, then ten more. The sky cleared.

“Three hundred meters,” said the pilot. “I’m climbing to five.”

Suddenly the sky filled with searchlights. The pilot cursed. Tracers appeared near the door.

“I’m going,” said Jing Yo, leaning toward the door.

“I can’t let you out here. You’ll be killed!”

“You have no choice,” said Jing Yo, stepping into the night.

5

As a newly minted second lieutenant, Zeus Murphy had served in Iraq at the height of the second Gulf War. Much of his time had been spent in Baghdad and the surrounding areas, when suicide bombings and random mortar and rocket attacks were still common. The days had been hell, but he’d always managed to sleep easily at night, even when he was staying outside of what later became the protected Green Zone. In fact, he’d slept through at least two mortar attacks on his building, including one that damaged the room next to his.

It was the same way now, in Hanoi. Perhaps it was the exhilaration of having cobbled together a mission to help the SEALs and CIA officer Mara Duncan retrieve the American scientist. Zeus hadn’t had a “real” mission since making major and being promoted out of Special Forces nearly a year before. Or maybe it was just jet lag. In any event, Zeus had fallen asleep as soon as he hit his mattress. None of the Chinese bombs and missiles, let alone the antiaircraft guns stationed across the street, put the slightest dent in his slumber.

The hotel called itself, without ironic intent, Hanoi’s Finest Hotel. The title was impressive in Vietnamese, where the characters were drawn and arranged in a way that could be interpreted as having several lucky meanings. The hotel building itself was somewhat less so. It consisted of three different sections, all built by the French during their occupation. The oldest, taken up by the reception hall and offices, had some slight pretensions toward Architecture, with a capital A. There were columns and plasterwork so elaborate that decades’ worth of white paint couldn’t entirely obliterate them. The draperies and rugs were threadbare but their patterns hinted, if not at opulence, at least at some appreciation of design and color.

But the two additions, which folded out from each other in a train behind the oldest, were utilitarian block houses, with low ceilings and narrow hallways. The rooms were small even by Vietnamese standards: the door hit Zeus’s single bed when it was opened more than halfway.

The hotel had somehow managed to escape damage during the war with America. The Vietnamese considered this a sign of its superiority, making prominent mention of the fact in not one but two placards in the lobby. In fact, most buildings south of the central business areas had not been damaged. As inaccurate as American bombing sometimes was, even the massive B-52 raids that dropped bushels of unguided iron bombs had always been aimed away from obvious civilian areas.

Neither Zeus nor General Harland Perry, his boss, thought the Chinese would take such pains in this war.

Perry had been put up in a guesthouse a mile away. His driver and his security people were staying with him. The rest of his small staff — Zeus, Major Win Christian, and two sergeants with expertise in intelligence and communications — had been put up in the hotel after a brief stay at the U.S. embassy.

Officially, they weren’t in Vietnam. They wore civilian clothes, and in the unlikely case that someone asked what they were doing, had been instructed to give vague replies about being attached to the embassy.

Unofficially, they were there as observers to see what the hell the Chinese were up to, and possibly learn if the Chinese claims that Vietnam had started the war were true.

Secretly, and in reality, they were there under the direct orders of the president of the United States, to do whatever they could to keep the Chinese from rolling through Vietnam.

“Major?”

Zeus rolled over in the bed.

Jenna was with him — in his dream. He pushed himself against her side, then wrapped his arm around her, his left hand searching for her breast.

“Major Murphy?”

Gradually, Zeus realized there was someone else in the room. A woman.

But not Jenna. And not in his bed.

Damn.

“Zeus?”

“Mmmmmm,” he mumbled.

“Zeus? Are you awake?”

A hand touched him. Big, warm, somewhat soft.

“Zeus?”

“Mmmm.”

“Zeus, I need to talk to you.”

Zeus rolled back over and opened his eyes. Mara Duncan stood next to the bed. The door to his room was open to the hall.

“Mara,” he mumbled.

“Zeus. Come on, wake up.”

“How’d you get in?”

“I picked the lock. Come on. We need to talk.”

“Uh, what about?” he asked.

“Not here. Get dressed. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

Just as demanding as Jenna, thought Zeus, though not in a good way.

Mara waited for Zeus on one of the massive French couches in the lobby, sipping coffee and eating one of the croissants the hotel employees had brought. A Western-style continental breakfast was an old tradition at the hotel, and the manager insisted on keeping it up, even though his staff was greatly reduced.

The pastries were at least a day old, if not two or three. The croissants, however, were fresh, still warm from the oven, Mara thought. She’d been in Paris several times, and appreciated a good croissant — flaky and airy, the inside porous enough to soak up jelly.

Little luxuries were like pearls when you were on an assignment, her boss, Peter Lucas, always said. Grab them when you can.

Mara took another croissant, and split it in half with her fingers, dabbing both sides with jelly. The jelly was grape, relatively rare and probably not much in demand before the war, she thought.

It came in a small plastic tub, sealed against germs and bugs, and dust. But ultimately not against war.

Zeus came out from the back, passing the reception desk. He had an easy, confident gait. Though sleepy-eyed, he walked with purpose, the sort of man who swept into a room and took control of it. He was handsome, but without the rugged edge Kerfer displayed. Zeus was clearly headed for the upper ranks.

“You played football in high school,” Mara said as he sat down.

“Are you asking?”

“No.” She sipped her coffee.

“You read some sort of dossier?”

“No. I can just tell.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Quarterback?”

“School record for passing. Broken the next year by a guy who went to Michigan State.” Zeus smiled. The waiter began pouring him a cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” said Mara. “Try the croissants.”

“What’s going on?”

She shook her head slightly. She assumed the hotel was bugged.

“Oh,” said Zeus, catching on. He took a big swallow of coffee.

“I expected more chaos,” said Mara. “And destruction.”

“There’s plenty of both,” said Zeus.

“But there’s also this.” She held the croissant up.

“That good, huh?”

“Try one. Then let’s go for a walk.”

The coffee was stronger than Zeus was used to, and he had a slight caffeine buzz as they walked outside. A Vietnamese army unit had been assigned to protect the Americans in the hotel. Two trucks sat across the street. A half dozen soldiers milled around nearby. To a man, each had a cigarette in his mouth.

They stared at Zeus and Mara as they came out of the building. They are as curious about the westerners, Zeus thought, as they would be about circus performers come to town.

“You think the hotel is bugged?” Zeus asked as they turned down a side street.

“Hmm,” she said.

It was the barest of syllables, just a sharp hum really, but the tone told him to be quiet. He walked along at her side, chastened, crossing at the corner onto a broader avenue. The sun had not yet risen

“I’ve never been to Hanoi,” said Zeus. “Not in real life. But I’ve played all sorts of war games here. In our simulations — they look a hell of a lot like the real thing.”

“You couldn’t die in one of the simulations if the bricks of the buildings fell apart,” said Mara.

“Or if a bomb hit,” said Zeus.

He meant it as a joke — a quip, something to break the tension. But it fell flat. Mara seemed cross, angry about something. The night before, driving in from Hanoi, she had been much less cynical and snappy.

Well, they were in a war. People were trying to kill them. That didn’t make most people happy.

Mara wasn’t pretty in a conventional way. Not that she was ugly, or even unattractive. She was tall, almost six feet, and maybe a little too much like a tomboy for his taste. Her Vietnamese-style clothes — baggy, draping, in black — didn’t do much for her either.

“Don’t trust the American embassy,” she said, abruptly starting across the street.

“Huh?”

She moved so fast Zeus had trouble keeping up.

“Don’t trust them,” said Mara.

“The ambassador seems nice.”

“Nice is meaningless. And she’s not the problem.”

Mara turned to the right. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. The buildings around them were two- and three-story masonry structures, storefronts and apartment houses, with the occasional office building thrown in. The signs were a colorful mishmash of Vietnamese characters, occasionally punctuated by English and familiar trademarks. There was a Canon sign; across the street on a bank was a logo for HSBC. The words “Out of Order” were written on a piece of cardboard over it, in English and Vietnamese.

“I need to get down to Saigon,” Mara told him. “The airport here is too dangerous to use. It could be overrun at any minute.”

“That’s not true,” said Zeus. ‘“It’s not in any immediate danger.”

“I don’t have time to argue with Langley,” Mara told him, referring to the CIA brass by naming the agency’s headquarters. “And if they’re not going to believe what I tell them, they’re not going to buy anyone else’s arguments. There’s a plane for me in Saigon. I need to get there.”

“I don’t understand,” said Zeus. “Last night, you and the SEALs were going to be evaced from the airport by plane this morning.”

“Yeah. Things change. Especially in Vietnam.”

Mara walked on, wending her way through central Hanoi’s business district. The soldiers from the hotel were probably following, but she wasn’t able to see them.

Which was good enough. As long as they weren’t in direct sight, they wouldn’t be able to use a shotgun-type mike to pick up the conversation. Not that she’d seen one.

Maybe she was being too paranoid. Unless one of them was bugged…

Shit.

“Stop!” Mara said, turning to him. “Take of your shoes.”

“My shoes?”

“Where’d you get them?”

“I brought them with me.”

He stood on one foot in the middle of the sidewalk and removed his right shoe. Mara took it, examining the sole, and then the interior.

“You looking for a bomb?” he asked.

“Other shoe,” she insisted, holding out her hand.

He gave it to her. Then she demanded his shirt.

“You gonna ask for my pants, too?”

“You can check that yourself,” said Mara, running her fingers across the seams. The CIA had bugs that were so small they could be sewn into the facing of a shirt, or placed along the side of a buttonhole. But the Vietnamese didn’t possess such technology, or at least no one in the agency thought they did.

Which, Mara knew, wasn’t the same thing as their not having it.

It wasn’t just paranoia she was feeling. She was angry, mad at the agency, furious with Langley and the idiots there who ran things. She wasn’t even too happy with Peter Lucas. She needed to talk to him, but despite trying, she couldn’t get through. She’d been with the Company long enough to guess the reason: Lucas, temporarily heading the agency’s Southeast Asia operation, had been called back to the States to give a command performance for the White House.

Idiots.

And then there was the problem of the ten thousand dollars missing from the drop. Which, at best, indicated that the station was employing thieves.

“So do I get to check your clothes now?” Zeus asked.

“Very funny,” said Mara, handing him back the shirt. “Did the Vietnamese give you anything?”

“Indigestion.”

“In case you haven’t guessed, I’m not in a very good mood, Major.”

“Really? You were just about bowling me over with your jokes.”

“Walk,” she said, starting again.

“So your plans were changed,” said Zeus, falling into stride. “Which is what has you in such a good mood.”

“The airport was closed. As if nobody could fucking foresee that.”

“Go out by ship.”

“Apparently the Chinese have set up a blockade and we’re not going near enough to the coast to test it,” said Mara.

The SEALs had come from a submarine farther offshore, which had rendezvoused with a helicopter. The submarine had gone northward near the Chinese coast immediately after the SEALs left and was not available to even try for a pickup.

“You sound a little bitter,” said Zeus.

“I am.”

Mara realized she was almost running. She slowed her pace, trying to calm herself. There was no sense being angry; plans changed all the time.

“Too much coffee,” she told Zeus.

“Didn’t get much sleep, huh?”

A jet rocketed overhead. Zeus stopped and spun in the direction of the sound, braced for a bomb. Mara felt comforted somehow, his tension proof that her jangling nerves were normal, were deserved.

“Probably a reconnaissance flight,” said Zeus.

“In any event, the upshot is, I need to get south,” said Mara.

“I can talk to General Trung,” said Zeus. “I’m sure we can get an escort.”

“I don’t want an escort. I don’t want anything that will draw attention to us. More than the obvious,” said Mara. As foreigners, they would stand out no matter what.

“You don’t trust the Vietnamese?”

“No,” said Mara.

“Not even Trung?”

Mara had been told by Langley to treat the Vietnamese army as if the general staff had been penetrated by the Chinese — which to Mara meant that it had been. She wasn’t supposed to tell Zeus that, since it could possibly jeopardize whatever means the agency was using to gather its own intelligence from the Chinese. But she wanted him to put two and two together, for his own safety.

“I wouldn’t trust anyone,” said Mara. “The Chinese have a huge spy network here. A very efficient one.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, I’m supposed to get south quietly,” added Mara. “The Vietnamese don’t know about Josh. They know very little about the UN mission that he was on.”

A mission that had been penetrated by the CIA, a fact that also had to stay secret, though it did not involve Josh. The spy had been killed in the Chinese massacre.

“I need to know what roads south are open,” said Mara. “That’s number one.”

“They’re all open,” said Zeus. “South of the reservoir.”

“Will they be open twelve hours from now?”

“Hard to say. It depends on what the Chinese do next. If I were them, I would be swinging eastward to hit Hanoi,” said Zeus. “And I’d be coming in from the sea. But if I were them, I would have had a different strategy to begin with.”

“I may need to find out what’s going on,” said Mara. “I need to be able to talk to you.”

“Call me.”

“Good idea.”

“You’re being sarcastic?”

Mara turned at the corner and picked up her pace again, walking to a building in the middle of the block whose door was painted bright green. She stopped, looked around, then walked to a set of steps leading downward just beyond the main door. Zeus followed.

She knocked. The door was opened by a short, gray-haired Vietnamese woman, who looked at her expectantly.

“Four,” said Mara in Vietnamese.

The woman told her that the price was one hundred dollars apiece.

“One million dong for all,” said Mara.

“Dollars.”

“I’ve always paid in dong.”

Mara had never bought a phone here, or anywhere else in Vietnam for that matter. But it was a plausible lie. Mara knew she wasn’t going to pay in dong, but she had to try and get the price down as far as possible to preserve her small supply of American money.

“Phone always in dollar,” said the woman, switching to English.

“You won’t be able to change them,” said Mara, sticking to Vietnamese.

“Changing them is my problem,” said the woman, back in Vietnamese. She offered Mara ninety a phone. Mara told her that was unacceptable, waited for a moment, then turned to go.

“I know that trick,” said the woman.

Mara ignored her. She had reached the sidewalk when the woman offered the phones for fifty apiece.

“Too much,” said Mara.

“Mister, buy for your wife,” said the woman, appealing to Zeus in English.

“She’s not my wife,” said Zeus.

The words confused the woman.

“One hundred for all the phones,” said Mara in Vietnamese.

The woman made a face. “Your Vietnamese is very good,” she told Mara. “So you must know how poor our country is.”

What Mara knew was that the phones had surely been stolen. Pointing that out would not be helpful at this stage in the negotiations, however.

“One hundred for all of the phones,” Mara repeated.

The woman closed her eyes.

“I will give you three phones for that,” she said finally.

Mara took the deal.

The phones had numbers taped to the back. But those weren’t the numbers they were going to use. Two blocks away, Mara found a wooden crate to sit on. She carefully opened the phones and inserted new SIM cards, in effect changing the brains of the phones. She gave Zeus one and kept the other two.

“I should only have to call you once,” said Mara. “But don’t get rid of the phone until I call and tell you to do so. You realize the Vietnamese listen to all cell phone conversations, right?”

“Uh — ”

“So we have to assume that they’re going to be listening in. Maybe even the Chinese will by then. I’ll give you a number. That will be the highway number. Then I’ll give you a place. I’ll be asking you if the road is clear south of that place. You tell me yes or no. That’s it. Nothing more. Assume they’re listening.”

“What if you have a more complicated question?”

“Then I’ll have to play it by ear,” said Mara.

“This is all the help you want?”

Mara contemplated giving him a copy of the video and stills Josh had shot of the massacre. Washington had ordered her not to transmit the files, since she couldn’t safely encrypt them. It was likely the Chinese would intercept the transmission, and they could break any commercial encryption, just as the CIA could. Once they had the images, they would find a way to alter them, releasing versions before the U.S. did.

But what if she didn’t make it? Murphy could be a backup.

No. Her orders were specific: trust absolutely no one with the files, even Americans. Even Zeus, though he hadn’t been named.

“It’s all the help you can give me,” she said. “Can you find your way back to your hotel?”

He looked around. “I’m honestly not sure.”

“Take a right there, go two blocks, then take a left,” said Mara, pointing. “You’ll be back on the avenue. Keep going and you’ll reach your hotel. If you get stuck, you can always ask the soldiers who are trailing you. They’re a block and a half behind.”

6

Stepping into the air was a relief.

Jing Yo pinned his elbows close to his ribs, his legs tucked up. He wanted to wait until the last possible moment to deploy his chute.

The city grew before his eyes, the yellow speckles resolving into spot-lights and guns. He’d parachuted so often that he didn’t even need to glance at the altimeter on his wrist to know when to pull the cord; he could just wait for the twinkles to stop.

He thought of what would happen if he didn’t pull, if he just continued to fall.

Oblivion was everyone’s eventual reward. But it was hubris to try to steal it from fate, to seek it before one’s assigned time. The way was unending; attempt to cheat it on one turn of the wheel and the next would make you pay.

Jing Yo pulled the cord. The chute exploded into the air behind him. He felt the strong tug on his shoulders and at his thighs. He took hold of the toggles and began to steer.

He wanted a black spot to land on. He fought off the blur, steadied his eyes. The guns were still firing, but they had moved northwest, following the small aircraft that had flown him here.

Jing Yo aimed for what he thought was a field, then realized almost too late that it was the flat roof of a large single-story building at the end of a road. He pitched himself right, and managed to swing the parachute into the small yard behind the building. His rucksack hit the ground a moment before he did, giving him just enough warning.

The next few minutes rushed by. He gathered the parachute. He found a large garbage bin behind the building and placed it inside. He put the jump helmet and goggles there as well. He unpacked the rucksack, unfolding the bicycle he would use to get into the city. He took his pistol and positioned it beneath his belt. He made sure his knife was ready. He considered changing his boots — he’d worn heavy combat wear for the jump — but thought better of it.

Finally, he started to ride.

Only when his foot touched the pedal did he hear the dogs barking. Even then, he thought they were just random sounds, the sort of alarm a nosy pet might make when catching an unfamiliar scent in the field.

Then he heard shouts, and he realized someone was hunting for him.

Jing Yo began pedaling in earnest. The street before him lit up — headlights, coming from behind him. The beams caught the rusted crisscross of a chain-link fence on the right side of the road, then swung back, reflecting off the houses that lined the left.

He glanced over his shoulder. A pickup was following him.

Though a strong cycler, Jing Yo was no match for the truck. It accelerated toward him, pulling alongside.

Two dogs, along with two men, were in the truck bed. The driver rolled down his window.

“You,” shouted the driver. “What are you doing?”

“I have to report for work,” replied Jing Yo, still pumping his legs. There were houses on both sides of the road; if necessary, he could run behind them.

How could he lose the dogs?

“Where do you work?” asked the driver.

Before Jing Yo could answer, one of the men in the rear of truck yelled at him, asking if he had seen a paratrooper.

Jing Yo’s Vietnamese was very good; he had trained for the mission inside the country, working with a tutor for months. But his vocabulary wasn’t encyclopedic, and he didn’t recognize the Vietnamese word for paratrooper.

“What?” he asked.

“Soldiers. Did you see them?”

“I don’t know,” said Jing Yo.

“From the sky,” said the man.

“An airplane?” Jing Yo asked.

“Dumb peasant.”

The driver pushed harder on the gas, starting to pull away. Jing Yo put his head down, pedaling. He heard the men in the back shout something over the barking dogs.

The truck stopped abruptly.

His path to the left was blocked by a cluster of houses, tightly packed together. Jumping the fence into the open field was a better bet, though it would leave him vulnerable as he climbed. And either way, he would lose his bike.

“What kind of shoes are those?” yelled one of the men in the rear of the truck as he approached.

Jing Yo stopped. “My shoes?”

“Are you a deserter?”

“Maybe you’re pilot of the fighter that was shot down,” said the other man in the back. They were holding their dogs tightly on a leash. The animals were large, foreign dogs, the type trained as watchdogs. He guessed that the men were part of some sort of militia, or perhaps policemen out of uniform.

“Do I look like a pilot?” Jing Yo asked.

Jing Yo put his foot on the pedal, and started to pass them. He looked straight ahead.

The dogs’ barking intensified, then suddenly stopped.

They had been released.

There is a point of balance, in every man, in every situation. Stasis, a calm balance free from turmoil, internal and external. Jing Yo reached for that point, and found it in his mind.

Then he attacked.

The bike flew out from under him as the first dog grabbed at his pant leg. Jing Yo stomped the dog’s skull, crushing it. His maneuver left him vulnerable to the second dog, which jumped at him. Jing Yo raised his arms, barely catching the animal as it lunged. He rolled to his left, using the animal’s weight and momentum against it as he pinned it to the ground. His knee broke its rib cage.

The animal yelped, snapping its teeth. Then it dropped its snout, helpless, dying, wheezing in pain.

Jing Yo jumped to his feet. The two men in the back of the pickup truck were gaping at him, stunned. Jing Yo launched himself, flying into the two men, fists raised. He caught the first man in the throat but missed the second. Jing Yo turned, found the man, and kicked him in the chest, sending him against the window of the truck. He kicked him again in the face, then chopped his neck with the side of his hand.

The man’s neck snapped.

The other man had fallen to the ground under the force of Jing Yo’s initial blow. Jing Yo jumped on top of him, landing on his back. He kicked him over, then with his heel crushed the man’s esophagus, in effect strangling him.

The truck lurched forward. Jing Yo threw himself into the bed. Scrambling to his knees, he grabbed one of the AK-47s as the driver screeched around the corner. Jing Yo put the gun to the rear window and pulled the trigger.

The truck began to veer as the driver fell forward against the steering wheel, killed by Jing Yo’s shot. With the dead man’s foot still hard against the gas pedal, the truck veered sideways, then rushed off the pavement into the front yard of a small house.

Jing Yo put his left hand on the cab roof and pushed off, managing to jump off the opposite side as the truck flipped and crashed into the house. He rolled on the ground, his senses momentarily gone.

There was silence.

A woman screamed. A child began to cry.

Jing Yo jumped to his feet and began to run.

By the time Jing Yo got to central Hanoi, it was nearly eight o’clock, and the city was wide awake. He’d had to duck only a single checkpoint, but his experience with the dogs and the pickup truck made him wary. He’d gotten rid of his boots, and while tempted to keep the AK-47 for protection, he’d ditched it as well. He looked like a Vietnamese student, in Western blue jeans, with cheap athletic shoes and a bulky sweatshirt to hide his pistol. His backpack bore the insignia of a Vietnamese company.

It had been more than a year since Jing Yo had been in Hanoi. That visit had in no way prepared him for the city he saw now. Black smoke hung over the northern half, thickest above the airport and the area where the government and army had their official buildings. Jing Yo made his way to the banks of the Red River, walking in the direction of Phu Tan Port. Both the Chuong Dong Bridge and the Long Bien Bridge farther north had been destroyed. Burned-out shells of cars littered the roads near the water. Several small freighters had either been bombed or run aground, perhaps out of panic. The stern of the nearest vessel, a gasoline tanker blackened by the smoke of a fire, stood high above the water, its screw and rudder exposed like the genitals of an old, naked man.

Jing Yo walked northward, his stoic expression mirrored in the faces of the people he passed. They, too, were on a mission. A woman was taking dried sweet potatoes home from the market, dinner for a week. A man in a clean suit strode through the dusty street toward work, his manner daring the grit to settle on him.

Soldiers were posted at several of the intersections, but they took little notice of the clusters of people walking past. Jing Yo turned onto Hang Gai, one of the main roads north of the Tháp Rùa or Turtle Tower, the famous temple in the middle of Sword Lake in the center part of the city. There was a gaping hole in the row of buildings on the first street he turned down. He knew the area from his last stay, but couldn’t place the building that had been there.

He walked slowly, trying to prod his memory. Whatever had been there was now a hole filled with debris. The house behind it leaned over, as if peeking downward. Stray rocks and bricks were strewn at the sides. A small pile lined the gutter on the far side.

The theater. It had been a theater.

The memory came full force. He saw himself sitting in the audience, enchanted by the show, completely taken by the strange dance onstage.

Jing Yo pushed the memory away. It was an indulgence he couldn’t afford.

He continued down the block, then turned into a street of old and cramped buildings.

A strong odor hung in the air. Burnt metal and rotting flesh.

Jing Yo found the building and knocked on the door.

There was no answer. He knocked again. This time there was a rustle. Someone came to the door.

“Who?” asked a voice, so softly he could barely hear.

“Jing Yo.”

The door opened. A woman about Jing Yo’s age, wearing a Western-style dress, her hair undone down her back, stood gaping.

“Jing Yo?”

“It has been a long time,” he told her as she collapsed into his arms.

7

Josh studied his face in the mirror. The razor the SEAL had given him had removed about three-fourths of his week-old beard, leaving an uneven stubble covering his face.

There wasn’t enough shaving cream for a second try. He lathered up the soap as best he could, and began scraping gently. Bits of hair poked up from the corners of his mouth like pimples erupting on a teenager’s face.

His forehead was red, his nose blistered. His right eye drooped down, ringed by a deep, puffy bruise. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten it; it was simply one of the assorted minor injuries he’d suffered.

Better this than dead, he thought. Much better.

“Hey, kid, how’s it coming?” said Little Joe from the hallway. Little Joe — his full name was Ensign Riccardo Joseph Crabtree — had replaced Squeaky on guard duty while Josh slept.

“I’m getting there,” said Josh.

“You shaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I use the facilities? My stomach’s gonna explode.”

“Yeah, yeah, come on in,” said Josh.

There was only one commode in the washroom, open to the rest of the room. Josh threw water on his face and started to clear out to give the SEAL some privacy.

“Where you goin’?” said Little Joe.

“I’m not watching.”

Little Joe had a chortling laugh, the sort of sound a pig might make while grinding food.

“I don’t blame you. Take this.” He handed Josh his MP-5. “Don’t shoot yourself. I’ll be out in a second.”

Josh took the submachine gun and went out into the hall.

Josh had learned to hunt and handle guns as a young boy, but the submachine was a different sort of weapon. A rifle, a shotgun, even a pistol — all were tools for a certain kind of work, taking food. They were little different from the tractor his uncle used to plow the fields on their farm. You respected your rifle because it was a powerful tool, one that could easily get you into trouble if used improperly.

The submachine gun was a tool, too, but its purpose had nothing to do with food. You killed with it. Not food, but other people.

Kill or be killed. It wasn’t a theoretical or philosophical construct, not a scientific theory or hypothesis. Josh understood it completely, in his gut as well as his head — he’d just lived it. He’d witnessed the results of what happened when you didn’t or couldn’t defend yourself. And he’d managed to survive only at the expense of others.

And yet, after all that, there was something about the idea of killing another human being that weighed greatly on him.

As a scientist, he believed his mission was to help people. He studied the weather and its effect on biomes because he wanted to help humans deal with it. What other reason was there? Idle curiosity?

“You need purpose in your work,” a professor had told him in college. It was back in his junior year, his Philosophy of Science class. Professor Van Garten. Considering that it was a science class, and that Van Garten was a biologist, the lectures veered very close to religion. “If science’s discoveries are not in service of mankind, what good are they?” Van Garten had said on the very first day.

Van Garten was a realist; he’d spoken of the dark side of science — the atom bomb, mutations gone awry. But in the end, again and again, he maintained that science’s aim must overall be toward the good. He invoked Teilhard de Chardin — Catholic priest and philosopher — to imply that man’s innate nature was good, and that science, if true to that nature, would be good as well.

But having seen what he’d seen in the jungle, Josh had to question whether that was really true.

The old men and women massacred by the Chinese in the village: what did they know of man’s innate nature? What about the infants?

Man’s nature was brutal, and ugly, and beyond redemption. What science could possibly redeem the acts of the killers?

Kill or be killed? That wasn’t even in the equation. Kill for the sake of killing.

But that wasn’t what he was about. Was it?

“Smart thing, getting out of there,” said Little Joe, pulling open the door. “Whew.”

The SEAL waved his hand in front of his face, smiling. His nickname was apt. Little Joe stood only about five four. He wasn’t particularly broad-shouldered, and while all SEALs exuded a certain toughness, he didn’t seem particularly threatening. Even when they’d been escaping under fire from the Chinese, he’d had the demeanor of a guy grabbing a beer at a keg party, the sort of guy who’d smile at you when you walked up, give you his plastic cup, and get himself another one.

He’d also fed grenades into his grenade launcher like they were M&M’s. He’d hung off the back of the van firing while a half dozen Chinese soldiers tried to perforate him, firing well over a hundred rounds into everything but his flesh.

The easygoing smile and shrugs made the more lasting impression.

“Jeez, you hold that like you know what you’re doing,” said Little Joe, pointing at the submachine gun. “Ya gonna give it back, or ya gonna make me wrestle ya for it?”

Josh handed the weapon over.

“You all packed? Ready to go?” asked Little Joe.

“I don’t have much,” said Josh.

“Travel light, right?” Little Joe gave one of his chortles. “Let’s go then. We gotta meet the spook lady.”

Josh followed the SEAL through the hall toward the back of the building. They came out in a narrow alley. Another SEAL, Eric Wright, was there with a pickup truck they’d commandeered.

Mạ was sitting next to him, sucking her thumb. She opened her mouth wide as Josh slid in, then threw herself on him.

“Hey, I’m happy to see you, too,” he told her. “How are ya?”

Mạ didn’t understand what he said; she spoke only Vietnamese.

“She’s a doll,” said Eric. “Cute kid.”

“Been through hell,” said Little Joe, squeezing in on the other side of Josh. Mạ sat on Josh’s lap, giving them all room.

“Where’d you get the truck?” Josh asked. It was a two-door Toyota, maybe a year old.

“Nice wheels, huh?” said Little Joe. “Not even a dent.”

“Where’d you get it?” asked Josh, trying to make conversation.

“Rental lot,” said Eric.

“How much is a rental here?”

“Cheap,” Little Joe chortled. “We paid with SEAL.”

“Call it an exchange,” said Eric. “We took the truck, and, in exchange, we didn’t blow nothin’ up.”

As they drove out of the alley onto the main street, both men became silent, watching their surroundings. Little Joe was still smiling, but his eyes were darting.

“Patrol up there,” he said. “Two guys on the deuce.”

“Yeah,” grunted Eric.

Technically, the truck they’d spotted wasn’t a deuce-and-a-half, military slang for a two-and-a-half-ton transport used by the army to haul men and supplies. But the description was close enough: the vehicle was a troop truck with a canvas back, similar in purpose if not exact detail. Ironically, the vehicle was made by China, which before the war had done a fair amount of trade with Vietnam.

“Sniper up on that building,” said Eric.

Little Joe leaned forward to look as they passed. “Just guarding something,” he said. “Just watching. Not a sniper.”

“You know what the hell I mean, man.”

“Well then say it.”

“Hey, fuck you. He’s a sniper, all right?”

“Watch the language. We got a kid.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s he going to snipe at?”

“The rabble.”

Little Joe laughed. “They have these guys in the city to show the people they’re safe,” he told Josh. “It’s psychological. They don’t want panic.”

“That’s bull,” said Eric. “They’re looking for SEALs. And spies. And Santa Claus, ‘cause they know he comes by rooftop.”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Little Joe. “He’s nuts. He flunked colors in kindergarten.”

“Look who’s talking,” said Eric. “Don’t listen to him, kid. He can’t find his dick in a bathroom. Stick with me. I’ll give you the straight story.”

“Hey — watch it for the kid.”

“Sorry.”

The two SEALs traded put-downs — without any more four-letter words — as they wended their way through the capital. The streets were far less crowded than they had been two weeks before, when Josh was here with the expedition team, gathering supplies and preparing to go into the jungle.

And yet, the destruction he saw was less than he would have expected.

“I’m amazed there’s so many buildings still standing,” he said.

“Don’t let that fool you,” said Little Joe. “Airport’s pretty much leveled, and a lot of the important government buildings are wiped out.”

“Takes a lot to steamroll a city,” added Eric. “But they’re working on it.”

“Come back next week,” said Little Joe. “City’ll be one big pile of rubble.”

“Nah, they won’t waste the ammo,” said Eric. “Waste of time to blow everything up.”

“Chinese invented gunpowder. They like blowing sh — stuff up,” he added, amending his language midstream because of Mạ.

“So do I, but I wouldn’t waste it on Hanoi.”

“That’s it,” said Little Joe, pointing to a brown brick building. “Shop’s around the back.”

Eric pulled over. Little Joe hopped out, pushing the door closed behind him. He eyed the street left and right, then motioned Josh out. He took Mạ by the hand and walked with her through the alley side by side to a blue door. It was a small restaurant. Mara was sitting at a table in the corner, speaking to a hollow-cheeked Vietnamese man. The man fidgeted almost violently, turning his head left and right and flailing his elbows almost as if they were wings and he was trying to take off. Mara looked up as they came in and glared at them.

“Here,” said Josh, realizing that she didn’t want them to interrupt. “Let’s take this table.”

Little Joe pulled out a chair and sat down, positioning himself so he could see the entire room. His back was to Mara and the man.

A woman came over. Josh had only enough Vietnamese to realize she was asking what they wanted.

“Cà phê sũa,” he said, asking for white coffee.

“Me, too,” said Little Joe, in English.

The woman glanced nervously at his submachine gun, which he’d put on his lap. Josh signaled with his fingers that they wanted two of the coffees.

“Milk for Mạ?” he said.

The woman said something in Vietnamese that he didn’t understand. Mạ answered.

“Okay, Joe?” asked the woman.

“Yup,” said Josh, who didn’t understand what she had ordered, but figured it would be okay.

“She tell us it was on the house?” asked Little Joe.

“I have no idea,” said Josh.

“You don’t know Vietnamese?”

“Not really. They taught some phrases and things, and we practiced a little, but when people talk real fast, I can’t get it,” Josh said. “The tones are tough — the same sound can mean a bunch of things, depending on how they inflect it.”

“Well that’s a bitch. We’ll have to take pot luck, huh?”

“I ordered white coffee. It’s coffee with milk.”

“What if I wanted tea?”

“Oh. Um — ”

“Just busting you, kid. Coffee’s good.”

Though Little Joe called him “kid,” the SEAL seemed to be about his age. Maybe being in combat made him feel older than other people.

“So you’re a scientist, right?” said Little Joe. “What do you do? You know, science-wise?”

“I’m a weather scientist. Actually, what I study is the relationship between weather and biomes. We were looking at the plant life, how it’s changed in the last two years.”

“Global warming, right?” Little Joe smirked.

“I really hate that term. It doesn’t describe what’s going on. Vietnam’s average temperature is actually lower than it was a decade ago. People think everything’s getting hotter but it really isn’t.”

Josh began explaining that the effects of rapid weather change were extremely complicated. In Vietnam’s case, the changes had actually increased the arable land and lengthened the growing season.

Little Joe chortled. “What’s ‘arable’?” he said.

“Just farmland,” said Josh. “They grow a lot of rice, and what they’ve been able to do with increased crops — as much from genetic engineering on the rice as from the weather, but the weather did really help. Anyway, what they have now are two and even three crops per year, with yields that five years ago would have been unimaginable. They even do better than we do back home. That’s given them an incredible boost. That’s why China’s invading. They want the food.”

“Nah, it’s their oil,” said Little Joe. “They got tons of it offshore. That’s what this is about.”

“Oil’s important,” said Josh, who knew that the oil fields off Vietnam’s eastern shores were reputed to hold over twelve billion barrels, nearly double the estimate of a few years before. China was a voracious consumer. “But food is the reason people go to war. Vietnam has food and China doesn’t. Or not enough, anyway.”

“Nah. Always about oil, kid. It’s always oil.”

Mara tried to stay focused on what Phai was telling her about his cousin, but it was difficult. The SEAL and his submachine gun had drawn the attention of everyone in the room. It would be clear that they were together.

“The difficult problem in his village is thinking the Americans are friends,” Phai said. “No one accepts that. Always be on guard.”

“I understand.”

“Then good luck.” He started to rise.

“Wait,” said Mara, grabbing his hand.

It was a breach of etiquette, a mildly serious one, since they were different genders, and Phai immediately tensed. Mara let go.

She apologized. He nodded stiffly and asked what she needed.

“I have some things to sell. Satellite phones. I need to find a place — ”

“I can take them.”

“No. They may be bugged. I don’t want you connected to them.”

He named a gold shop on Ha Trung, and gave her directions. Then he rose and walked out quickly arms tight to his body as if he were trying to shrivel into the air.

Mara fished out money for the bill, adding extra dong to cover Mạ, Josh, and Little Joe. She got up and walked to their table.

“Leave. Now,” she said, and without waiting dropped the cash on the table and walked out.

The SEAL with the truck was waiting at the head of the alley. Nothing like being conspicuous. Mara gritted her back teeth.

“Hey, spook,” said Little Joe, practically swinging as he came out the door. “Where to now?”

“You jackass. What the hell did you go in there with your gun for?”

“Bunches of people have their guns with them,” said Little Joe.

“Bunches of people aren’t Americans. They’re the militia.”

“Nobody complained.”

“Get in the fucking truck,” said Mara. She turned to Josh. “You have to have more sense.”

“I uh — ”

“Get Mạ in the truck,” said Mara.

“Listen — ”

“You thought he knew what he was doing, is that what you were going to say?”

“No. I mean — ”

“He’s got a brain the size of a pea. They all do.”

The three walked back to the pickup. Josh started to get into the open bed.

“Joe goes back there,” said Mara. “You stay in the front with me.”

Inside the truck, she told Eric to take them to Hotel Nikko.

“I don’t know where that is,” said Eric.

“It’s on Tran Nhan Tong Street. In Dong Da.”

“If it ain’t in Michigan, I don’t have a clue.”

“It’s south,” said Mara. “Go up a block and take a left. Go clown Ba Trieu. There aren’t too many troops.”

“Direct me.”

The hotel was one of the city’s best. A large Western-style building near Hoan Kiem Lake, it was located in a neighborhood that included several embassies, and so far had escaped damage.

“Stay with the girl and the truck,” Mara told the SEALs as they pulled up to the thick overhang that marked the entrance. There were soldiers around the corner, but none in the plaza at the front of the hotel.

“No, we’re with Josh until the place is secure,” said Little Joe. “Orders.”

“Screw your orders,” she told him. “The more attention we attract, the less secure we all are.”

“Hey, I’ll go inside and scout,” said Eric, jumping out of the driver’s seat. “If I spin around, something’s up. You stay with Mạ.”

“Fine with me,” said Little Joe.

Eric pulled his shirt out, making sure the front concealed his holster. Mara frowned. She waited a few seconds, then led Josh inside. The lobby was crowded with foreigners sitting on the couches or milling around, making nervous conversation.

Kerfer was sitting near the bar, nursing a beer. “Took your time,” he said.

“I’m not on your schedule,” said Mara.

“Longer we wait to leave, the more chance the Chinks have to overrun the place.”

“I wish you’d watch your language.”

“That’s rich. You think any of these people would object? Fucking Chinks are breathing down their necks.” Kerfer took a swig of his beer. It was a Sapporo. “You know the restaurant’s supposed to be pretty good. I ate here a couple of years ago. How are ya today, Doc? You eat yet?”

“I’m not that hungry,” said Josh.

“Don’t blame you. Heard you didn’t sleep well.”

Josh shrugged. “I slept okay.”

Kerfer pushed the beer toward the bartender. “Couple more,” he said in English.

“We have to talk, Lieutenant,” said Mara. “Over there. In private.”

Kerfer got up and followed her toward the side of the room. “You sure this place ain’t bugged?” he asked.

“We’re not talking inside.”

She went down the hall through a staff-only door and out into the back lot.

“You know your way around pretty well,” said Kerfer.

“Listen, your men have to keep their weapons out of sight.”

“Eric’s is under his shirt.”

“Little Joe was swinging his around like he was exposing himself in a girl’s boarding school.”

Kerfer laughed. “Well, you got him pegged.” He took out a cigar. “Copped this from the bartender. Cost me ten U.S. You figure that’s a good deal?”

“Conserve your money,” she told him. “I need to run a few more errands. We’ll meet at the train station at noon.”

“Train station?”

Mara stared at him.

“You’re out of your fucking mind, lady.” Kerfer clipped the end of the cigar with a cutter, then poked it in his mouth. “We’re going to take a train?”

“Why not?”

“Chinese’ll bomb it as soon as they can spare the iron.”

“We’ll be in Saigon by then.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“I know my way around. I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

“I’m supposed to get you back in one piece. You and Junior in there.”

“You were assigned to get me out from behind the lines. You did a fine job. I can take it from here.”

Kerfer laughed. He puffed up his cigar, pushing the flame with a series of sharp breaths.

“You’re just good enough to be dangerous,” he told her.

“Just get Josh to the station in one piece, okay? If you don’t want to come with us, then you don’t have to. We’re probably safer traveling on our own.”

“You believe that?”

“Yes.”

He laughed again, then blew a ring of smoke from his mouth. “I’ll have him there,” said Kerfer. “You trust me to do that?”

“Not really.”

8

Jing Yo had first met Hyuen Bo three years before, when he was assigned to visit Vietnam as part of a training regime for the commando regiment. He’d already been in combat for nearly a year, assisting guerrillas in Malaysia; the assignment was intended mostly as a rest period, but also helped familiarize him with the country of a traditional enemy. It would turn out to be the first of several trips, though at the time neither he nor his superiors knew that.

Hanoi had been his base of operations. As cover, he had enrolled in the college of science as a biology student. It was there that he met Hyuen Bo.

She was working as a clerk for the registrar, and helped him with his paperwork. He stared at her long black hair as she showed him the forms, entranced by her face and the scent of jasmine surrounding her.

He found an excuse to come back the next day, telling her that he was confused about whether he was assigned to the right class. There was no mistake, of course, and she looked at him oddly.

Raised in the cloistered monastery, Jing Yo had always been shy with women. With Hyuen Bo he was beyond awkward. But his attraction was so strong that he delayed his plans to travel to Saigon. He went to class a third day, and afterward went to the registrar, determined to see her again, though even as he came through the door he didn’t know what excuse he would invent.

Another woman was in her place.

All the blood seemed to drain from his head. He had faced gunfire more times than he could count, but the fear he felt at the possibility of never seeing the girl again was more palpable than anything he had felt during war.

The woman at the desk explained that Hyuen Bo had been given a new job. She was due to start in the central ministry as an aide and translator within a few days. The office had given her the rest of the week off as a reward for her good service.

Jing Yo managed to get her address. He went directly to the house. Hyuen Bo wasn’t there. He waited, sitting on the pavement in front of the door as the afternoon grew into evening. When darkness fell, he began to feel sick to his stomach — the only reason she could be staying out this late, he reasoned, was that she must be seeing a boyfriend.

Hyuen Bo’s neighbors watched from a distance. He could see them stealing glances, but none approached. He would have ignored them if they had.

Jing Yo sat cross-legged near the door to the house, sitting and staring into the growing blackness. He emptied his mind. He had done the same thing at the monastery for years and years, and so it did not feel overly difficult or boring. But his stomach continued in turmoil.

And then finally a cab pulled up, and Hyuen Bo stepped out.

Jing Yo felt his heart stop.

She started to walk right by him. He couldn’t say a word.

“You want something?” she said, turning her head.

“It’s me, the student, Jing Yo. I heard you are gone from the college.”

“I… What are you doing here?”

He rose. His tongue felt frozen but he forced it to work.

“I wanted to ask you to go out with me,” he said.

“A date?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him. “When?”

“Now. Or another time. Now would be better,” he added, feeling his heart would never work again if she didn’t say yes.

“We could take a walk,” she said finally.

And so they did.

“Why are you here?” Hyuen Bo whispered as he pushed her gently away from him.

“I have to find an American,” he told her.

“What?”

“Is there anyone in your apartment?”

“No. Come on in, yes. You don’t want anyone to see you.”

The small apartment was exactly as he remembered it. Two thinly upholstered chairs dominated the front room. A table sat to one side. A stereo rested on the top, an MP3 player connected by a snaking wire to his USB port.

“Do you want some tea?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Jing Yo sat in the chair closest to the door. It was one he’d always sat in. If he closed his eyes, he might wake up and find out that everything that had happened since he had been here eighteen months before was a dream.

Hyuen Bo came back with a cup of tea.

“China has invaded Vietnam,” she said accusingly as she gave him the cup. “Why?”

Jing Yo shook his head.

“They are claiming Vietnam started the war,” added Hyuen Bo.

Jing Yo said nothing. There was no way to justify the actions of the government, and even if there were, he would not have expected Hyuen Bo to understand or accept the logic.

She knelt down at his feet, putting her head on his right knee. “Why have you returned now?”

“I have a mission,’’ he said softly. He leaned down, covering his face with his hands. They were barely inches away, their breaths intertwined. Yet he suddenly felt the separation of time and distance as an immense, uncrossable border. “There is an American agent.”

“Where?”

“He has come to Hanoi. I’m not yet sure where.”

“And you want my help?”

“Yes,” answered Jing Yo, though at that moment his mission was the furthest thing from his mind.

It was a moment of temptation — weakness. But what he wanted was not duty, not even adherence to the Way. He wanted her.

“My superiors would want to know why I was asking questions,” said Hyuen Bo.

Jing Yo steeled himself.

“A friend might be looking for him,” he said. “It’s not a lie.”

A tear slid from the corner of Hyuen Bo’s eye. A second and then a third followed.

“Why are you crying?” Jing Yo asked.

“Chinese bombs killed my mother at the theater the other night,” she told him, raising her face to gaze into his eyes.

Jing Yo didn’t know what to say. The woman had always been kind to him. She lived around the corner, with Hyuen Bo’s sister and brother-in-law and their children.

“I’ll help,” said Hyuen Bo. She collapsed onto his lap, shaking.

Jing Yo put his hand on her back.

“Tell me what to do,” she said between her sobs.

9

President Greene hated videoconferences, especially when he took them downstairs in the National Security Council facilities. The larger-than-life screens made them feel like television talk shows, and there was always a certain amount of preening for the camera. Even one-on-one they seemed fake, promising intimacy and subtlety but ultimately failing to deliver.

But he couldn’t very well fly to Vietnam to hear what General Harland Perry had to say. Nor did he want Perry to leave Hanoi just then. So this would have to do.

“The attack on the reservoir stalled them, temporarily at least,” said Perry, speaking from the secure communications room of the U.S. embassy. “They didn’t anticipate it. They’ve sent some units on probing attacks to the east. So far, the Vietnamese have turned everything back.”

Greene leaned his chin on his hand, his elbow resting on the large table that dominated the conference room. Besides the president and the communications specialist handling the gear, the only other person in the room was the national security adviser, Walter Jackson. Washington and Vietnam were twelve hours apart — when it was 11 a.m. in Vietnam, as it was now, it was eleven at night in Washington.

“How long do you think they can continue to hold the Chinese back?” asked the president.

“Yes, sir, good question.”

Which was Perry’s way of saying he had no way of knowing.

“The Vietnamese are shelling them from across the reservoir,” continued the general. “The Chinese haven’t dug in. That means they’re going to move again. If I had to guess, I’d say there’ll be a new push in a few days.”

“Which way?”

“If they’re planning an invasion from the coast, they’ll try to come east,” said Perry. “They’ve got to. Going into Laos now will slow them down. That’s what Major Murphy thinks.”

“His track record is pretty good,” said the president. He remembered Zeus — the major had correctly predicted the route of China’s surprise charge into Vietnam. “So how do we stop them from going east?”

“Short of deploying the Twenty-fifth Infantry in the highlands north of Da Bac, I don’t know that we can.”

The Twenty-fifth was an American light infantry unit stationed in Japan. There was no chance it was going to be thrown into the battle, even if it were able to get there.

“What’s your wonder boy say?” Greene asked.

“Zeus is looking to punt.” Perry grinned. “I think he’d like to see the Twenty-fifth Infantry here, too.”

“Not going to happen, General. The Vietnamese are going to have to hold them themselves.”

“We’re working on it, Mr. President. We are. But if there’s an invasion along the coast, the Vietnamese are going to have to withdraw some of the forces in front of the Chinese to deal with it. Once that happens, their line will be so thin a breakthrough will be inevitable. Frankly, sir, I don’t know how long they can hold out.”

“Understood. Keep doing your best. My best wishes to all your men.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

The screen went blank. Greene turned to Jackson.

“What do you think, Walt?”

“‘The Chinese have a lot of troops there. If they land near Hue they’ll cut the country in half. They can skip Hanoi if they want. They’ll go down the coast, take the oil fields, then get the rice. Hanoi will have to surrender. Then, as soon as they’ve got Vietnam under control, they go into Thailand. After that, maybe they show their teeth in Malaysia.”

“I would look at Japan,” said Greene.

“No food in Japan,” said Jackson. “Besides, Russia will have something to say about that.”

“Russia will say go ahead.”

Greene walked back and forth in the room, his energy getting the better of him. He was overdue for his evening workout, but it was too late for it now. He still had to call the education secretary to discuss strategy on the new education bill.

“Russia and China will clash eventually,” said Jackson. “They’re natural enemies. Maybe we can encourage that. Maybe the Russians will go along with us in the UN.”

“The first thing we have to do is stop the landing,” said Greene. “We need ships there.”

Jackson’s silence spoke volumes. The national security adviser was hardly a dove, but clearly he thought the situation was hopeless. There were only two American ships in the general vicinity. Both were too far south to confront the Chinese aircraft carrier and destroyers that had steamed into the Gulf of Bac Bo and the waters off northern Vietnam. USS Kitty Hawk and her battle group were nearly two thousand miles away. And the Joint Chiefs of Staff were arguing vociferously that the carrier be kept there.

“I know, I don’t ask for small miracles,” said the president finally. He turned to the communications specialist. “See if you can get General Perry back on the line.”

“What are you thinking?” asked Jackson.

“If I’m going to ask for a miracle, I ought to talk to the miracle man, right?”

10

Half a world away from Washington, Zeus Murphy was waiting for General Perry to finish briefing the U.S. ambassador on the latest developments before going with him to the Vietnamese army headquarters. While he faced a long afternoon working the Vietnamese through the latest U.S. intelligence, Zeus wasn’t thinking about the language problems or the difficult tactical situation the Vietnamese found themselves in. He was worried about his Corvette back home in the States, debating whether to have his brother put it in storage in his garage. Which would necessitate allowing his brother to drive it — never a good idea, given his driving record.

One of the embassy employees, a Vietnamese woman in her early twenties, came down the stairs. She was thin, dressed in a skirt whose looseness somehow managed to emphasize the narrow contours of her body. Very pretty, yet brittle-looking at the same time.

“Major Murphy?” she asked.

“Call me Zeus.”

She smiled. Zeus wondered if there was some sort of rule against fraternizing with embassy employees, and if there was, whether she’d be worth breaking it.

Almost certainly.

“The general would like to see you upstairs.”

“Great. After you,” said Zeus.

She blushed, actually blushed — Zeus knew opportunity when he saw it. But before he could take advantage, before he could even admire the rise of her hips up the steps, he was rudely interrupted by Major Win Christian, who shouted from the front hall behind him.

“Yo, Zeus — we leaving today or what?”

“Ask your boss,” said Zeus.

“My boss. Yeah.” Christian walked to the foot of the steps, lowering his voice. “You’re his golden-haired boy.”

Christian was Perry’s chief of staff, and resented Zeus’s inclusion as Perry’s special adviser in Hanoi. Zeus had never been too crazy about Christian, though his opinion had warmed ever so slightly during their mission together to help the SEALs and Josh MacArthur. They’d taken a van and driven past an enemy ambush to grab them.

“The general just asked me to come and talk to him,” said Zeus. “He’s on with the president.”

Zeus didn’t actually think the president wanted to talk to him; it was just a way of tweaking Christian. He jogged up the steps, looking for the staffer with the magic hips. Instead he found one of the American employees, a middle-aged male CIA officer who naturally claimed not to be a CIA officer. The man led him to the secure room.

Zeus was surprised to find that General Perry was still on the line with the president, and even more surprised when Perry put him on the line.

“Mr. President,” said Zeus.

“You need to push to talk, Zeus,” said Perry. “And tone down the exuberance a bit. It’s not quite professional.”

“Yes, sir.” Zeus found the button. “Mr. President?”

“Major Murphy, good to talk to you again,” said Greene. “Nice work with our scientist friend. Excellent.”

“I just drove the van, sir.”

“Here’s why the general and I wanted to talk to you. Everyone agrees that the Chinese are going to launch a sea assault on Vietnam’s eastern coast.”

“Yes, sir. They have all those landing ships on Hainan, the island to the east. And meanwhile, their carriers — ”

“Your job,” said President Greene, not allowing himself to be interrupted, “is to stop the invasion.”

“Um, stop it?”

“Yes. Come up with a plan to stop it. Then get the Vietnamese to implement it.”

“I’m not sure it can be done, sir. The Vietnamese — their navy is, uh, tiny to nonexistent.”

“Then use something different.” The president sounded like a high school football coach, telling him to find a way around the blitz. “Think outside of the box. That’s your job. You’re good at it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You figured out how to stop the ground advance,” added Greene.

“Well, temporarily.”

“Come up with something for the ships.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“That’s all we ask. General?”

“I’m done on my end,” said Perry.

“Very well. Keep up the good work, Zeus,” added President Greene. “We’re counting on you.”

The screen went blank. Zeus looked at Perry.

“It’s kind of impossible,” said Zeus.

“I thought it’d be better if you heard it directly from him,” said the general.

11

A certain amount of paranoia was absolutely essential to succeed as a covert agent. The problem was figuring out exactly how much was the right amount.

Mara had arrived in Vietnam knowing the CIA station in Hanoi had been compromised, so the theft of the money shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. And the fact that the box was actually where it was supposed to be could be interpreted as a good sign. Since her goal was simply to get out of Vietnam, whatever else was going on didn’t really matter. She’d learned long ago to focus on the goal rather than the messy stuff it took to get there.

Still, despite the fact that the U.S. was now covertly supplying advice and aid to Vietnam, she’d been told explicitly not to rely on the Vietnamese for help, not even transportation. The implication wasn’t simply that they had a different agenda than the U.S. did: the Chinese were legendary in their ability to penetrate Asian governments and their militaries, as Mara had learned to her detriment time and again in Malaysia. Asking the Vietnamese for help might very well be the same as asking the Chinese for help.

Her suspicions and doubts wrapped themselves tighter and tighter as she drove her scooter over to the shop Phai had mentioned to sell the sat phones. Mara didn’t particularly trust Phai, either, even though she knew him from Thailand. She rode around the block twice, making sure she wasn’t followed, then parked in an alley about a block away. Even so, she circled around on foot to make sure there wasn’t an ambush waiting.

Under other circumstances, Mara might have simply left the sat phones in the city somewhere. But she needed money as well as misdirection.

The fantasies she’d had as a child about being a spy — she’d grown up on Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? then graduated to old James Bond movies — didn’t involve credit cards or ATM machines. But they turned out to be an agent’s best friend in the real world. When they weren’t working, life was a hell of a lot harder.

Gold shops were common in the city, combination pawnbrokers and banks as well as jewelers. Like others, the owner of Ha Trung Finest conducted several other businesses on the side concurrently — tourist knickknacks and bottled water were featured in the window, along with hand-woven place mats and a rug.

He offered her fifty thousand dong apiece for the two phones — a total of roughly six dollars.

“Be serious,” scolded Mara. She was in no mood to bargain.

The proprietor pretended to look at the phones again, then upped his offer to two hundred thousand dong.

“No,” said Mara loudly, this time using English. She turned to leave the store.

“Wait, wait, lady,” said a woman, rushing from the back room. She spoke in English. “Don’t worry about husband. Eels for brains.”

Mara showed her the phones impatiently. The woman turned them over, looking at them as if they were pieces of jewelry. She flicked one on.

“These active,” said the woman.

“I figured you’d take care of getting new accounts,” said Mara.

“Without accounts they’re worthless,” said the man in Vietnamese.

“You just have to reprogram them,” snapped Mara in English. “I know that happens all the time.”

What actually happened all the time — and what Mara was counting on — was that the phones would be used on the existing accounts until the phone company finally got around to shutting them off. That could be days if not weeks. Of course, stating that explicitly meant acknowledging that the phones were stolen.

The store owners didn’t just suspect the phones were stolen; they were counting on it. But if Mara said that, they wouldn’t take them.

The wile looked at her. “Five hundred thousand dong.”

“One million dong each.”

Mara pushed the phones into the woman’s hands. The woman tried to give them back. The man behind the counter harangued her for interfering.

“Eight hundred thousand,” said Mara, speaking Vietnamese. “The account is good.”

They settled on seven hundred and fifty, with the woman throwing in a sling bag Mara decided she could use for her gun. Once the money changed hands, the man became gracious, insisting on giving Mara a bottle of water. He would have tried selling her the rug if she hadn’t left abruptly.

Mara had expected the trains south to be packed, but the station was almost empty when she arrived. Kerfer, Josh, and the others were huddled at the far end of the large room, camped out around a dozen of the light blue chairs. They’d bought some civilian luggage, and used them to stow their weapons and other gear. The SEALs had even found some new clothes and a doll for Mạ. She held the doll in her arms, rocking it gently and humming to it as she leaned against Josh.

“I’m assuming you have some sort of plan,” said Kerfer when she arrived. All six of his men — Eric, Little Joe, Stevens, Jenkins, Mancho, and Silvestri — were sprawled nearby.

“Are the trains still running?” Mara asked.

“You sent us here without knowing?”

“They were running this morning,” she said defensively.

Kerfer made a face. Mara went over to the ticket stand, a small podium-style desk near the door. The clerk assured her that the full schedule of trains was operating. She asked for tickets for Hai Phong — the cheapest trip available — and tried to pay with her credit card. The clerk told her that they were accepting only cash. She tried to use dongs but he would only take dollars, greatly depleting her supply.

Josh sat on the chair, his head hanging down about midway over his knees. His face looked even whiter than normal, and his eyes were gazing into space. Mạ leaned against him, but he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her.

“You with us, Josh?” Mara asked.

“I’m here.”

“He’s got some sort of bug,” volunteered Little Joe. “He ain’t pissing too well.”

Great, thought Mara. She had the images Josh had made of massacre, but Washington wanted Josh and the girl as well. There was no substitute for a firsthand story.

She put her hand against his forehead. He seemed a little warm. “You take aspirin?” she asked.

“Eric gave me some. I think it’s something I ate,” he added.

Hopefully. Otherwise they’d all have it soon.

“Hang in there,” Mara told him. Shouldering her backpack and sling bag — her folding-stock AK-47 was in the pack, her pistol in the bag — she pointed to the door out to the tracks. “Our train leaves in ten minutes. Let’s go.”

Mara walked across to the southbound train. It wasn’t the one she had tickets to, but it was the one she wanted. This train traveled along the coast, with stops at Dong Hoi, Hue, and Da Nang, among others, before heading inland to Saigon. It was a sleeper, and ordinarily would have been at least half full with tourists and businesspeople. But it was empty.

“Hey, they even got TV,” said Little Joe, pointing.

They spread out in the cars.

“You gonna give us all tickets?” Kerfer asked.

“They’re not for this train,” said Mara, handing them out. “What?”

“They aren’t going to collect them,” said Mara. “We’re not going to be on long anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head.

“Listen, I gotta know what’s going on here,” said Kerfer. “I don’t like being on a train to begin with.”

“Neither do I,” said Mara. “I didn’t have enough cash for the right train. Besides, we’re going to jump out down the line. A friend has arranged to leave some vehicles for us.”

“You should have said that before.”

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference.”

“Well, that’s what we’re doing. It was a backup plan,” she added. “And now we’re using it. Because I don’t like the fact that the train is so empty. The ones this morning weren’t.”

Kerfer frowned, then went and gave his men the tickets.

Two minutes later, the train started out of the station. They still hadn’t seen a conductor.

Josh slumped against the window. His pelvis felt as if it were burning up. He breathed slowly, trying to dissipate the pain.

He imagined it was something he ate, but had no way of knowing for sure. Maybe it was a urinary infection, but he hadn’t had sex in weeks.

Three months now, actually. When he and his girlfriend broke up. So that couldn’t be the cause. It must just be something he ate or drank.

“They have bathrooms on these?” he said, feeling the urge to pee.

“Up there,” said Mara, pointing.

The small closet reeked of human waste and ammonia. Josh felt his stomach churning and leaned over to retch. But nothing came out.

“Let it all out, man,” said Squeaky, who was standing outside. “Just let it go. You’ll feel tons better.”

“Trying,” muttered Josh, steadying himself against the side of the coach as the train began to pick up speed.

The train ran along a highway through the city and immediately south. It chugged along slowly, barely approaching thirty miles an hour. Mara nervously watched the countryside pass by. Knots of Vietnamese troops were parked every quarter mile or so along the road. This was the safest way past the military bunkers where most of the government and army officials had taken shelter to the south, but it took them perversely close to them, as well as to several military installations along the sidings.

Mara left Josh and Mạ in the seat near the back of the car and went up the aisle to the first row, not expecting a conductor but prepared to deal with one if he showed up. A small bribe would be sufficient to take care of any problem about their destination, especially since they weren’t going to be on the train for very long.

“So when exactly is it we’re getting off?” said Kerfer, settling down beside her. He leaned forward and rested his arm on the seat back of the row in front of him, leaning toward her.

“Soon,” she said.

“That ain’t good enough, kid.”

“You’re calling me kid now?”

“I call everybody kid. I figure that’s better than lady, right?”

“Mara works.”

Kerfer frowned. She could only guess at his age — late twenties, maybe thirties. He had a rough face that seemed made of unpolished stone. His green civilian shirt and blue jeans made him look more military, not less, even though he was unshaven and his hair edged over his ears.

“All right. So Mara — what are we doing?”

“We need to get south of Phú Xuyên,” she told him.

“Where’s that?”

“Twenty-one miles south of Hanoi. Things are less tense there. We shouldn’t have to worry about being stopped.”

“I thought Major Murphy said these guys are on our side now.”

“I wouldn’t trust them for the time of day.”

Kerfer frowned again — it seemed to be his basic facial expression — then slowly nodded.

“What about the little girl?” he asked.

“Washington says she can come back with us,” said Mara. “That’s what you want, right?”

“Hey, I don’t care. Better than an orphanage, right?”

Mạ had a hell of a story to tell, which was the real reason Washington wanted her back. Still, she could live a far better life in the States than she could here. Regardless of the war.

“When are we getting out?” Kerfer asked.

“I’ll tell you in plenty of time.”

Kerfer pushed himself back in the seat, extending his legs to relax. “Girl jumping, too?”

“She can come with me. We’ll go out uphill. It’s like stepping off an escalator.”

“I’ve done it before.” He smelled of sweat. “Country’s falling apart?”

“Not really,” said Mara. “If that was happening, the train would be packed.”

“People are afraid to take the train because they know the Chinese will bomb it soon,” said Kerfer. “It’s an easy target.”

“They haven’t bombed it yet,” said Mara.

“That’s because they figured they would waltz right through. They wanted the train. Now that they’re starting to slow down, they’ll bomb everything in sight. They won’t care about how many they kill. They’ll just lay it all to waste.” He turned to her. “That bother you?”

“It’s not my job to be bothered by that.”

Kerfer laughed. “You do a good imitation of being a hard-ass,” he told her. “I’ll give you that.”

The train started braking. Mara looked out the window. She wasn’t sure where they were, but she knew they couldn’t be much more than halfway there; they hadn’t even passed Phu yet. She got up and walked to the vestibule of the car.

“Problem?” asked Kerfer, following.

“We shouldn’t be stopping,” she said, taking a train key from her pocket and opening the door.

“Nice,” said Kerfer.

Mara leaned out of the car and saw a contingent of soldiers near the side of the track ahead. They must be the reason the train was stopping.

It was too late to run for it.

“Back in the car. Group together,” she told Kerfer. “I do the talking.”

“They going to ask us for passports?” said Kerfer.

“Hopefully not.”

“We got ‘em.” The SEALs had prepared civilian covers for this very contingency. They were a soccer team, in the country for an international goodwill tour.

“Hold on to them,” said Mara. “The girl is my daughter. I talk. No one else.”

Squeaky banged on the door of the restroom. “Come on, come on,” he said in his high-pitched whisper.

Josh straightened and took a slow breath. The putrid air of the closet-sized bathroom only made him feel worse. What he needed was fresh air.

“Josh? Stay in there,” said Mara outside. “You’re all right?”

“Yeah.”

“There are soldiers coming onto the car. Stay in the bathroom. Don’t come out unless I tell you.”

Josh heard her tell Squeaky to stay there as well. He pressed the tap to get some water and wash his hands, but nothing flowed. And then there were Vietnamese voices in the car.

Mara watched the soldiers as they came into the train. They were teenagers, joking about something one of them had done while waiting for the train. The sight of the foreigners silenced them momentarily. They moved into the middle of the car and sat in a clump together, a half dozen of them, all lugging AK-47s and light packs.

Mara had gone back to sit with Mạ. The little girl was tense, sitting stiffly upright. They were two seats from the end of the rear door, just up from the restroom.

She wouldn’t have minded the soldiers at all, except for the fact that she had to jump from the train. She wasn’t sure how they were going to react if half a dozen foreigners went off the side.

The train began moving. Mara pretended to be interested in the scenery.

Josh was still in the restroom as the train started to move again. Now that the soldiers were in their seats, Mara decided it was time to get him back out. So she went over and put her head to the door. Squeaky blinked at her, trying to puzzle out what she had in mind.

“Honey, are you okay?” asked Mara. She made her voice just loud enough for the soldiers to hear, guessing that they would know at least a little English.

“I’m okay,” said Josh.

“Come out and sit with me,” said Mara, her voice softer.

Josh immediately opened the door. Squeaky hesitated for a second, then slipped inside as if he’d been waiting.

“What are we doing?” asked Josh.

“You can have the window,” said Mara, gently pushing his side.

He slipped Mạ between them and sat down. A few seconds later, the door at the front of the car opened. Another pair of Vietnamese soldiers entered — a lieutenant and a corporal.

The lieutenant immediately frowned at the foreigners. “Why are you on this train?” he said to Kerfer, who was sitting alone in the seat closest to the door.

“Going to Ho Chi Minh City,” said Kerfer. He held his ticket, folded down, in his hand.

The lieutenant shook his head. “You’re Americans?” His English was good, his accent by now familiar.

Mara got out of her seat. “We were all here on a visit to Hanoi University,” she told the soldier, walking forward. She switched to Vietnamese. “The government advised us to join the rest of our group in Saigon.”

“Who?” said the lieutenant, still in English.

Mara used the first name that came into her head — Phú, claiming he was from the education ministry, which had sponsored their soccer visit. The soldier would have no way of checking, and she calculated that if she seemed sure and exact, he would eventually drop the matter.

But she calculated wrongly.

“We will search your bags,” said the lieutenant.

“Why?” said Mara, switching to English as well so Kerfer would know what was going on. “Why are you going to search our bags? Do you think we are thieves?”

“Let me see your passport and visa,” demanded the lieutenant.

“Okay. Let me get it.”

Mara turned and walked to the back, even though her passport was in her pocket. Only one of the soldiers was watching; the others were either listening to MP3 players or reading.

Mara opened her sling bag, poked around quickly — making sure not to expose her pistol — then began patting the pockets of her clothes. She reached inside and pulled out the passport. There was a twenty-dollar bill in it.

The lieutenant opened the passport, keeping the bill in place.

“Is there a problem?” Mara asked him.

“All transportation must be organized by the army,” said the lieutenant. “The minister of education is nothing.”

Mara saw Kerfer coming down the aisle behind the Vietnamese officer.

Go back to your seat, she thought. We’re almost through with this.

“Where in Ho Chi Minh City are you going?” asked the Vietnamese lieutenant, still looking at her passport.

“We’re supposed to call when we get to the station,” she said. “I would imagine they will send a car. I hope they will send a car, or we will have to walk. We’ll do whatever they tell us, of course.”

“Whose child?”

“Mine.”

“She’s not on your passport?”

“That’s not necessary in America,” she lied.

The lieutenant closed the passport, tapping it against his hand. He seemed to be deciding whether to take the money or not.

Finally he slipped the bill out and handed her the passport back.

“Now let me see your bags,” he said.

Kerfer raised his arm, revealing a pistol. Before Mara could say anything, he’d pulled the trigger, putting a bullet through the side of the officer’s head.

12

Jing Yo put it simply to Hyuen Bo — he was looking for an American scientist who had come to the country a few days before the war started. Hyuen Bo’s job in the central ministry gave her the perfect pretext for checking with the Hanoi police to see if the scientist had registered at the local hotels, as required.

Jing Yo did not try to soften the fact that she was, in effect, betraying her country. He walked her halfway to work, promising to meet her at lunch. Then he walked southward, cautious but more confident than he had been before.

Hanoi was on high alert, with soldiers scattered through the streets. But mostly they ignored him. He was dressed like many Vietnamese his age, those with good jobs at least: fresh black slacks and a light blue shirt, pulled from his rucksack and nicely pressed by Hyuen Bo. He was tall for a Vietnamese man, and might look somewhat more Chinese than many others, but he had identification, a license, and other miscellaneous papers if he needed to establish his bona fides.

There were soldiers stationed along some of the streets, and on several of the corners sandbags had been piled to make crude strong-points. Rolls of barbed wire were coiled by the side. The Vietnamese seemed to be planning to fight street by street, if it came to that.

That was unlikely, Jing Yo guessed. From what he knew, China planned to let Hanoi wither on the vine, cutting it off from the rest of the country. The Vietnamese would eventually be allowed to sue for peace assuming, of course, that the rest of the world did not intervene.

Which was why he was here.

Jing Yo caught the eye of a soldier across the street, staring at him. He frowned but put his head down, walking as he imagined a compliant Vietnamese citizen would walk, anxious not to cause any trouble. He crossed the street and turned the corner onto a block lined with stores. Ordinarily, the street would be choked with traffic, but there was little today. Even the usual clusters of scooters and bicycles were much thinner than Jing Yo remembered from his previous stays in the city.

His destination sat squarely in the middle of the block, a small clothing and dry cleaning store where one could get handmade clothes. The trade for tailored goods had declined sharply over the past decade, as fashions became more and more westernized — and imported. The shop was now regarded as somewhat dusty and old, a place that mostly served an older generation.

Jing Yo went in cautiously. The proprietor was seated at a chair, speaking with another man. They looked up as he came in.

“I’d like to be measured for a suit,” Jing Yo said.

The tailor rose without comment. He reached into his pocket for a measuring tape, and slowly unfurled it.

“You are an awful optimist,” said the other customer.

Jing Yo didn’t reply. He was afraid that if he spoke too much, his accent would betray him.

The tailor began taking his measurements. He moved slowly, feet shuffling. His whole manner was glacial, except for the way he moved his hands — they pulled the tape out as if snapping a line over a piece of wood at a construction site. His fingers furled the tape back between them with the quick efficiency of a fisherman reeling in an errant cast. He smelled of perfumed tea.

“Have they gotten far with the defenses?” asked the other customer.

Jing Yo shrugged.

“Have they barricaded the street?”

“No,” answered Jing Yo.

“I don’t think they will be barricading the street,” said the tailor, his voice a bare whisper. But the customer heard it, and replied.

“They will. You’ll see.”

“They made no such preparations during the American war,” said the tailor.

“The Chinese are not the Americans. The Chinese are murderers. They will carry off the women, if they ever enter Hanoi.”

“They will not enter Hanoi,” said the tailor. He pushed Jing Yo’s right leg slightly to the side, so he could measure his inseam.

“The Chinese are devils,” said the customer.

“Yes,” said Jing Yo.

“You disagree?”

“They are devils.”

“I think they will retreat,” said the tailor, continuing with his measurements. “This will be the way it was with the border war. They will see that we cannot be defeated. They will run away.”

“The Americans are egging them on,” said the customer. “They are probably the ones who planned this. They want revenge.”

“Ah, revenge,” said the tailor. “They have been gone forty years. They care as much for us as you do for the dust under your stove.”

The tailor shambled over to a small table at the side of the room. He took a pencil from a cup, wet the tip, and began writing numbers on pad. Then he turned to Jing Yo.

“What style do you want?” he asked.

Jing Yo hesitated. He didn’t know what the options were.

“Let me show you my most popular suit. They wear this in Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong is China,” said the other customer. “Show him something else.”

“It’s up to him to decide.” The tailor stepped toward a rack at the side of the shop.

“Why do you want a suit anyway?” asked the other customer. “To be buried in?”

“For work,” muttered Jing Yo.

“Work? You don’t need a suit for work.”

“This is something popular in Paris,” said the tailor. “Many young men such as yourself choose a suit like this to make an impression.”

“Hmmm,” said Jing Yo.

“Well, I must get to the market,” said the other customer, rising. “I will see you later, Mr. Loa.”

“Later, Dr. Hung.”

The tailor pulled out another suit to show Jing Yo. “This is also French,” he said as the door closed.

“I am interested in a hat,” said Jing Yo.

The tailor pushed the suit back into the rack and fished for another.

Jing Yo wondered if he had made a mistake and come to the wrong place.

“This is a lighter fabric,” said the tailor.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Jing Yo abruptly. “Your friend was right. This is a bad time for a suit.”

The tailor clutched his arm as he turned to go. Despite the old man’s fragile appearance, his clasp was strong.

“People are watching everywhere,” whispered the tailor in Chinese. “You must be extremely careful.”

“Yes,” said Jing Yo.

“The Paris suit would be the best.” The tailor once more was speaking in Vietnamese. “In black, I think.”

“I am in your hands.”

Jing Yo explained that he had a mission, and was looking for an American scientist. He showed the picture that had been obtained from the UN Web site by Chinese intelligence. The tailor did not recognize the man, and made no promises, except to pass on the message.

The old man was a low-level operative, more of a cutout than a spy, a person used to insulate the upper ranks from the people in the field who were constantly in danger of being caught. There might be several cutouts in any given chain of information.

Then again, there might not. For all Jing Yo knew, this old man might actually be China’s Hanoi spymaster.

After warning Jing Yo that he must be careful, the tailor said that the airport had been bombed sufficiently that it was now closed. The word from Da Nang was that the airport was no longer open. The only flights out of the country were leaving through Saigon. Most likely, said the tailor, the American would head there.

“I need better information than guesses,” said Jing Yo.

“Many foreigners were taken south the first day of the war,” said the tailor. “Beyond that, I cannot say.”

The old man seemed more interested in getting rid of him than in doing his job. Jing Yo decided he would not mention the two hotels he’d been told to check.

“What kind of transportation can I find to get south?” he asked.

“Hmmm,” said the tailor. He went into the back. Jing Yo waited. He returned with a small satellite phone.

“You will receive a phone call after six p.m. There will be instructions,” said the tailor. “Do you have money?”

“Yes.”

“The suit will be ready when you return,” said the tailor loudly, as if someone were listening to their conversation.

“Thank you very much,” said Jing Yo.

13

Mara reacted automatically, pushing Mạ down as she grabbed for the pistol in her sling bag. By the time she had the Beretta in her fist, the car had erupted with automatic-rifle fire: the five SEALs had slaughtered the Vietnamese soldiers.

“Out the back,” said Mara, grabbing Mạ into her arms. “Come on, let’s go!”

When she reached the vestibule at the back of the car, Mara took the train key and jabbed it into the lock that opened the door. The door flew open.

The train was going just over ten miles an hour. There was no time to do anything but jump.

“Try to roll when you hit the ground,” Mara told Josh, and then she leapt out with Mạ, pushing off hard to make sure they cleared the track. She rolled, taking the force of the fall on her back, protecting the child.

Mara got up and looked at Mạ. She expected the girl to be crying. Instead, she had a determined look on her face, eyes slit.

“They were bad men,” said Mạ in Vietnamese.

“Yes, but we’re all right,” Mara told her.

The adrenaline that had spiked with the gunfire vanished as soon as Josh hit the ground. His body exploded with pain. He couldn’t breathe.

“Come on, come on,” said Mara, pulling him to his feet.

“I need — I can’t breathe…”

“Come on, come on,” she insisted, pulling him along.

Mạ grabbed his leg, urging him to run.

The SEALs were jumping from the train behind him. Josh pushed himself forward. He was dizzy and nauseous, and his head pounded.

A road ran parallel to the tracks. As Josh struggled to breathe, Mara ran into the path of traffic, her pistol out. She signaled wildly as a car approached. The frightened driver hit the brakes.

Mara yanked at the door and yelled at the woman driver in Vietnamese. The woman got out, running across the road.

“In,” Mara told Josh.

Josh pulled tentatively at the passenger-side door. Little Joe grabbed him from behind, took the door handle, and opened the car. As soon as they were in, Mara hit the gas, spinning the car into a three-point turn. Another car narrowly missed her.

“We need Lieutenant Kerfer,” said Little Joe. “Unlock the door.”

Josh had slipped into a confused haze. Mạ was next to him, climbing into his lap. Little Joe reached across him and unlocked the door. Another SEAL, Squeaky, threw himself in, pushing Josh into the other sailor.

“The lieutenant has the other car,” said Squeaky. “Go! Go!”

Mara stepped on the gas pedal. Tires squealing, they drove up the wrong side of the highway for about five hundred yards before coming to an intersection. Mara turned, bumping over the railroad tracks, and speeding onto the road heading eastward, finally on the right side.

“I think I have to throw up,” said Josh.

“Go for it,” said Mara. “We’re not stopping.”

Mara didn’t stop until she’d gone nearly five miles. Fortunately, the roads were clear of almost all traffic, the only exceptions being a few old farm trucks.

Even better, Josh managed to keep his stomach under control.

They stayed on back roads, moving through the outskirts of towns clustered along the highways. The terrain was mostly partitioned into paddies and fields, completely given over to agriculture.

Kerfer was behind her. He’d grabbed a pickup; two of his men were in the back, no doubt looking for someone else to shoot.

Mara was furious with him, so angry that she was having a hard time keeping the car on the road.

“You okay back there?” she asked Josh.

He moaned an answer.

“Better stop soon,” suggested Squeaky.

Mara spotted a small dirt road on the left that led to an abandoned, ramshackle building. She braked and cranked the wheel hard to make the turn, skidding in the dirt. She pulled up in front of the building and hopped out, her gun in her hand.

Kerfer pulled in behind her.

“Why the hell did you do that?” she screamed at him.

“What do you think he was going to do when he found your gun in the handbag?” Kerfer said.

“I was bribing him,” said Mara. “That was his way of asking for more money. If it came to that, I would have told him we were armed because of the war. He wouldn’t have said anything. Except to ask for more money.”

“Right. You think twenty bucks gets you a get-out-of-jail-free card? You can’t corrupt everyone. You probably pissed him off by offering him the bribe.”

“His unit is probably following us.”

“It’ll take them a while to catch up,” said Kerfer. “They probably don’t even know what happened yet. The train sound covered the shots.”

“You’re a jackass, Lieutenant. You just killed seven of our allies.”

“If they’re allies, why the hell do we have to sneak out of their country?”

Mara stomped back to the car. Josh was bent over near the building. Squeaky and Little Joe were standing between him and the car, looking at her. She got behind the wheel. Squeaky got in the front, immediately pushing back the seat to try and get more legroom.

“Where we going?” he asked.

“South,” said Mara.

Josh, pale, got in the car. Little Joe pushed in beside him.

“It was a do-or-die thing,” said Squeaky. “Just a reaction. It’s how we’re trained.”

“I’m sure you’re very good at what you do,” said Mara. “But sometimes you have to take a risk.”

“The lieutenant lost some people in an extraction out of Afghanistan a year ago,” said the SEAL. “We were trying to get them out as civilians. Those were the orders. Taliban came up, disguised as policemen…”

Squeaky’s voice trailed off.

“This isn’t Afghanistan,” said Mara.

They drove with the windows down. Gradually, the fresh air helped clear Josh’s head.

At first, what had happened in the train car seemed far away, further than anything that had happened while he was near China, behind the advancing line of the Chinese. But gradually it came into sharper focus.

“How ya feeling?” asked Little Joe.

“A little better.”

“You looked like you were sleeping for a while.”

“Yeah, I guess I was.”

“You puked?”

“Only slime came out.” Josh wiped his mouth on his sleeve, the taste lingering in his mouth. “Why did the Vietnamese shoot at us?” he asked.

“‘They didn’t. We didn’t give them a chance.”

“Don’t they understand we’re on their side?” Josh asked.

“We’re not on anybody’s side but our own,” Little Joe told him.

“No, that’s not true. We have to — the whole world has to deal with this.”

“Dream on.”

Phai had arranged for Mara to get two vehicles in a small town southeast of Phú Xuyên. Besides the vehicles, Phai had arranged for some other supplies, including gas cans and water.

Mara debated whether it was worth the risk to cut back east. They needed cars or trucks, and holding on to these seemed far too risky. But going back in the direction of the army would be an even bigger risk.

Saigon — or Ho Chi Minh City, as it was officially but only occasionally called — lay over seven hundred miles away as the crow flew, and they weren’t crows. The twisted route and the Vietnamese highway system made the trip from Hanoi a twenty-hour marathon — if everything was with you. She’d calculated that it would take them close to two full days of driving.

Mara kept driving due south, following a checkerboard pattern of secondary roads through the farmland, staying as far away from settled areas as possible. After they’d gone about a half hour, she noticed Kerfer flashing his lights.

She pulled over to the side of the road.

“Gas is getting toward empty,” said the SEAL lieutenant.

As she started back for the car, she heard a pair of aircraft approaching. They were jets, low, very low.

Kerfer leapt out of the truck. “Out, get out!” he yelled. “Off the road.”

Josh and the others were already getting out, taking cover in the ditch at the side of the shoulder. The jets were over and gone before Mara reached them.

“J-12s,” said Stevens. “Brand-new. Chinese stealth jets.”

“That was a big bomb they were carrying,” said Josh.

“That’s a fuel tank under the belly,” said Stevens. “Gives them more distance. Except that it’s a bad sign — means they’re not scared of Vietnamese radar anymore. Probably blew it all up in the first hour of the war.”

“Hey, pilot wannabe,” said Kerfer, “you figure they’re doing recce?”

“Probably testing defenses,” said Stevens. “Or just trying to see what the Vietnamese got left. They’ll be using UAVs for reconnaissance.”

“Kerfer, you take the car,” said Mara. “And the girl. Josh and I will get the gas. Just us two.”

“No way. You need protection,” said Kerfer.

“Protection?”

“Don’t be foolish.”

“One person with us in the cab,” she said, realizing he was right. “It looks too suspicious in the back.”

“The hell with suspicious. These people are at war, spook girl. You think they’re really putting a lot of thought into anything but saving their own asses?”

Mara was insistent. She told Kerfer to follow her; when they came to a gas station, she would go in; he should drive on and wait a short distance away.

“You ain’t gonna run out on me, right?” said Kerfer, finally agreeing.

“I’m tempted,” she said.

The pumps at the gas station looked like the ones back home, more or less, with bright fluorescents and an illuminated sign announcing petro. A silver-haired man dressed in a white shirt and black pants came out of the cement-block building beyond the pumps. He walked with a limp that tilted him almost sideways, dragging his right foot across the crumbling macadam.

Mara and Squeaky both got out, leaving Josh alone in the truck.

The contrast between the calm if rundown station and what had happened in the railroad car — not to mention the past few days — was stark. The station belonged to a world that had never known war, and didn’t have much use for the rest of the world, either. A cluster of buildings sat just beyond it, spilling off the roadside into the farmland beyond. They were small, mostly made of block like the gas station, with shed roofs of metal in various stages of rust and disintegration. The ones closer to the road were stores as well as houses, and Josh could see people sitting or squatting on the stoops in front of them. A boy of about eight stared at the truck intently, perhaps thinking of what he would do if he had such a thing.

Mara spoke to the gas station owner as he filled the truck’s tank. She seemed to be doing most of the talking, though every so often the man would turn and say a few words, gesturing with great intensity. Their conversation continued for several minutes after the truck was full. Then the man and Mara walked into the building. They emerged a few minutes later with a pair of five-gallon gas cans. These, too, were filled, and placed in the back of the truck.

“I’m going to have Kerfer come back and fill up,” Mara said when she got back in the truck. “The old man says he’s the only place around that has gas.”

“Maybe he’s just saying that to drum up business,” said Squeaky.

“No, I don’t think so. He hasn’t gotten any deliveries for the past week, and I doubt anyone else has, either. Once the war started, the gas the Chinese didn’t blow up was probably confiscated by the army.”

Kerfer and the others were waiting about a half mile down the road. Mara insisted that she would be the one to go back, since Kerfer didn’t know much Vietnamese. They left Josh and the SEALs and went back. Josh sat in the front seat, staring through the windshield, his mind jumbled. The lower part of his stomach and groin felt as if they were on fire. Heat poured from his forehead. But whatever disease or sickness he’d picked up was only part of what was bothering him. His brain felt scrambled, unable and unwilling to process what was going on around him. There were too many jumbled contrasts, too much death and contradiction.

Mạ, drowsy, leaned against him, once more sucking her thumb.

She was sleeping. Gazing at her, Josh realized she didn’t have her doll. She’d lost it somewhere in the train car.

Damn.

Outside the truck, the SEALs plopped down in the shade, watching the road and waiting. One of the men — Silvestri, an Italian-American who claimed to be the only “wop” who lived in Texas — realized that he had bits of blood on his shirt from the railcar, and pulled it off, stripping to his undershirt. The others began joking, making cracks about his physique, then about the blood, then about the ghosts that would be clinging to Silvestri’s shirt.

The jokes were mild by SEAL standards, but Josh was appalled.

“How can you guys joke?” he said. He repeated the question several times, talking more to himself, though his voice was just loud enough for Squeaky to hear.

“What’s up, Josh?” Squeaky asked, coming over to the truck.

“You guys are joking.”

“Just blowing off some steam.”

“The officer’s head burst open like it was a tomato,” said Josh.

“Yeah.” Squeaky smiled awkwardly. “That’s what happens.”

“It sucks.”

“Would you rather it’d been you?” asked Mancho. His voice was sharp and defensive.

“No,” said Josh.

“I know what he means,” said Little Joe. “You’re that close to something like that — it gets to you.”

“Everything gets to you,” said Mancho. “Because you’re a wimp.”

“I’m worse than a wimp,” said Little Joe. “I’m a little girly wimp.” He laughed.

“You okay?” Squeaky asked Josh.

Josh nodded.

Squeaky reached in. “Man, you’re burnin’ up. You got a fever. You know that?”

“I guess.”

“You want some aspirin?”

“I took some.”

“Baby sleepin’?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re sick, you think you oughta be that close?”

“I carried her through the jungle a couple of days,” said Josh. “If she’s going to catch it, she’d have it by now.”

“True.”

Squeaky went back to the others, joking by the side of the truck again.

Josh went back to staring out the windshield.

Mara and Kerfer returned a few minutes later. Mara and Squeaky got in the truck, leaving Josh between them.

“We should be able to get pretty close to Saigon with the gas we have,” she told him as they turned onto the road. “I don’t know what the conditions are going to be. We haven’t seen any panic yet, but it may be different in the south.”

“Yeah.”

“The Chinese army is moving down the western valleys,” Mara continued. “They were stopped at the Hoa Binh Lake area, but once they get past that, they have a clear shot at Ninh Binh. That’s the next concentration of troops we have to get around. We should start seeing them in about an hour. The people here haven’t seen much of the war yet.”

Mara stopped talking and turned to Josh. Her face was close, only inches away. “Are you all right?” she asked him.

“I’m here,” he answered.

“Your stomach?”

“It hurts when I pee.”

“And you have a fever.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll have help for you soon,” she said, a worried look on her face. “Hang in there.”

“I’m here.”

14

After leaving the tailor shop, Jing Yo went back toward the Hai Ba Trung district in the city’s business area, aiming to check the two hotels the intelligence reports had recommended.

Jing Yo had left his weapons at Hyuen Bo’s house. He was worried that explaining even a pistol might be difficult, and until he located his target and had a plan, the risk did not make sense. Besides, if circumstances were right, Jing Yo could easily kill him with his hands and feet.

Lenin Park had been turned into an antiaircraft site. Tanks and a throng of soldiers blocked off access. Beyond them, Jing Yo could see trucks with antiaircraft cannon mounted on their backs.

He walked in the direction of the river for a few blocks, then headed north. His first stop was the Hilton Hanoi Opera, an overwhelming building of grand design, mirroring the city’s opera house next door.

The men at the door were wearing pistols conspicuously strapped to their hips. One stopped Jing Yo as he started inside.

“Are you a guest?” the man asked.

“I’m to meet someone here,” he said.

“Who?”

Jing Yo considered his answer.

“An American,” he said finally.

“Who?” demanded the guard.

“Joshua MacArthur,” said Jing Yo, deciding there was no sense in not naming his subject. “He works for the UN.”

“Wait here,” said the guard.

Jing Yo folded his arms and took a step back from the door. The two other doormen were frowning at him. Neither could have stopped him from going in if he’d wanted, but it seemed pointless.

The doorman returned quickly.

“There is no MacArthur here,” he said.

“I am not sure whether he is a guest,” said Jing Yo. “He told me to meet him in the lobby.”

“You can’t come in unless you are a guest,” replied the doorman.

“You could call him,” said one of the other men. “Call him on your cell phone.”

“Are the phones working now?” Jing Yo asked. He looked at the man.

“Sometimes.”

Jing Yo could see that the man was lying. He had made the suggestion in an effort to seem helpful — to seem like a nice person. The man wanted people to like him. He had acted on that emotion, without thinking of the implications. Now he was trapped in the lie.

A weak emotion — the need to be liked.

To be loved. Was that why he had gone to Hyuen Bo?

He had succumbed to his own weakness, Jing Yo thought.

“I will have to think of another way to contact him,” Jing Yo told them. “Thank you.”

The Sofitel Metropole was another executive-class hotel, featuring the best French restaurant in the city. No guards barred the way here; the doormen, if armed, were as discreet as the others had been obvious. The lobby was packed with foreigners. Jing Yo moved through them, picking up pieces of conversations.

It seemed all the people were Europeans. A lot were French.

One of them mistook him for a waiter, and asked that he fetch him a brandy. He realized his mistake as Jing Yo stared at him.

“Excusez moi,” said the man in French.

“Ca ne fait rein,” answered Jing Yo, somewhat haltingly trying to say it didn’t matter. His French was not particularly good.

“Ca va,” answered the man. “Do you speak English? I don’t speak Vietnamese.”

“Some English,” said Jing Yo. It was of course a lie; like most Chinese students, he had studied English from the time he was a small boy; and then he’d continued his education in the army.

“This war — a — ” The Frenchman struggled for the right word. “A disaster.”

“Yes.”

“Are you a guest?”

“I am looking for a friend,” said Jing Yo. “I am worried for him. He’s an American.”

The Frenchman offered to buy him a drink. Jing Yo went with him to the bar, though when the man offered, all he would take was water.

There were not many Americans in Hanoi, according to the Frenchman. The best place to look, he added as he sipped his brandy, was the Hilton.

“Yes,” said Jing Yo. “But he is not there.”

The Frenchman rattled off a list of other hotels. He seemed to need to talk. His fluency in English grew as he drank a second brandy, though his accent thickened. Jing Yo had to listen hard to understand the words.

“There are a lot of people at Hotel Nikko,” said the man. “Mostly Asian, though. The airport is closed. There’s a train south to the coast, but everyone says it is foolish to take it — it’s sure to be bombed.”

“So are you going to stay here then?” Jing Yo asked.

“I’m getting out as soon as I can.”

“I see.”

“I’m a businessman, not a warrior. I sell toiletries.” The Frenchman smiled awkwardly. “Another drink?”

Hyuen Bo was waiting for Jing Yo at the small café where they said they’d meet, sitting at a table on the sidewalk, protected from the street by an iron rail. She lowered her gaze as he approached. He sat without greeting her. He was angry with himself for involving her, even though she had the potential to help.

“The agency has given up keeping track of the foreigners,” said Hyuen Bo.

“I understand.”

The waiter came. Jing Yo ordered cha ca, a casserole made from fried fish.

Hyuen Bo ordered nothing.

“I have to get back to work,” she told him. “I’m sorry.”

“Go,” said Jing Yo softly.

She looked at him, then rose.

“Tonight?” she asked, touching him.

Jing Yo didn’t reply. He didn’t want to see her. And yet of course he did, more than anything in the world.

She bent quickly and kissed him.

A knife, plunging past his mouth.

Jing Yo lost his breath, and sat in shock — not at the kiss, though that had been unexpected, but at the flush of heat it left.

After lunch, Jing Yo remembered the list of the hotels the Frenchman had given him and began systematically checking them, going to each in turn. By the third hotel his pattern was perfected. There was no great trick to it. Jing Yo went in the front door — only the Hilton, it turned out, was carefully guarded — and looked for groups of foreigners, first in the lobby, then in the bar. Because he looked Vietnamese, they took him as a potential source of information and tried to befriend him. They asked about possible evacuation routes, about how close the Chinese were, whether the army was collapsing. Jing Yo answered as optimistically as he could. This cheered them up and made his own questions easier.

He was looking for an American who worked for the UN, he would say, and from there add whatever details seemed helpful.

There were some recommendations, some hints, but it was clear enough that no one he spoke to had seen Joshua MacArthur. An announcement had been made that power would be turned off at 6 p.m., and this spurred considerable concern, distracting most of the people he spoke to. Few thought it would be turned back on again.

One man offered him ten thousand American dollars to get him safely out of the country.

“I heard the trains are still running,” said Jing Yo coldly.

By four thirty, Jing Yo realized that if he was in Hanoi at all, the scientist had decided to avoid the most obvious hotels. A hotel that completely catered to Vietnamese would not be a good choice, as he and whatever security was with him would stick out. But hotels on the edges of the tourist area, or ones whose primary guests were foreigners but not Americans — those were the places Jing Yo should look at.

I have underestimated him, Jing Yo told himself. That was a serious mistake.

The scientist would choose a hotel that could be guarded. Or, lacking that, one where lookouts could be posted and an easy escape planned.

There were many hotels in that category. Jing Yo remembered the Hotel Nikko and went there. But it was difficult to strike up a conversation. A man mentioned that there had been several Americans there earlier. He described a woman — tall, blond — and a man who might be the American Jing Yo wanted, or might not. He hadn’t spoken to either.

No one at the desk knew him.

Jing Yo left the hotel and began walking toward Hyuen Bo’s apartment. He had resolved not to return, but he was doing it anyway.

He remembered the kiss, still felt her lips and the warmth.

She met him at the door. She wore a long silk chemise, a Western-style gown so thin her body seemed to flow through it. His resistance, bare as it was, melted completely. Hyuen Bo pulled him inside and pushed her mouth to his. As their lips touched, Jing Yo gave up everything — not merely his honor or his commitment to duty, but his will and his life.

They made love on her cot on the floor. The war did not exist. He pushed gently into her, and then he did not exist.

Jing Yo was starting to doze when the sat phone rang. He’d left it in the pocket of his pants, a world away.

Hyuen Bo grabbed at his chest as he started to get up.

He pushed her away gently.

“Yes,” he said.

“Hanoi’s Finest Hotel.” The voice spoke calmly but mechanically. “Soldiers are escorting them. But we believe they may have left to go south. The airport is open at Saigon. We have people looking there.”

“Are you sure they have gone there?” asked Jing Yo.

“We have nothing else. We will call at six tomorrow.”

The phone circuit died.

Jing Yo sat at the edge of the bed. He was at the precipice, teetering between everything he believed in, everything he was, and Hyuen Bo.

Several of his mentors among the monks used to say that voices came to them at times of stress, apparitions that seemed to float from the mountain where they lived and trained. They guided them back to the path, clearing their minds the way a rising sun burns off mist.

No such voice came to Jing Yo now, though he longed for it. Never had he felt so alienated from himself. The decision to leave the monastery and accept his commission in the army was, by contrast, the decision between different flavors of ice cream.

“Jing Yo?”

Hyuen Bo put her hand on his back.

“I have to go,” he said, standing.

“Where?”

She reached for him as he stood, her hand slipping down his naked hack.

“I need to go to Ho Chi Minh City. Tonight,” he added. “Are the trains running?”

“The army commandeers them. Spies are suspected of using them.” She stopped, suddenly aware of what she had said — aware of which side she was on, he thought. “There was — an accident on one today.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Some soldiers were killed. They think it was a deserter.”

In that moment, Jing Yo knew. He knew both that his quarry had been on that train, and that he would follow him. There was no logic to his knowledge — and yet he knew it.

“Where was the train going?”

“Ho Chi Minh City.”

Jing Yo turned and looked at her. He wanted a last glimpse before he left. For he had to leave.

“I’m going with you,” she told him.

“Your mother’s memorial is the day after next.”

“I’m going with you,” she said.

“Take me to the train station.”

“I’m going with you.”

15

Mara reached over and hit the radio’s Scan button as the station faded, hoping to find something else. Several Vietnamese stations were still broadcasting; she didn’t know whether it was because the Vietnamese were resourceful in keeping them on the air, or if the Chinese were allowing them to continue for some reason that suited their purposes, such as sending messages along their spy network.

She got a pop music station; the radio stayed there for a moment, then scanned again, then found the same station. She punched the button to keep the music there, then put her full attention back on the road. It was dark, and to help avoid detection they were driving without lights. She needed to stay as focused as possible.

Josh was sleeping, slumped over toward Squeaky. She could feel the heat coming off his body. He was burning up.

His getting sick was one thing she hadn’t counted on. The Chinese blockade — and Washington politics — were two others.

But they’d be out of here soon. Get to the airport, get the plane — she’d be due for a long vacation.

“How we doing for time?” asked Squeaky. He was drifting in and out of sleep.

“We’re getting there,” said Mara.

“Lucky we haven’t hit any checkpoints.”

“That’s not a good sign.”

“Why not?”

“There should be troops all over the place, rushing to defend the country,” said Mara. “The Chinese are going to roll all over them.”

“As long as we’re out of here first, who cares?”

“They won’t stop with Vietnam,” said Mara.

Squeaky didn’t answer. Mara didn’t feel like talking geopolitics with him anyway. She fiddled with the radio again as the pop station faded. It scanned and scanned. Finally she turned it off.

“I’d kind of like to take a leak soon,” said Squeaky. “You think it’s okay to pull over?”

“I’ll find a place,” Mara told him.

She tapped her brake gently, signaling to Kerfer, then eased off onto the shoulder. There wasn’t quite enough to hold the entire truck off the pavement, but it had been a while since they’d seen another vehicle, and straddling the line didn’t look like it would be a major problem. Mara turned off the ignition to save gas, then got out, stretching her arms and back in the damp night air.

“What’s going on?” asked Kerfer, who’d stopped behind her. They’d switched off the team radios to preserve the batteries, planning to use them only when they were closer to Saigon, or in an emergency.

“Potty time,” said Mara sarcastically. “And I gotta call home. How’s Mạ?”

“Sleepin’ like a SEAL. She lost her doll,” added Kerfer. “We’re gonna have to get her a new one.”

“I’ll put you in charge of that.”

Beyond the shoulder of the road the ground sloped downward to a field. Mara picked her way down, but in the dark sidestepped into a ditch filled with water. She climbed out on the other side, muddy to her calves.

Wheat stalks brushed at her legs, about a month from harvest. Even five years ago, the field would have been fallow, the crop not even a figment of the local farmers’ imaginations.

Mara pulled her sat phone from the sling bag, took a breath, then turned it on.

Jesse DeBiase, the deputy station chief in Bangkok, answered the duty line. “Well, hello there, sweet thing,” he drawled. “I was starting to worry about you.”

“Hi, Jess.”

“Using proper names. Aren’t we formal?”

Mara, like everyone else who worked with him, usually called DeBiase by his nickname, Million Dollar Man. But she was in no mood for the usual kidding and bantering, good-natured as it was.

“I’m wondering what the road situation is,” she told him.

“I’m looking at an image right now. You’re five miles north of the Vietnamese Second Regiment. They have two checkpoints along the highway. If you detour east at your next macadam road, you’ll miss them completely.”

“Thanks.”

“They’re sending random patrols farther south. I’d like to call you to warn you if I see something.”

“I don’t trust leaving the phone on,” said Mara.

“Well now, darlin’, you’re going to have to trust something.”

“Where are the Chinese?”

“They don’t know you exist.”

“Says you.”

“True. The nearest Chinese units are stalled at the reservoir west of Hanoi. They look as if they’re going to try making an end run through Laos and Cambodia. Or maybe wait for a beach invasion to the east. In any event, you have nothing to worry about from them.”

“I’m glad you’re so confident.”

“The Vietnamese can’t track your phone, Mara. You can leave it on. The Chinese know we have people in country, and they’re not going to come for you. You don’t have to worry.”

“You’re not paranoid enough, Jesse.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Mara knew that he was simply trying to be as encouraging as possible, even if that meant overselling how safe they were.

“What’s going on at Langley?” asked Mara.

“I would use very strong words if I were not on the phone with a woman.”

Mara laughed. She could see DeBiase smiling as well. He loved playing the old-school southern gentleman, the pontificator and professor. He also loved to complain about a dozen different things, starting with a hernia he always claimed he was going to get fixed. But he also had a great deal of experience, and she knew he could be counted on in a crisis.

“You’ll be better off with the phone on,” said DeBiase. “I can’t help you if I can’t talk to you.”

“All right,” she told him. “I’ll leave it on.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re going to need a doctor in Saigon,” Mara added. “Josh is sick.”

“What’s he got?”

“A fever. Stomach trouble. It hurts when he pees.”

“I hope it’s not catching,” said DeBiase.

“I think it’s something he ate. Uncle Ho’s revenge.”

DeBiase wasn’t put off so lightly. “When did he get sick?”

“This morning it started coming on.”

“Did you tell Peter?”

“I didn’t talk to Peter. I talked to a communications specialist and I wasn’t about to unload.”

“Communications specialist. Hmmm.”

“Hmmm, what?”

“Just hmmm.”

“There’re no curse words with that?”

“Too many to report.” DeBiase laughed. Mara sensed that the fact she’d spoken to a low-level operator rather than a supervisor troubled him, even though it was far from unusual. But all he did was change the subject. “Are those SEALs treating you right?”

Mara knew she had to tell someone about what had happened on the train. But this wasn’t the time or the place. And besides, she already knew what DeBiase would say… something along the lines of, for every omelet, a few eggs get broken.

Which, ultimately, was probably the right response. But she had to think about it first.

“They’re good.”

“Shoot ‘em if they get fresh. Remember what I said about keeping the phone on.”

16

The Chinese had sent their two aircraft carriers into the Gulf of Bac Bo, ostensibly to blockade the northern ports of Vietnam; additional ships, mostly destroyers and a single cruiser, were working their way south to complete the blockade. As Zeus saw it, though, the primary purpose of the fleet was to secure a path for an invasion force, which U.S. satellites showed had been gathered on the large island of Hainan, which on the map looked like a fist about to punch northern Vietnam. The bulk of the force was located at Sanya, a civilian port and tourist city at the southern end of the island. The military facilities to the east of the city center — ordinarily used only by ballistic-missile submarines — were so crowded that ships were docked temporarily outside them.

They would be an easy target from the air, but Vietnam’s air force, ragged to begin with, was now essentially wiped out. And a sea attack seemed suicidal. The Chinese had plenty of air bases on the island, so that even without the aircraft carriers and their escorts nearby, the attackers would be in mortal danger. The shallow waters around the island made a mass submarine attack less than attractive as well — and since Vietnam didn’t have any submarines, it wasn’t even a possibility.

Actually, Vietnam did have two submarines — ancient North Korean death traps masquerading as midget submarines, so decrepit that they would surely sink if their lines were cut from the Hai Phong dock where they were berthed.

Which gave Zeus an idea. An incredibly risky, unorthodox, outrageous, and even ridiculous idea — but one he thought might work.

Albeit, with a great deal of luck.

“See, the thing is, the Chinese don’t think the Vietnamese pose any threat to the invasion force. Zero threat. Nada. Look at how these ships are aligned.” Zeus went over to the wall of the command bunker, where the images from his laptop were being projected onto the whitewashed cement. There were a dozen Vietnamese generals gathered around the conference table, but he was really talking to only one man: General Minh Trung, the head of the army.

Trung was the oldest person in the room. Zeus wasn’t sure exactly how old he was, but he would not have been surprised to learn that Trung had fought against the Japanese during World War II.

“The Chinese plan rests entirely on the belief that they cannot be harmed,” continued Zeus. “It’s more than a feeling of superiority. It’s like the belief in gravity. Everything is based on the invincibility of the force at Hainan. So if we do something to disrupt that belief, they’ll have to change their plans. Or at least postpone them,” added Zeus. “And every day we can get them to delay is another day we have to prepare.”

For the inevitable defeat, probably, but Zeus didn’t say that.

“So how do we fool them?” continued Zeus, now in full lecture mode. “We attack them at their base, and in the process, make them think Vietnam has a large force they don’t know about. It’s a classic commando raid. Except we make it look like something else.”

The first step was to make sure the Chinese saw the midget submarines — and a lot of them. Then they’d have to disappear. Then there would be a SpecOp attack on the ports that would look as if it had been launched by the submarines.

“The Chinese will put two and two together and come up with four,” said Zeus. “Or better yet, four hundred.”

He looked at the translator, who stared blankly at him.

“It’s a joke,” Zeus told him.

The translator explained. The Vietnamese generals didn’t seem to know what to make of it. They looked at one another, but said nothing. Finally, Trung got to his feet. He walked to the projection of the island on the wall, studying the satellite image.

“These ships are fuel tenders,” said the Vietnamese supreme war commander. He did not use a translator when he spoke to Zeus. “They would carry the fuel for the aircraft carriers.”

“That’s true,” said Zeus. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised at Trung’s mastery of details, and yet he was.

The general walked back to his seat and sat down. His aides began talking among themselves in Vietnamese. Zeus looked at Perry, who didn’t offer much encouragement. Zeus sensed that Perry thought it was a bad idea.

But there were no good ideas: with no air force, a navy that was a joke, a thin army — what could they really expect?

“This is not a bad idea,” said Trung in his characteristically soft voice. “But there are a number of things to be added.”

Trung paused, silent for a full minute, considering.

“If the tenders were blown up, the carriers would have to retreat,” he said. “Their aircraft would lack fuel.”

“That’s true,” said Zeus.

“So that would be a prime target.”

“Okay.”

“The main problem is how to get the force there,” said Trung.

“I’ve thought of that, too.” Zeus pointed at the image. “We have a diversion here, just close enough to the carriers’ attention. A force of commandos comes out from here and cuts across the gulf north of Buch Long Vi Island. Small, fast boats, stay away from the Chinese patrols farther north. You could make it.”

“That is over two hundred kilometers,” said one of Trung’s assistants in Vietnamese. Zeus waited for it to be translated.

“It is far,” admitted Zeus. “But from there it gets easier. Once you’re on the island, they’re not expecting you. You arrange in the harbor to make it seem as if there’s a massive attack. And we take the tankers out somehow, as General Trung suggested. The attack doesn’t have to be huge. It just has to look like a submarine attack. The Chinese will have to bring in more ASW assets. It’ll be days, if not weeks, before that happens.”

ASW stood for antisubmarine warfare. The force left behind on Hainan had mostly second- and third-tier defenses.

Zeus glanced around the room. There wasn’t a single enthusiastic face.

And why should there be? Even if the mission succeeded, it would buy the Vietnamese only a few days — three or four weeks, maybe, with Trung’s adjustment. At the same time, it would be incredibly difficult, a suicide mission in all but name.

“I believe it is worth a try,” said Trung finally. “We will go ahead.”

Zeus was surprised. But before he could say anything, Trung raised his hand and continued to speak.

“What the plan most requires is a dedicated commander, one who can not only plan it but lead it. The only person I can think of who would qualify, Major Murphy, is you.”

“I don’t even want to raise the point with the president, Zeus,” said General Perry as he, Christian, and Zeus drove back to the city. “Even if he would reverse his stand against using our troops here, I wouldn’t let you go. You’re too damn valuable.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Zeus. “I mean, thank you for saying I’m valuable. But…”

“What’s the but?”

Zeus wasn’t sure. Now that he had come up with the plan, a long shot if ever there was one, he felt obliged to defend it. And defending it meant being willing to go on the mission.

The more he thought about it, in fact, the more he thought he could make it work. Once on Hainan, he could pose as a Western businessman. Businessmen were plentiful in the autonomous economic development zone, especially in the cities. Give him one Chinese speaker and some well-trained men, and they could make the attack look realistic enough. It didn’t even have to succeed — as long as the Chinese thought there were more submarines than they’d known, and that the vessels had the capability to get past the screen, they’d be forced to regroup and rethink.

Zeus was starting to understand the Chinese military mind much better than he had before coming here. The Chinese were brilliant planners and could easily move large numbers of men. But when their initial plans broke down, the army stalled. The attack on the dam, flooding their assault path, was a prime example. An American army faced with a problem like that would have adopted a solution within hours. It might be the wrong solution — Zeus knew from his war games that most American officers would head into Laos, where mountains and high jungle would greatly complicate their advance — but they would do something. The Chinese were just sitting and waiting.

“I don’t know, General,” said Christian. “If Zeus wants to put his neck on the line, I say let him.”

“Careful, Win. Or you’ll he going with him.”

“I — have no problem with that,” stuttered Christian.

Zeus barely stifled a laugh. The asshole.

The driver brought them back to the embassy, where General Perry had to use the secure communications center to talk to Washington.

“You boys can go back to the hotel,” Perry said as he got out of the car. “Zeus?”

“Yes, General?”

“You think this idea has any chance of succeeding?”

“Sir, if it were up to me I’d lead it myself,” said Zeus. “That’s how much I believe in it.”

Perry grimaced, then closed the door.

“Man, who’s the brownnoser now?” said Christian as the car pulled away from the embassy gate.

“I wasn’t bullshitting. I would.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You forget, Win, I was in Special Forces.”

“Big fucking deal. You got your ticket punched there because you figured it was a quick path to a star on your shoulder.”

“Right.”

“Hey, you don’t have to snow me. I know the score. I know how the politics work, believe me. I pull the strings myself when I can.”

“Duh.”

“Yeah, duh.”

“You don’t know crap. You were an engineering major. What are you going to do, build roads?”

“I could build a fuckin’ road if I had to,” said Christian. “And for your information, my engineering degree is in mechanical — ”

“I’m shocked. You actually used an expletive.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you back.”

Zeus looked toward the front of the car. The driver was Vietnamese, and didn’t know much English.

A good thing, thought Zeus. He’d be looking at them like they were kindergartners.

17

President Greene rose from, his desk in the Oval Office, took a last swig of coffee, then hurried out to the hall, Secret Service detail and aides in tow. It was nearly one. He was due in the secure communications area for another phone call from General Perry in Hanoi.

Then the real fun would begin. Lunch with Senator Grasso et al.

Dickson Theodore, his chief of staff, met him on the steps.

“What crisis do you have now, Dix?” asked the president.

“Which one do you want?”

“Which one should I worry about?”

“Teamsters are threatening a three-day walkout beginning of next week over the price of diesel.”

“Good. That will send it down.”

“George — ”

“I have no influence with them. And I’m not joking — if the trucks don’t drive for three days, demand will be less and the price will go down.”

“I was thinking you could have Senator Leiber try and talk to them. You’re going to see him at breakfast.”

“The only friendly face I’ll see all day. Not counting yours.”

“Mine’s not friendly. The Fed is going to raise interest rates — ”

“Again? My God, is the recession not deep enough for them? Unemployment is over sixteen percent!”

“What we need to do is get some bankers unemployed,” said Theodore. “Then it will come down.”

“Give that to Jablonski. Tell him I want to use it. In New York, at the Al Smith Dinner.”

“You’re not invited.”

“I will be. Next problem.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” The dinner, the major political event of the year in New York City, was only a few days away.

“I’ll bet you on it if you want,” said Greene. “What’s the next problem? More talk of impeachment if we help Vietnam?”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear reports on that anymore.”

“I don’t want reports. I want names.”

“Half of Congress will impeach you if you ask for aid to Vietnam. The other half is ready to impeach you no matter what.”

“Good to have a mandate.”

They continued their half banter, half briefing all the way down to the Secure Communications Room. National Security Adviser Walter Jackson and Peter Frost, the CIA chief, were waiting.

“So who made the coffee?” President Greene asked as he walked into the room.

“It was here already,” said Jackson.

“Always dangerous,” said Greene, helping himself.

“There’s sandwiches,” said Frost.

“Can’t eat. Gotta break bread in the lion’s den after this.”

“Grasso?” said Frost.

“Who else?”

“You have assassins on your payroll, don’t you, Peter?” asked Jackson.

“Don’t even tempt me,” said Greene.

“Mr. President, Hanoi is ready,” said the communications specialist.

“Let ‘er rip.”

Greene pulled his seat out just in time to see General Perry’s face come on the screen. The transmission quality was a little off; the general’s face was blotched with patches of magenta.

“Have you had a good day, General?” asked Greene.

“So far, it’s been acceptable. Vietnam is still here.”

“That’s a plus.”

“If they don’t get some sort of relief very soon, Mr. President — ”

“I’m working on it, Harland. Trust me, I’m working on it.”

“Major Murphy did come up with an idea, as you requested,” said Perry, who didn’t look at all relieved by the president’s assurances. “He believes a diversionary raid against the Chinese assault force before they have a chance to actually launch their invasion will delay it at least a week. I have to say, Mr. President, I think it’s a bit far-fetched.”

“Just a week?” Greene rubbed his forehead. It was one of several tics he had when he was trying to figure a way out of a bad situation — a habit he’d picked up while in a prisoner of war camp in Vietnam, ironically enough.

“Maybe more,” conceded General Perry. “It’s designed to get the Chinese thinking they left a major hole in their intelligence. The Chinese seem to react to every new situation with caution. They still haven’t broken out of the reservoir perimeter.”

“So let’s hear it,” said Greene.

Perry briefly described it. Greene liked it- but then he liked most special operations. He turned to Frost.

“You think it will work, Pete?” he asked.

“Well… If it goes off exactly as planned, if they buy it, it will confuse them. But… I will say that if those tenders were destroyed…”

Frost was hesitating, calculating in his head. Greene had known him for so long that he could read the hesitation: the plan was close, but not quite there yet.

“If the tenders are destroyed, then you’ve got real possibilities,” said the CIA chief. His words started coming faster. “Because that’s going to be where the fuel for their aircraft is. They won’t launch an invasion if they don’t have air cover. A lot of it, and not just from Hainan. They’re very cautious.”

“How many commandos does Major Murphy say the Vietnamese need?” asked Jackson, his voice clearly skeptical. “And when are they thinking of launching this mission?”

“Those are good questions, sir,” said Perry. “Major Murphy recommends a relatively small but highly trained force. The Vietnamese really don’t have a dedicated special ops force. They could put together some spies and marines, but it would be very ad hoc.”

“They’ll never take out the tenders,” said Jackson. “There’s no time. You know how long SEALs would practice to do something like this? And they train all the time.”

“The right people could do it,” said Frost. “SEALs could do it.”

“How hard would it be to hit those tankers with Tomahawk missiles?” Greene asked.

“Child’s play,” said Jackson drily. “And then the Chinese will declare war on us. And you’ll be impeached.”

“Not if they don’t know they were Tomahawks,” said the president.

“Easily identified,” said Jackson.

“I’m afraid he’s right, George,” said Frost.

“We used them against the dams,” said Perry. “The Chinese haven’t identified them yet.”

“The missiles struck the bottom of the dams,” said Jackson. “The evidence is buried under a lake. We won’t get away with that here. Or at least we can’t count on it.”

“What kind of missiles do the Vietnamese have?” Greene asked General Perry.

“Very few.”

“They have about a half dozen Kingbolts in their inventory,” said Frost. “Probably rusting at a base near Ho Chi Minh City.”

“Kingbolt. What is that? Chinese?”

The name sounded familiar to Greene, a former Navy aviator, but his memory was faulty: it was an air-launched Russian weapon, sold to some foreign governments — including Dubai’s. Jackson, who loved to show off his knowledge of military minutiae, lovingly detailed the missile’s origin and capabilities.

Greene cut him off before he got down to mentioning the type of explosive the warheads held.

“We can get some of those from Dubai easily enough,” said Greene. “And quietly. Can we launch them?”

“Have to talk to the Navy about that,” said Jackson. “I don’t know if they’d go for it.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Greene.

“We might use some of the assets we used in Malaysia,” suggested Frost. He was referring to mercenaries loosely connected with the government air force — and not so loosely on the CIA payroll.

“Good,” said Greene. “So if we made this look like a Vietnamese attack — add an air element in there — ”

“Easier said than done,” said Jackson. “The only air bases operating are in the south.”

“Launch it from a helicopter,” said Frost.

“I doubt that would work.”

“It doesn’t have to work,” said Greene. “It just has to look as if it could.”

“I don’t know, George. You’re awful close to the line,” said Jackson.

“The hell with the line.”

“What are the senators you’re having lunch with going to say if you tell them we’re helping Vietnam on the sly?”

“I’m not going to tell them. Besides, this isn’t much more than I’ve already done.”

“I don’t want to contradict you,” said Jackson.

“Then don’t.”

“Even sending General Perry was over the line.”

“I’ll worry about the line,” said Greene. “It’s only politics anyway.”

“Mr. President, there is one other factor that you should know about,” interrupted General Perry. “The Vietnamese — in order to go along with this, sir, they want Major Murphy to lead the operation.”

“I couldn’t pick a better man myself,” said the president.

18

Soldiers were guarding the Hanoi train station. Jing Yo drove past slowly, then stopped the scooter down the street.

Hyuen Bo tightened her grip around his midsection. “I’m coming with you,” she whispered.

“It’s too dangerous.” He pried her hand away and got off.

“I’ll turn you in.”

“You could never do that.” He touched her gently, then walked down the street toward the station, steeling himself not to look back.

He’d felt the same way when the time had come to leave the monastery. It was a difficult walk.

Jing Yo kept his head down as he passed the soldiers. One or two glanced in his direction, then ignored him. He wasn’t important.

Like the rest of the city, the main lights inside the station had been blacked out; a pair of small kerosene lanterns had been set up near the center of the waiting area. While in theory the blackout was a precaution against bombers, in truth the lights made no difference to the weapons the Chinese used, as the glow of fresh fires from the north and east proved. But turning off the lights was a tangible, if feeble, action the city could take in its own defense, important for morale if nothing else.

A man three times Jing Yo’s age stood at the desk in the far corner of the station’s waiting room, standing stiffly, as if at attention. The only other occupants of the waiting room were two men stretched out along the chairs, snoring. The plastic seats were improbable beds, but with their heads covered they were oblivious of the world.

“I wanted to book a sleeper on the midnight train to Ho Chi Minh City,” Jing Yo told the ticket clerk.

“The trains have been shut down as of five o’clock. The military has commandeered them. I’m sorry.”

Jing Yo nodded. He turned to leave, and was surprised to see Hyuen Bo there.

She brushed past him.

“Isn’t there a way?” Hyuen Bo asked the man. “My mother is there alone. We are afraid for her.”

“There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing?”

Her voice was so plaintive and convincing that Jing Yo almost couldn’t tell that she was acting.

“Perhaps one of the buses,” said the man. “They’re still running.”

“When do they leave?”

“At five.”

Jing Yo left Hyuen Bo in the station, walking quickly out and back up along the road. He had to get away from her. After that, it would be simple matter to steal a car.

“Halt,” said one of the soldiers, barring his way.

Puzzled, Jing Yo stopped.

“Why are you out on the street?” demanded the soldier.

“I was trying to get a train.”

“Papers,” demanded the soldier.

Jing Yo reached into his pocket. He was unsure whether the soldier was just being officious, or had some reason to be suspicious.

He could take the gun from the private’s hand easily enough. But there were a dozen other men here. Could he kill enough of them to get away?

And what of Hyuen Bo?

The soldier grabbed the documents. “What unit are you in?”

“I am not in the army. I have a disability.”

“You’re not blind.”

“My heart is weak.”

The soldier scowled.

“What is the matter?” asked Hyuen Bo, running up to him. “I found out where the buses are.”

“Who are you?” asked the soldier.

“His wife. We were hoping to go to Saigon — ”

“The place has been called Ho Chi Minh City since before you were born,” snapped the soldier.

“My mother is there.”

“Use some sense then. Use the proper name.”

“Do you know when the trains will run again?” asked Hyuen Bo. “We have to get to her.”

“Everyone is to remain where they are. You’re not afraid of the Chinese, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Your boy is.” He threw the papers at Jing Yo, dismissing him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Jing Yo when they reached the scooter. He spoke softly, sensing the soldiers were still watching them.

“You need me,” said Hyuen Bo.

Hyuen Bo had a small scooter. It held about three gallons of gas, and though it could get nearly a hundred miles per gallon, its capacity was far too small to get them to Ho Chi Minh City.

But it was the best option. Jing Yo had some plastic tubing to use as a siphon; he would steal gas along the way if he couldn’t find a gas station. He found a pair of water jugs on the street a short distance from the station and took them to use for extra fuel.

He thought of leaving Hyuen Bo, of just pushing her off and driving on, but he couldn’t do it. There were practical reasons — she’d already demonstrated how useful she could be dealing with the soldiers and officials — but the real reason was his love for her. He did not want to leave her, or lose her.

And yet, he would have to, at some point. Taking her with him surely exposed her to more danger, far more danger. If she was caught with him, she would surely be hanged as a spy.

“It’s a long ride,” he told her as they approached the highway. “Many hours. And it will be very hard.”

“We will be together,” she told him, wrapping her arms firmly around his chest.

The night air gradually turned damp, the moisture and darkness interconnected. Stars faded behind thickening clouds.

They had been traveling for almost an hour when they came to the first military checkpoint. Jing Yo didn’t see the trucks across the road in time to turn off without arousing suspicion. The trucks were Chinese-made troop transports, and at first their boxy silhouettes confused him. He thought for a moment that he had stumbled onto a Chinese army unit, and while under orders to conduct his mission with complete secrecy, he decided he would have the soldiers take him immediately to their superior. He’d ask his help getting farther south. But Jing Yo’s first glimpse of the soldiers warned him that he had been wrong; these were Vietnamese units, ordered to hold the road to Cam Thuy against a possible advance.

Jing Yo throttled down, keeping the scooter in a low idle as he stopped before the soldiers. He could tell they were nervous. There were three men in the road, with others off the road nearby. Jing Yo knew from his own experience in the army that bored, nervous soldiers suddenly presented with excitement were apt to do many things, including killing innocent civilians.

“Why are you on this road?” demanded the first soldier.

“We are going to help my mother,” said Hyuen Bo behind him. “She is an old woman and needs our help.”

“I’m not talking to you,” said the soldier.

“It’s true,” said Jing Yo. He began to cough, a ruse in case his accent seemed unnatural.

“Where is your mother?”

“Saigon,” said Hyuen Bo.

“Saigon?”

“Where in Saigon?” asked another soldier. “You answer, not her.”

Jing Yo named a district at the southern end of the city where he had stayed during his last visit. The soldier asked if he knew of a restaurant at a certain address. Jing Yo said that he didn’t, but that the address itself seemed to be wrong. Perhaps it was in another city district — a common problem in Saigon, where the border of each small district meant the street numbering system was restarted.

The answer seemed to mollify the soldier. “You should look it up when you get there,” he said. “I recommend it.”

“I will.”

“Has the enemy broken through?” asked Hyuen Bo. “Will we be able to get there?”

“Since you ask, I would not advise driving any farther,” said the first soldier. “Where have you come from?”

“Hanoi,” said Hyuen Bo.

“You shouldn’t drive at night,” said the soldier who had asked about the restaurant. “The Chinese send their airplanes out to strike anything on the road. They don’t care if you are civilians or the army.”

“You’re in danger yourself,” said Hyuen Bo.

“It’s our job to be in danger,” said the first soldier. “And we’re not afraid of any Chinese bastards.”

“I hope I see one. I’d shoot the bastard in the face,” said the third soldier, speaking for the first time.

“Are they that close?” asked Hyuen Bo.

“Only their planes,” answered the first soldier. “Their army has been stopped at the reservoir. They’ll be kicked back to China soon. They are dogs. We have always beaten them, from ancient times.”

“What’s the safest way south?” asked Jing Yo. “If we have to go.”

“The Ho Chi Minh Highway,” said the third soldier. “It’s the only way.”

“That is for military use only,” said the first soldier. “It’s closed to civilians. And I would stay away from it — the Chinese will bomb it.”

“Could we drive it?” Hyuen Bo asked, addressing the soldier who had mentioned the Saigon restaurant. “Would it be fastest?”

“Why are you talking to him? I told you already it’s closed.” The first soldier practically shouted. Jing Yo was familiar with the type — a small-minded man, suddenly handed a little authority, who became completely unnerved at the slightest perceived threat to his position.

“We must stay away from the highway,” said Jing Yo before descending into a coughing fit.

“Go,” said the soldier, waving his hand. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

They avoided the cities. Jing Yo worried that there would be additional patrols on the outskirts. Much of the land had only recently been claimed from the jungle, and the roads were rough and twisting, old trails that connected new farm fields and skirted bogs and sudden sharp rises in the terrain.

It took them nearly a half hour to go only ten miles south. The twists and turns jumbled Jing Yo’s sense of direction, and he was able to navigate only by catching occasional glimpses of dim lights and the sound of trucks close to the city, which lay to his west.

Finally, Jing Yo realized he had no choice but to go through the heavier populated areas that lay near Cam Thuy. And if he was going to do that, then he might as well lake the Ho Chi Minh Highway, military restriction or no. They drove into the city and, noticing that the gas tank was only about half full, found a block where several cars were parked and stole more fuel.

Hyuen Bo continued to be more helpful than he could have wished; she held the tube down into the other car’s tank, and when they heard someone coming, she managed to free the tube and hop on the scooter so calmly he would have sworn she was a guerrilla herself.

The city was under blackout restrictions, and in theory under a curfew. But people were gathered on the main streets in the business district, crowded together on the sidewalk, talking — or so Jing Yo imagined — about the war and their prospects for remaining safe. There were several tanks parked near the bridge over the Mạ River, but no soldiers made an effort to stop them as they crossed, even though they were technically on the Ho Chi Minh Highway. A pair of motorcycles and a small car passed them going the other way.

There were more vehicles moving in the southern suburbs. A Mercedes sped past them, so close that the wind almost threw them into a ditch.

A short while later, a pair of military jeeps, old Russian models, rushed past in the opposite direction. Jing Yo took this as a sign that others would follow. He found a side street that paralleled the main highway, and got off, swinging away from main road. But within a quarter mile the road came back to the highway, and Jing Yo had no choice but to follow.

Two more small trucks passed. These slowed as he approached. One flipped on a small searchlight mounted near the driver’s side. Jing Yo pushed his head down and revved the throttle, willing the small scooter forward. As they whizzed past, he tensed, expecting gunfire, but no one fired and the trucks didn’t stop.

The road began climbing a hill, negotiating a gentle curve. As they rounded it, Jing Yo caught sight of a line of shadows moving ahead.

A large gravel pit had been built into the side of the highway during its construction. Jing Yo drove into it, angling toward the steep slope where he could hide in the darkest of the shadows. But just as he reached it, the scooter hit a rock hidden in the weeds, and he and Hyuen Bo went flying off.

Jing Yo’s reaction was automatic. He entered a realm where thought and action, body and mind, are joined completely to each other. He felt himself flying, and without thought or other preparation, moved his elbows and tucked his shoulder to roll on the ground. The uneven gravel bit at his body, but Jing Yo had taken many such falls. His momentum brought him to his feet. He ran to the scooter and turned off the engine, then looked for Hyuen Bo.

She lay heaped on the ground. He scooped her up and ran with her into the shadows, collapsing into the brush as trucks approached. He sat with his lover in his arms, her head and upper body cradled in his lap. Never had a grown person seemed so small, or so fragile.

“Hyuen Bo?” he said softly. “Hyuen Bo?”

She didn’t respond. Jing Yo took a breath, steeling himself against her death.

No matter what one believed about the universe, whether it was a place filled with heavens and hells, or simply an empty consortium of atoms, there was no easy acceptance of death. Brave words about passing to a better place would be meaningless to Jing Yo, and all his training no consolation for Hyuen Bo’s loss.

He prepared himself.

But then she stirred, alive.

Jing Yo let go of the iron armor he’d bound himself in. “Ssssh,” he whispered. “You’ll be all right.”

She turned her head toward him in the darkness and opened her eyes. “I know I will.”

“What hurts?”

“My head.”

“Can you move your arms? Careful,” he added quickly. “The army trucks are coming up the highway.”

As soon as Hyuen Bo demonstrated she had not broken any bones, Jing Yo gently removed her from his lap, laying her softly on the ground. He told her not to move.

“I want to see the trucks, what they are,” he whispered. Then he crawled away, moving carefully to a point a dozen meters away where he could see the road.

There were tanks as well as trucks. They made an easily discernible sound, their treads grinding against the smooth pavement of the highway. They were T-55s, and even if Jing Yo hadn’t been familiar with the whine of their engines from his time in Malaysia, he would have easily recognized them by their silhouettes and long gun barrels.

The crews were driving with their hatches open, anxious to escape the stifling interior. Jing Yo counted twenty-two before the line was broken by a pair of low-slung command vehicles. The sharp angles at the front indicated they were probably BTR-40s, very old trucks that were still used for various purposes by the Vietnamese.

A second group of tanks followed, this one bigger than the first, with the tanks taking two files rather than one. Most of these were T-55s as well, but there were bigger tanks mixed in, T-59 main battle tanks. Jing Yo counted thirty-two.

Supply vehicles followed, then towed artillery. Jing Yo concluded that he was looking at elements from three or four different units, perhaps tank battalions stripped from their normal infantry division and rushed north to reinforce whatever was trying to bog down the advance at the reservoir the soldiers had mentioned earlier. He thought of using his phone to warn of the advance, but realized that would be foolish. For one thing, the Chinese air force would undoubtedly be watching, either by satellite or by UAV. For another, his mission required complete secrecy, and every use of the phone threatened that.

Jing Yo crawled back to Hyuen Bo. She had pulled herself upright, and sat with her knees curled against her chest.

“Is the scooter okay?” she asked.

“We’ll check it in a minute. There may be other trucks coming,” said Jing Yo. “There are always stragglers.”

“In every army?”

“It’s universal.”

He knelt next to her, wanting to inspect her head for cuts. She misinterpreted his intentions and turned to kiss him. He tried to pull back but her lips pressed into his, and he yielded to her insistence. She unfolded her arms and they moved into an embrace. Worried that they might be seen above the weeds, Jing Yo leaned to his right, bringing her down gently to the ground with him.

They stayed like that for nearly a half hour. There were several stragglers, all troop trucks.

Finally, Jing Yo renewed his resolve and pushed himself back up to his knees. Hyuen Bo clung to him.

“We have to check the scooter,” he told her. “We can’t stay here.”

The bike started right up. He didn’t realize the front wheel was badly bent until he tried to drive it out of the quarry. The scooter bucked violently, its wheel wobbling.

They worked together to fix it. Hyuen Bo found a pair of large rocks, and helped anchor the bike in place while Jing Yo used his feet as levers, returning the hub to round.

Or almost round. The scooter pulled to the right once they were on the highway. But it was far better than walking, and even at forty miles an hour, Jing Yo found he could hold it steady with relatively little pressure.

They drove for roughly another hour, still on the Ho Chi Minh Highway. Nearing Thai Hoa, Jing Yo got off to use local roads. He ran into a pair of roadblocks almost immediately. At the first, a bored Vietnamese sergeant barely looked at their papers before waving them away. The soldiers manning the second, however, told them that the curfew was being strictly enforced. They threatened to put them in jail until Hyuen Bo began to sob. They relented, but insisted the pair find a place to stay until dawn, warning that other patrols would be stricter, and that sooner or later they would be arrested.

Jing Yo was wondering whether to take this advice to heart when he heard a high-pitched whistle in the distance.

He reached his hand to his chest where Hyuen Bo’s were, grasping them and squeezing. In the next moment, there was a low crash, the sound thunder makes when lightning splits trees ten or twelve miles away.

White light flashed in the distance ahead. The flashes looked like signals sent from a ship in the distance, whiteness streaming through shutters opening and closing.

The sound of the explosions followed.

And then, finally, air-raid sirens began to sound. Antiaircraft weapons began spewing streams of tracers into the air. The ground shook with a dozen different vibrations, and the air popped with rounds as they were expelled. Searchlights began to sweep the clouds. Jing Yo heard jets in the distance.

He angled back toward the highway. It took several minutes to find it. Just before he did, he heard the whistle of bombs falling toward him.

Or thought he did. Jing Yo reasoned later that if he had truly heard the bombs, he would have been blown up by their explosions. And he was not blown up, merely covered with dust and severely rattled. The ground heaved violently and he nearly went over, but with all of the other sounds and chaos, it was impossible to say if the concussions were nearby or not.

Hyuen Bo tightened her hold on his chest.

“Hang on,” he said, squeezing the throttle. “We must get as far south as we can while the attack continues.”

19

Mara had just crossed out of the city’s precincts when DeBiase called and warned her that an attack was on the way. She drove to a high spot south of the city, then pulled over and got the others out of the vehicles, fearing that the approaching Chinese aircraft would mistake them for soldiers.

The air strikes began with a fury of explosions, half a dozen cruise missiles striking ahead of the airplanes. At first, the Chinese seemed to be aiming at a Vietnamese division headquarters, which was located along the Ho Chi Minh Highway south of the city. But within minutes, unguided bombs were falling in a broad semicircle that took in the residential areas of the city. Some missiles in a third wave even fell on nonmilitary targets, striking the buildings on the eastern side of the highway and flattening the business area beneath a tremendous red and black mushroom cloud.

“Caught a gasoline tank,” said Kerfer. “The Chinese aren’t pulling many punches.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to,” said Mara.

“You know them well?”

“I fought against their commandos in Malaysia. They’re bastards.”

Kerfer remained silent. Maybe, she thought, that was his way of apologizing for having underestimated her.

Probably not. He wasn’t the sort that apologized for anything, not even subtly.

“Now’s the best time to drive,” said Kerfer as the planes flew off. “Everybody’ll be hunkered down.”

“They’ll be nervous, too.”

“They’re always nervous.”

Mara watched for a few more seconds. Fires burned in the distance, the fingers of a man buried alive groping from the grave.

“I wish to hell you hadn’t shot up that train car,” Mara told Kerfer.

“If I hadn’t we’d be dead by now,” he told her, walking back to the car.

Mara let Squeaky drive as they pressed south. The patrols seemed almost nonexistent. DeBiase was cagey in his updates, not giving her exact information about what was going on. That made sense, of course: if she was captured, anything he told her would have to be considered forfeit to the Chinese. Knowing what the Americans knew and when they knew it would tell them quite a bit about the intelligence-gathering methods.

Josh was still sleeping in the middle seat of the truck next to her. He began mumbling to himself incoherently, humming almost, his teeth held close together.

Bad dream, probably. Maybe based on what he had seen behind the lines.

He’d told her very little of it. An entire village buried in a field. An arm poking up from the ground after the rain. His fellow scientists, murdered in their sleep. The body of child who’d crawled under a bed to hide after being wounded, then left there to die, its toy doll in its arms.

The sat phone rang. DeBiase with another update.

“Hey, darling, how are you?”

“I’m doing good, Million Dollar Man,” Mara answered. “How’s your hernia?”

“Ailing me greatly. You’re not making very good time.”

“We’re driving through a country that has a war on,” said Mara. “I didn’t know you had your stopwatch out.”

“Listen, the Chinese navy is gathering off the coast, south of Hainan Island. There’s big trouble brewing.”

“You told me that already.”

“This is big trouble. It looks like they have an invasion force getting ready.”

“When?”

“Can’t tell. But we want you home. Come on now,” he said, switching to his cheerleader voice. “Pick up your pace. Once you get below Hue, you’ll have free sailing. I have a plane lined up for you in Saigon.”

“There has to be an airstrip closer that we can get to,” Mara told him. “Come on.”

“Darlin’, I’ve been trying. But the best alternative I can do to Ho Chi Minh is a puddle jumper that can meet you near Cambodia. That’ll be twice as dangerous. The Chinese have complete air superiority, as you just saw.”

“And the pilot’s a drunk, right?”

“Could well be.”

It was an inside joke between them, a reference to a story DeBiase liked to tell of one of his own hairy escapes by plane, when the pilot had been so smashed that DeBiase had taken over the controls mid-flight. DeBiase, of course, had no clue what he was doing and just barely succeeded in keeping the plane moving in the right direction. Miraculously, the real pilot revived about ten minutes from the airfield where they were supposed to touch down, and landed the plane without a hitch. The story was probably largely apocryphal, like many a DeBiase tale, but it was told with such gusto that it deserved to be entirely true.

“If you start to get into trouble south of Hue,” added DeBiase, “we’ll consider asking the Vietnamese for help. The closer we are to Saigon, the harder it should be for the Chinese to interfere.”

“I don’t think asking the Vietnamese for help at this point is a good idea,” said Mara.

“Why not?”

“There have to be more spies in Saigon than in Hanoi,” she said.

“I’m sure there are. What else is up?” asked DeBiase. His voice had a subtle edge to it.

“We had some trouble on the train,” said Mara, deciding to come clean. “With the Vietnamese.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind that got them killed.”

“That sounds like bad trouble,” said DeBiase.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen good trouble.”

“Well.” He paused. She knew he was considering whether to ask what had happened. “To make an omelet, eggs are often broken.”

“They are.”

“We won’t talk to the Vietnamese at all,” he said.

“Good.”

“But you get going. Things are falling apart there damn fast.”

20

The thing that really frosted Greene was the fact that all of the senators he’d invited to lunch in the White House dining room were members of his own party. All had stood onstage with him this past November and proclaimed their undying support. They’d been the first on their feet in January to applaud at the inauguration.

And the first with their hands out the next day.

He didn’t have one vote among them to give aid to Vietnam. Maybe he had Leiber. Maybe. But even the Connecticut senator looked like he was a little beaten down. He sat at the far end of the table near the windows and the painting of Geronimo that Greene liked, hunched over a bowl of soup. He’d said less than two words the entire time.

“So obviously we’re here for a reason, Mr. President,” said Phillip Grasso, whom Greene had seated at his right hand. “You’re going to push us on China.”

“Damn right I’m going to push you on China,” said Greene.

“They’re taking over the world again, right?” Grasso turned and winked at the other senators.

“I wouldn’t underestimate their threat,” said Greene.

“I take China very seriously,” said Grasso. “I just don’t think we should go to war with them.”

“If we don’t stand up to them now, we will be at war with them eventually,” Greene told him. “That’s why I want to help Vietnam.”

“We can’t send arms,” said Senator Roosevelt, who despite his last name was not related to either president, either through blood or character. “People will view it as a hostile act.”

“And invading Vietnam was not?” said Greene in disbelief.

Everyone looked at their plates. Greene took a breath and tried to recalibrate.

“I think a good step here,” said Leiber, “would be to go to the UN and get sanctions. We can build a coalition. Like George Bush did during the first Gulf War. The first George Bush,” he added.

“No one takes the UN seriously,” said Grasso. “Besides, you don’t have the votes there. Frankly, I think I’d oppose sanctions myself. China is our biggest trading partner.”

Grasso headed the Armed Services Committee. If he wasn’t taking a hard stand against China, no one on his committee would. Not a single one.

Grasso was a guy who could tell which way popular opinion was running. He’d started out as a machinist in a small family-owned business, a “real blue-collar guy,” as the talking heads put it. He’d wandered into politics because the state wanted to take his backyard to expand a highway. He ended up on the town board, became a county party chairman, then a congressman and a real power in New York. He had numerous connections on both sides of the political aisle. And a long, long list of contributors.

Many of whom undoubtedly had Chinese connections.

Greene needed to persuade him.

“I am for sanctions,” said the president. “I’m going to push them personally in front of the UN. We’re raising a stink.”

“Why raise a stink when the Vietnamese started it?” asked Senator Jennifer Kraft. Kraft was the junior senator from Wisconsin, and until now, a vote Greene could generally count on.

“Maybe they didn’t start the war,” said Greene. “What would your reaction be then?”

“I’d need some very good proof that they didn’t.”

“We’ve seen footage from the Chinese,” said Grasso. “We’ve seen their satellite photos. Is there proof they’re lying?”

“If I have proof, that would change your mind?” asked Greene.

“I would consider it,” fudged Grasso. “Do you have proof?”

Greene did have proof — Josh MacArthur, and the little orphan girl he’d found. But he wasn’t ready to share that proof with anyone outside the administration. Even there, most didn’t know about it. The problem was that once he said something, especially here, it would get out, and the Chinese would find a way to rebut it.

“We’re examining the situation,” Greene said.

“What’s ‘examining’ mean?” asked Kraft.

“Reviewing the intelligence. Let’s say we have proof — what then?”

“Convince the UN. Start with sanctions,” suggested Kraft. “Then you might be able to get some votes.”

You might get some votes — not we. Greene boiled inside. He had very little use for the UN. No use, in fact.

Yet he couldn’t go to war without the support of the American people. And their elected representatives.

“I am going to the UN,” he said. “You can count on that.” He looked around the table. “Could someone pass me the pepper? My chicken is a little bland.”

21

Jing Yo stopped again to siphon gas, this time from a small farm not far from the road. Hyuen Bo had fallen asleep against his back, and nearly fell off when he stopped. Jing Yo left her with the scooter near the road and went alone to scout the yard.

A few years before, this would have been a rich farm for Vietnam, with several acres and several buildings. Now it was commonplace. He guessed that it would have a tractor and at least one car or motorbike, but he couldn’t find them. There were two sheds near the road. Neither had a vehicle. In one, he found a small fuel can, but it smelled of diesel or kerosene, and its fuel was too thick to be gasoline.

Jing Yo found a path that led back to the two small houses. It started to rain as he approached the nearer house. The small droplets felt good at first, but soon they started to fall faster and thicker, and it became harder to see.

A tractor was parked in a hollow next to the house. A motorcycle leaned against it. Jing Yo unscrewed the top to the motorcycle’s gas tank. There was gas almost to the brim. He pushed his hose in to fill his makeshift gas tank, then got another idea. He picked up the bike and backed it away from the house, walking with it to the spot where he’d left Hyuen Bo.

He didn’t see her or the scooter. A hole opened in his chest as he stood still, turning around slowly as he looked for her.

Perhaps it is good that she has left, he thought.

“I’m here,” she whispered. And his heart jumped.

“Across the road,” Hyuen Bo added. “I was afraid we could be seen.”

She pushed the bike out from around the brush where she’d been hiding.

“You found another bike?”

“Just for the gas,” said Jing Yo, changing his mind about taking it.

He didn’t want to be separated from her.

Not yet.

They rigged the hose, taking advantage of the different heights between the machines. The slope and the full tank of gas in the bike made it easy.

“Are you hungry?” Jing Yo asked when they finished.

“Why? Is there food?”

“There are houses. There’s bound to be something.”

“You shouldn’t take the food from the people,” said Hyuen Bo. “They probably have very little.”

“It’s a rich farm,” said Jing Yo. “A person with a farm this size would be very well off in China. If not for the drought.”

“Is that how you justify stealing?”

Jing Yo didn’t answer. He took the bike and pushed it back to its resting spot. He leaned it against the tractor just as the sat phone rang.

“We have found a transmission on the frequencies used by the CIA,” said a man whose voice he did not recognize. “There have been three transmissions in the past several hours, moving in a general direction south. The last was fifteen minutes ago, in southern Vinh Province. There have been no other transmissions from the American spies in the past two days.”

“Give me directions,” said Jing Yo.

The last signal had come from, a position barely thirty kilometers, or twenty miles, away. Jing Yo drove with new focus. It might be nothing — there was no way of knowing from the signal itself, and his informer had made no promises — but he was convinced that he was now on his quarry’s trail. And close to him.

Rain continued to fall steadily. The scooter’s small wheels slipped on the pavement, and he had to keep his speed down to roughly forty kilometers an hour. It was an exercise in patience.

He had learned to be patient in the monastery by spending whole days sitting outside the prayer hall, waiting for the monk he was assigned to accompany. During this phase of his training, the monks were completely unpredictable. They would arrive before morning prayer; they would not come until nightfall. This was all absolutely intentional — they had perceived in Jing Yo a weakness for action. They interpreted this as impetuousness, a vice. Not trained, the tendency could overcome careful thought. And so they had taught him to harness it, first by teaching patience, and then by instructing him in the physical skills of kung fu.

The rain made it harder to see in the distance, and Jing Yo nearly missed the intersection where he needed to turn. He braked a little too hard and the bike began to slide to its left. He let off on the brake, shifted his weight. It was all automatic; he had his balance before he could even open his mouth to warn Hyuen Bo. But the incident warned him against his wandering thoughts. He needed to concentrate and focus on what he was doing.

A truck blocked the highway about two miles later. Jing Yo slowed gently, easing the brake against the wheel. The truck was a civilian vehicle, and it was parked on a diagonal, nose facing south. As he came close, Jing saw that he could slip around on the left shoulder. As he did, two men came out from behind the truck. They had guns. He pushed down toward the handlebars and accelerated, trying to speed past.

One of the men lurched at them. He hit Hyuen Bo and spun the scooter into a skid.

Jing Yo fell away from the vehicle, tumbling across the pavement into the ditch beyond the shoulder. In the dark night with the rain he was momentarily blind, his bearings scrambled.

Caught by surprise, Hyuen Bo fell with the scooter, landing at the edge of the road.

“We will take your bike!” yelled one of the men. “We will take your money as well.”

“This one’s a girl,” said the man who had lurched at the scooter. “We’ll have her.”

“They’re both girls, I’ll bet,” said the other. “Put her in the truck while I get the other.”

Jing Yo scrambled to his feet.

“Come on and don’t make this hard,” said the other man, unsure in the darkness where Jing Yo was. “You’ll escape with your life, and be glad for it!”

Jing Yo’s eyes focused on the shadow, barely ten feet away on his right, up on the road. The man had a rifle in his hand.

“Come on,” said the man, who still hadn’t seen him. “Don’t make me shoot you!”

The man squared as if to fire, though it was clear from his aim that he didn’t know where Jing Yo was.

“You’d best shoot then,” said Jing Yo, taking a step and throwing himself feetfirst at the man.

The gun went off as they went down, a loud, violent rattle in the rain. Jing Yo landed square on the man’s chest, knocking him down. He sprang up, then went down into the man’s side, knee-first.

The man bashed his rifle against Jing Yo’s head, hitting him just above his eye. As he reared back to strike again, Jing Yo grabbed the gun and rolled forward with him, both men holding the rifle as they went down the embankment.

His enemy’s face pressed against his as Jing Yo fell beneath him. The man’s breath smelled of rotten fish. Jing Yo started to push to the left, trying to slip out from under him. The man raised his skull, then smashed it into Jing Yo’s forehead. Jing Yo hit him on the temple with his left fist. Still the man fought back, hitting him with another head butt.

Both were still holding the rifle between them. As long as they did that, neither would have an advantage. But to let go of the gun was to risk giving the other an insurmountable edge.

When his punches failed to move the man off him, Jing Yo grabbed the man’s hair and tried to pull him down. But his enemy’s bulk protected him, and he was able to push back and attack with another head smash.

I must take the risk, Jing Yo thought.

He pushed the rifle against his enemy’s chest. The sudden change in direction caught him off guard. As the man fell back, Jing Yo pitched his elbow and forearm up, smacking the rifle into the man’s face and striking his eye. The man winced, instinctively ducking back and loosening his grip on the gun.

That was all the advantage that Jing Yo needed. He tossed the rifle aside, and with his upper body free, his hands flew to the man’s head, his knee up into his groin. With one hard twist, the man’s neck was broken.

Jing Yo threw him to the side and scrambled for the gun.

The man’s accomplice was by the truck, shouting. Jing Yo grabbed the rifle, then threw himself flat, unsure where the other man was.

“Pean!” the man yelled to his companion. “Pean! What are you doing? Where are you?”

Jing Yo crawled up the side of the ditch, willing his eyes to focus. He saw two shadows near the cab of the truck. The man had Hyuen Bo.

“Pean!” he called again. “Where are you? Should I kill the girl?”

Jing Yo raised the rifle. He wasn’t sure when of the shadows was the man, which was Hyuen Bo.

She was behind the man, very close, held around the neck.

Ten yards. An easy shot.

Jing Yo pressed the trigger. The AK-47 clicked. It had run out of bullets.

“Pean!”

“Drop the girl and I’ll let you live,” said Jing Yo.

“Who are you?” yelled the man.

“Let go of the girl.”

Jing Yo heard her struggle. The man twisted around, pulling her in front of him.

“You think I’m a fool?” said the other man. “Where is Pean?”

“You’ll meet him soon enough if you don’t let her go.”

“Perhaps I’ll shoot her.”

“Then I’ll eat your heart while you’re still alive,” replied Jing Yo.

The man began edging toward the scooter. Jing Yo rose.

“I see you!” shouted the man. “Any closer and she dies.”

“Let the girl go, or you will die.”

“Not today.”

As the man reached the scooter, Hyuen Bo started to pull away. The man let go of her and fumbled for the ignition. Jing Yo launched himself, flying to his back as the motor caught. They both went over the handlebars, the scooter’s engine catching.

Three hard punches to the back of the man’s head rendered him unconscious.

Jing Yo struggled to control his anger. He rose, wanting nothing else but to tear the man’s head off his body. He picked up the man’s rifle, placed it next to his skull, and fired once, killing him.

It was an act of mercy, compared to what he wanted to do.

In the meantime, Hyuen Bo ran to the scooter and righted it.

“We should go,” she said as Jing Yo stood over the body.

“They’re soldiers,” said Jing Yo, pointing at the men’s uniforms. They’d pulled their patches from their shoulders. They were deserters. “They may have something we can use.”

“Come on, Yo.”

Jing Yo stared at her. In his heart he wanted her to go, to just leave, to save herself from the future she would he trapped in.

“They may have something useful,” he said, pulling the man he had just killed off the road and starting to search their pockets.

The rain eased as Jing Yo searched the dead men’s truck, which was more than likely stolen. There were a few extra rounds for the rifles, but nothing else of value, not even a few crumpled banknotes.

This was the army they were fighting against? An army of cowards without even enough sense to steal a vehicle that had gas? Without even a thousand dong in their pockets?

His true enemy was somewhere on the road south, getting farther away with each moment he dawdled.

“Are you sure you are okay?” Jing Yo asked Hyuen Bo when he returned to the scooter.

“I’ve had much worse.”

“There will be much worse to come.”

Hyuen Bo said nothing, tightening her grip around his waist as he took the scooter once more back on the road.

22

It was nearly dawn when Mara and the others reached the outskirts of Hue. The Vietnamese army had two camps along the Hue City Bypass immediately to the west of the city, and DeBiase told Mara the easiest and fastest way would be to take Route 1, which cut down the side of the Citadel, the core of the old French city. A thick mist hid the landmarks, even the flag gate.

Squished between Mara and Squeaky, Josh felt as if he were wrapped in a sweaty blanket. Mara was driving; Squeaky had dozed off next to him.

The headlights were on. The light filtered through the droplets of water, reflecting off the sides of the buildings that lined the road. There was traffic, cars and trucks coming with supplies and workers for the day. There weren’t a lot of vehicles, but there were certainly more than he’d seen before falling asleep.

“How far are we from Ho Chi Minh City?” he asked.

“We should be there by nightfall,” said Mara. “We still have a ways to go. How are you feeling?”

“My insides kind of hurt. I must have eaten something bad.”

“You have a fever.”

“Yeah.”

Mara put her hand up to his forehead. Her hand felt cool and soft, the touch gentle.

“We’ll see a doctor as soon as we get to Saigon,” she told him. “I don’t want to stop.”

“I’m okay,” said Josh. “Maybe…” His voice trailed off.

“Maybe what?” Mara asked.

“Maybe we could stop and I could…” He couldn’t find a delicate way to say it.

“Take a whiz?” asked Mara.

“Yeah.”

“Once we’re across the Perfume River, we’ll stop,” said Mara. “We’ll get some breakfast.”

“Is it far?”

“It’s just ahead.”

“How’s Mạ?”

“She’s with the SEALs. They have a little more room. Don’t worry; they seem to be taking good care of her.”

“I know. They bought her a doll. We lost it…”

Josh’s voice trailed off. All he could think about was the blood in the train car.

There was a train bridge. The road turned sharply to the east, following the river. Finally the bridge loomed from the fog. Mara crossed over, checking her rearview mirror to make sure that Kerfer and the car were still behind her.

“You really know your way around,” said Josh.

“Not really,” said Mara.

“You’ve been here before?” he asked.

“Couple of times. To get an idea of what was where. I like to travel,” she added. “It’s interesting.”

“Yeah.”

“We don’t have time for sightseeing, or we could have gone into the Citadel,” said Mara. “The Forbidden City has some restored ruins. It’s very pretty.”

“Forbidden City?”

“It’s like the city within the city.”

“Why is it forbidden?”

“It was the emperor’s home. It’s like in Beijing. It’s actually not that old — 1805 or something like that. Hue was a provincial capital, and the French helped the emperor or encouraged him to build the Citadel as a fort. The Forbidden City is within the Citadel, which itself is a city within a city. A lot of it was destroyed during the war,” she added. “There was a huge battle here during the Tet Offensive. The Communists took over the city. When the Marines finally drove them out, they discovered mass graves. The Communists had massacred, like, six thousand people. Some they just buried alive.”

“And now we’re trying to save them from the Chinese,” said Josh.

“Something like that,” said Mara.

They ate at a noodle shop. Josh didn’t have anything, his bowels and bladder still on fire. While he suffered from a variety of allergies, he’d been lucky with his health otherwise, and this was one of the worst sicknesses he’d ever had, or at least that he could remember. He joked with the SEALs that it was like having a hangover without the good part, but it wasn’t much like that at all.

“There’s no gas in the city,” Mara told the others after talking to the shop owner and some of the other locals. “Everyone claims there are stations with gas on the roads farther south. The south hasn’t been attacked.”

“That won’t last for long,” said Kerfer. “Assuming it’s true.”

Squeaky claimed he was rested from his nap and told Mara that he would drive for a while. She agreed. When Josh got up to leave, Mạ clung to him, so he carried her with him, even though his arms felt like lead weights. She slipped in between Josh and Mara, draping her arms across Josh. She was asleep before they started.

“Just stay on Route One to Da Nang,” Mara told Squeaky. “We’ll take that as far south as we can.”

“No more roadblocks?” asked Squeaky.

“I wouldn’t count on there being no more roadblocks,” she said. “But things should be easier. We only have to get to Saigon. We should be there by dark.”

A half hour later, they were at Da Nang, climbing past the crowded city. There were no troops on the roads, no fortified strongpoints, not even a stray tank at the turnoffs. It seemed like another country.

The airport came into view as they climbed and turned toward the coast. It was a long, wide expanse of black just to the west of the city’s most populated areas.

“Why don’t we just take a plane from here?” asked Squeaky.

“Good question,” said Mara. “They don’t think it’s safe.”

“And driving all the way down the country is?” said Squeaky.

“The Chinese control the air,” said Mara. “Supposedly they cratered the runway the other day.”

“Send a helo.”

“I ain’t arguing,” said Mara, though she suspected that the limited range of helicopters would have made that difficult.

They had gone no more than a quarter mile when the ground on their left exploded, a volcano appearing before their eyes. The ground shuddered and the car lurched to the right.

“Stay on the road,” said Mara, reaching across Josh for the wheel.

“I got it, I got it,” said Squeaky. “Relax.”

Another bomb landed ahead, a few hundred yards to the left — not quite close enough to do any damage, but it certainly got their attention.

“Keep going,” Mara ordered.

“I ain’t stoppin’,” said Squeaky.

Josh saw something fly across the sky in front of them. At first he thought it was a large bird, a vulture swooping toward the road to pounce on a carcass before the cars mangled it further. Then he saw a splatter of white and black and red, splinters flying — a second shell struck a row of houses.

“Bombs,” he said.

“They’re shells,” said Squeaky. “There must be ships offshore. All right, so now I see why we can’t take a helo.”

“We have to cross the bridge before they hit it,” said Mara.

“How do you know they’re aiming at the bridge?” asked Squeaky.

“Go faster!” Mara shouted.

Mạ jerked up in Josh’s lap. He put his hand over her eyes as a shell flew down to the right, east of the bridge as they started across. Water exploded in a geyser. The right half of the bridge, which was used by trains, was covered in steam.

A train had just started across from the other side. As it pushed forward, a spray of water came up and splashed the lead engine. As it emerged from the geyser, the train seemed to duck, as if afraid of another shell. One of the shells had twisted away the support for the track, which collapsed under the weight of the engines.

It was too late for the train to stop. Josh watched the cars tumble forward, driving mostly straight ahead, doomed by their connection to each other. They kept coming, and falling, one after another.

Then a geyser exploded ahead to the left.

Mạ screamed.

“It’s okay,” said Josh, holding her tighter. “It’s all right.”

“Faster!” yelled Mara. “Go! Go! Go!”

The riverbank in front of them turned black. Their pickup truck jerked upward. Josh’s head flew backward, then whipped forward, his chin clunking onto Mạ’s head. The truck veered right, moved sideways, then straightened.

They were in a cloud of smoke, dust, and water. Mara yelled at Squeaky, urging him to go faster. Squeaky said nothing, struggling to keep the truck headed straight as the bridge began vibrating crazily.

“Just stay on the road!” said Mara as they reached the other side.

“Skipper,” said Squeaky, his voice cracking.

“Just keep going. They’re behind us,” said Mara. “Keep going.”

The smoke cleared suddenly. There were trees near them, and a row of buildings. It was as if the attack had never happened.

It hadn’t — here. Behind them, the bridge had just collapsed. The buildings along the river were now being targeted.

“Stop up there,” said Mara, pointing to an open lot at the left ahead. There was a large barnlike building at the back of the lot. A pair of gas tanks sat just in front of it.

Mara jumped from the truck and ran to the pumps. Kerfer and the car pulled in behind them.

“What are you doing?” yelled the SEAL commander.

“There’s gas here. Come on!” yelled Mara from the tanks.

“You’re nuts, lady,” said Kerfer.

Squeaky put the truck in gear and steered over to the pumps. Mara already had the handle out. As she pushed it into the opening, a fresh salvo of shells, these much closer, rocked the ground nearby.

A small, thin man came running from the building and began yelling at them.

Mara reached into her pocket and held up some bills, but they didn’t seem to calm him. He stood a few feet from her, arms pumping up and down.

Squeaky leaned out the window of the truck. “Should I pop him?”

“No. Go. You’re full.” Mara pulled the pump out of the truck. “Get out of the way.”

The truck lurched forward. Josh twisted around to see what was going on behind them and saw the old man grab the pump handle as Kerfer drove up.

A shell whizzed overheard, crashing across the road close enough to throw some bits of dirt on the truck. Mara tried pushing the old man away, until finally she’d had enough — she slugged him in the side of the head, sending him into the dirt.

“Whoa, she’s got some fight, spook lady does,” Squeaky told Josh.

Two more shells landed nearby, this time on the left. The old man got to his feet and started yelling again, even as he backed away from Mara. She topped off the car, then put the hose and nozzle back. She held out money, but he refused to take it. Finally she threw it in his direction and ran to the truck as more shells hit the ground.

“Go, let’s get out of here,” she said.

The wheels kicked dirt and dust everywhere as they sped back onto the highway.

“Didn’t want to take your money, huh?” said Squeaky.

“The gas was for his family,” said Mara.

“That’s too bad,” said Squeaky. “You shoulda kept the money, maybe. ‘Cause we’re so low.”

Mara didn’t answer.

“What was firing at us?” Josh asked.

“Probably some sort of Chinese destroyer,” said Squeaky. “More than one. We’re not too far from the water.”

“Were they close?” asked Josh.

“In the bay, at least. Maybe up the river. Vietnam doesn’t have much of a navy,” Squeaky added. “Probably right offshore. Take care of whatever defenses they might have — probably pathetic to begin with. They probably sailed right up, bombing whatever they wanted. Nothing the Viets can do to them.”

Josh slumped back in the seat. Mạ’s face was buried in his shoulder. She sobbed silently.

“So it gets easier from here, right?” Squeaky asked Mara.

“ ‘Easy’ is a relative term,” she said, turning her face to her window.

23

Jing Yo sensed he was getting close to his prey when the shelling started. He was only two miles or so from the river, but the bombardment quickly grew more intense. Finally, he saw a row of cars and flashing lights ahead and realized that the bridge must have been destroyed.

He took a U-turn and got off National Road 1A, heading back toward Cam Le Bridge. But the attacking Chinese ships had already put it out of commission. His only alternative would be to go farther inland, through the Tuy Loan suburb, before heading southward.

He found a row of cars stretching before him on the highway when he reached Route 14B. Several were abandoned, and the way was clogged with traffic. Even with the scooter, it was difficult to get around the jam. He treaded back and forth, hunting for open spaces, stopping and starting, several times going backward to try a different path.

The side roads were just as bad.

It took nearly two hours to travel three miles. By then the Chinese vessels had withdrawn. Smoke wafted on the breeze, clinging to the highway and the area around the rivers.

The bridge that took 14B over the river had been damaged by the assault. A barricade had been placed on the eastern bank; opposite him, a lone policeman stood in front of a small sawhorse, warning away cars and the curious.

Jing Yo stopped near the barricade, examining the roadway. It sagged about halfway across but otherwise looked intact. The bridge itself was only fifty meters long.

Jing Yo decided he would brave it.

“Are we going across?” asked Hyuen Bo.

“If we don’t go here, it will take us another hour to find a crossing,” he said. “And we’ll be even farther from our direction. Do you think we can make it?”

“If you do.”

“Hold me tightly,” he said, pulling her arms around him.

He revved the scooter and shot forward. He’d gone no farther than ten meters when the road started to give way below. It dipped, then sprang back, as if it were a diving board. Jing Yo tacked left, easing off his accelerator. The road swayed left, and there was a loud noise, the crack a tree limb makes as it collapses in a heavy storm.

Jing Yo knew the road would not come back up this time. He accelerated, charging forward as the steel supports under the bridge swayed and snapped, one after another.

The policeman turned around and began waving his arms at him.

Ten meters from the end of the bridge, the right side of the road folded and fell below. Jing Yo hunkered against the handlebars, willing the scooter to the extreme left, clearing the remaining pavement as the deck collapsed.

He nearly ran into the policeman, who was too stunned to react as they sped past.

They drove on the highway for a few more minutes, until they were almost in Dai Hiep. Jing Yo slowed as they neared a cluster of stores and shops.

“Are you hungry?” he asked Hyuen Bo.

“If you are.”

“We’ll get something to eat,” he said. “They have too much of a head start now for us to catch up.”