Shadows of War

Oil Exports Down, Revenue Up in Malaysia

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia (World News Service) — While oil exports dropped due to a decline in production at the Sahah off-shore oil fields, income rose by nearly eighty percent last year due to the continuing increase in energy prices, the oil ministry reported today.

The increase was roughly in line with analysts’ projections. Other oil producers, notably Saudi Arabia and Venezuela, have reported similar increases over the past week.

UN Begs Fresh Relief Effort in South America

Buenos Aires (World News Service) — UN Secretary General Cyrus Bapoto today called on Western governments to increase funding to aid countries in South America devastated by climate change.

Bapoto recited now all-too-familiar statistics detailing the devastation of agriculture in South American economies, including the virtual evaporation of Argentina’s beef production.

Until recently, Argentina accounted for approximately eight percent of world beef exports. A combination of decline in purchasing power of its traditional markets and widespread drought in the Pampa Humeda region have provided a double whammy to Argentina. The country’s economic crisis is even worse than 1999–2002, with the GDP expected to decline roughly twenty percent this year. The decline comes on top of a fifteen percent decline over the last six months of 2013.

Non-Rice Paddy Rice Scientists’ Dream

Giverney, France (Reuters-Gannet News Service) — Here in the bucolic town that once inspired some of the world’s most beautiful Impressionist painters, a French scientist is working on hybrid plants that he hopes will one day solve the world’s famine crisis.

His goal: rice that can be grown on dry land.

Professor Pierre Valois, 52, has already successfully bred several versions of the plant that require only about half the rainfall of the mainstream variants. He cautions, however, that he may be “five or six years” from finding a “waterless rice,” and that it may take ten years beyond that to prepare seeds for farmers in sufficient numbers to make production worthwhile.

More promising is a salt-water variety, which Valois says can be grown in ocean areas. The crop’s yield so far has been disappointing — merely one-tenth of a normal rice paddy — still, the scientist thinks rice may be grown in sea farms by the beginning of the next decade…

1

Josh opened his eyes into a gray stillness.

His chest and legs ached; his hip felt bruised. His neck, stiff from sleep, felt cold.

It was still dark, at least an hour if not more before dawn.

Slowly, he pushed himself from his side to his belly, then raised his head and chest. Gripping the pistol, he crawled from his hiding spot and slipped down to the path, rifle in his hand. There he turned around in a slow circle, pausing every few degrees to listen as best as he could to the jungle, trying to detect any sound made by machines.

When he was sure no one was nearby, Josh went back to the niche where he’d slept and took a drink of water from the soldier’s bottle. He slipped the pistol into his pocket. He did the same with the satellite phone, sliding it next to the video camera in his left pocket.

The satellite phone’s software lock made it impossible to check the calls-received list. But he knew the call hadn’t been a dream. Someone was going to help him.

In the meantime, he had to find some food. And a real place to hide.

Josh decided he would wait for the dawn, but after only a few minutes he found himself walking. It was impossible to stand still, he realized, and maybe even dangerous. When he came to a Y in the path, he turned left, believing it led south.

The farther south he was, the easier it would be for his rescuers, Josh thought. Here, he was too close to the Chinese border.

About fifteen minutes after starting, still before light, Josh smelled something burning. Immediately, he felt disappointed, almost depressed — smoke meant the people who lived in whatever village was nearby were awake already, which would make it hard for him to sneak in and find food. But he kept walking, slowing as he neared curves and pausing every so often to listen in case someone was coming.

The village had been built on the hillside above the path. The trail skirted around it, just at the edge of the jungle, coming no closer than a hundred meters. Josh didn’t realize this until he had gone about halfway around the settlement. He backtracked to a spot where his approach would be hidden by bushes, and began sneaking closer to the hamlet.

The sun was just about to rise; the trees and bushes in front of him seemed to have turned a light shade of blue, standing out from the gray.

The scent of tea wafted down the hill. Josh’s stomach began to rumble.

He was incredibly hungry. Should he show himself?

Josh heard voices. He lowered himself to his knees, trying to see who was talking. When he found he couldn’t, he began moving up the hill again, this time crawling on his hands and knees. He heard the light singsong of voices, but saw nothing until he came to a low fence or wall made of logs stacked two high and laid out on the edge of the slope.

Something moved just beyond the fence, shadows, people.

Men in uniform.

He stared through the trees. He could see only their legs, but he was convinced they were Chinese.

Josh began moving backward. Each sound he made seemed to echo around him, and with each push he thought the soldiers would finally hear him and rush down the hill to kill him.

Finally, he reached the trail again. He took a small sip of water and considered what to do.

Part of him wanted to go back and kill as many of the bastards as possible. The emotion, his anger, surprised him. He wasn’t sure where it came from. He should be afraid, petrified.

He was afraid. But he also wanted revenge. And maybe just to stop the ordeal.

Going back was suicide, and he wasn’t ready for that. He didn’t need it — he was getting out. And he was going to help the world fight these bastards.

He started walking again, quietly but quickly, aiming to get around the village and away from the troops as soon as he could. After a few steps, he realized the sun was coming up over his right shoulder: he was headed north.

Josh changed course, heading back toward the split in the path he’d taken earlier.

2

A wave of missiles hit the north side of Hanoi just as Mara got the motorcycle started. The explosions were no closer than a mile away, but they shook the ground so fiercely that Mara nearly lost control of the bike.

A bright meteor flew overhead — the tail end of a malfunctioning missile arcing in the direction of the old city. Antiaircraft batteries north and east of the city began to fire. Geysers of yellow smoke shot up a few hundred yards ahead, foaming across the sky. A black streak passed through the top of the cloud, then several more; explosions shook the ground.

Ten minutes before, no one in the city seemed to be awake. Now everyone was up and running into the streets. Mara turned onto an avenue flanked by five- and six-story apartment buildings and found herself surrounded by people, many in their nightclothes, who surged to the middle of the road and stared at the sky above. She had to brake hard to avoid hitting an elderly man dressed in pajama bottoms and holding a broomstick in his hand. He turned and looked at her, brandishing the broom as if it were a halberd.

The next block was just as crowded, with people running back and forth or staring in disbelief at the sky. Antiaircraft tracers sprayed in furious streaks while the ground jumped up and down with fresh explosions. The entire northern horizon was red. Sirens began wailing above the explosions. Here and there a woman or child screamed, but most of the people in the streets were quiet, shocked into silence.

Turning down a side street, Mara found her path blocked by a small delivery van, which itself had been blocked by two other cars. It was nearly impossible to squeeze through the people jamming into the street around the vehicles. Mara had to inch forward with her feet on the ground. People began to take hold of her, clinging to her as if she were some good luck charm. They pulled her left and right, making it harder and harder for her to keep her balance.

“Sister, you must help us,” pleaded an older woman in Vietnamese, curling herself around her arm.

“Yes,” answered Mara, unsure what to say.

They walked together for a minute more, both silent. The woman saw someone and began to pull away, tugging for Mara to come with her.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” said Mara, using English this time.

She unhooked her arm and pushed the motorcycle forward, hitting the horn. The sharp, drawn-out squeal had no effect on the people in front of her; they seemed to drift rather than move, clotting like blood from a minor wound.

The air raid sirens began to shriek louder. Someone on the street yelled at the people to get inside, to find shelter, but everyone remained more or less where they were, locked in the middle of the street. Mara managed to reached the end of the block, where she found the cross street was nearly deserted. After a few more zigzags, she got to Hoang Hoa Tham, one of the major east-west roads in the city. But the police had blocked the road to nonemergency traffic. Head down, trying to look as nondescript as possible, she funneled on the side streets toward Ho Tay Lake with the rest of the traffic, bicycles mostly, their worried riders unsure whether they truly had destinations to go to. Anxiety drove them at a good pace, and Mara was able to move ahead as gaps opened in the flood.

Police and military vehicles were parked in front of the luxury hotels and fancy houses that filled the lakeshore area. Spotlights had been set up on the causeway that divided the larger lake from Truch Bac Lake; they wagged back and forth across the sky, illuminating only a few wispy clouds that seemed to struggle to stay out of their grasp.

So far, Mara hadn’t seen any destruction up close. But cutting south toward the Star Hotel she passed into an area of older houses, several of which were on fire. The tops of three roofs burned almost as one, flames licking up the sides as black smoke curled from under the eaves. The black looked like bunting, underlining the red and yellow dancing above. Since the buildings themselves hadn’t been damaged, Mara guessed that the fires had been set by antiaircraft shells falling to earth. But that wouldn’t matter much to the people whose houses they were. There were no fire trucks nearby, no hoses or even bucket brigades; the residents stood on one side of the street, watching as the flames fed on the dry wood.

The Citadel and the surrounding area were blocked off, heavily though somewhat haphazardly guarded by soldiers. Many of the men were not in full uniform. Mara kept her head down as she rode with the traffic detouring away.

A few blocks from the hotel, the motorcycle began pulling back, as if it had lost its will to continue. The problem was purely physical — Mara had nearly run it out of gas. She tried moving to the side of the street as it stalled out, but there were too many bicycles and people closely together. Seeing a small opening, she pulled right, only to be nearly flattened by a bus that had tried cutting out from several car lengths behind.

Mara coasted to a stop on the sidewalk. She was going to dump the motorbike there, but as she started to slip off she realized it might be her only means of leaving the city. She picked it back up and began walking, looking for a safe place to leave it.

Bicyclists passed on both sides. She was right next to the curb, but that didn’t seem to have an effect on which direction they took. Sometimes they would jump up onto the narrow sidewalk, ducking through and sometimes into the crowd there, then cut back directly in front of her. Several bumped up against her. Mara looked in the face of one of the riders after he poked his elbow into her side. His eyes were dazed, his mouth slack. He wasn’t even worth cursing at.

Two soldiers with automatic rifles were standing in front of the Star Hotel. Several uniformed security people were just inside the lobby door. Unsure whether the soldiers were there for protection or to keep foreigners from leaving, Mara walked her bike past, continuing down the street.

She found the intersection blocked off with sawhorses and a pair of police motorcycles. She turned back around, mixing in with a group of Vietnamese workers, some on bikes, some on foot, and went back in the direction of the hotel.

As she neared it, she decided that the soldiers had probably been posed there in case the locals decided that the foreigners were somehow involved in the bombings. But she didn’t want to take the chance of becoming a prisoner there, not even for the sake of a warm, perfumed bath, so she kept walking.

The crowd took her in the direction of the Hien Lam, the hotel where the Belgian scientist was supposed to have been staying. When she didn’t see any soldiers or policemen outside, Mara decided the Hien Lam would be as good as any other hotel. She wheeled her bike down the alley at the back, where she found a small lean-to about half filled with other motorcycles, scooters, and bicycles. She propped hers against the wall, then went inside.

The sole clerk on duty stood on the steps in front of the hotel door, a small pile of cigarettes on the concrete next to him. He stared at the sky, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. Mara had to wave her hand in front of his face to get his attention.

“I need a room,” she told him.

He shook his head.

“I know you have vacancies.”

“Too early, lady. Come back two p.m.”

Mara reached up and under her dress for some of the cash in her pocket. She did it without thinking — she was after all wearing pants — but it had more of an effect on the clerk than her hundred-dollar bribe. His face flushed, then flushed again as she pressed the bill into his hand.

“No business here.”

“I’m not interested in business,” she told him. “Get me a room.”

He looked at the hundred-dollar bill. It revived him.

“Room, yes,” he said, leading her back inside.

Shown to her room, Mara went straight to the bathroom, not even bothering to check for bugs — without her electronic detector, she could never be sure a room like this was clean.

Her face was filthy and scratched, though not as badly as she had feared. The blood was clotted on one side of her nose. Her hair, though short, was a tangled, frizzled mess: a werewolf would have been proud.

She washed up as best she could, then went to find a place to call Bangkok from.

3

Zeus Murphy’s head felt as if it were going to spin itself right off his shoulders. So much had happened — was happening — in the past few hours that his brain couldn’t process anything anymore.

But here he was, standing in the national security adviser’s smaller-than-he’d-expected office in the White House West Wing, telling him and the president’s chief of staff, Dickson Theodore, how and why China was tearing through western Vietnam.

“If I were running the operation” — it was important to keep adding a disclaimer to make it clear that he wasn’t clairvoyant — ”I’d sweep in under Hanoi, cut the north off, then go for the south. Once I’m into the middle of the country, I have highways, I have infrastructure — I’ll have an easy time of it. It won’t really matter how I got there. I don’t want to bother with Hanoi if I don’t have to. That’s where their defenses are. If I had come down the east coast, where everyone expected — say Route 1 — I’d have much better roads, but I’d also have to deal with half the Vietnamese army. Out here, my main problem is traffic control.”

“I wouldn’t make light of that,” said the national security adviser, Walter Jackson. “Logistics are the key to any battle.”

Murphy fought to keep a smile from forming on his lips. It was always amusing when civilians tried to talk about military theory with a few chestnuts they’d picked up from PowerPoint lectures. The problem was they couldn’t quite get those chestnuts into the proper context.

“If the Chinese were battling us, or even the Russians,” he told Jackson, “then they’d have to be worried — very worried. But they’re not fighting us. They’re fighting Vietnam. It has a small and largely unprepared army. There’s a lot of margin for error.”

“Whose error? The Chinese? Or ours?” came a voice behind him.

Murphy turned, then immediately jumped to his feet.

“Mr. President.”

“At ease, Major.” Greene looked at Jackson and Theodore. “I wanted to hear this for myself. Where’s Ms. Mai?”

“She’s down the hall on the phone with the Pentagon,” said Jackson. “She heard all this already. That’s why she brought him back with her.”

The president leaned back against the wall and folded his arms in front of his chest. He looked like a college professor quizzing a young freshman.

And Murphy felt like that freshman, and not a particularly cocky one, as he continued explaining what he thought the Chinese had in mind — a lightning strike to sweep around the Vietnamese capital, then a second phase to the attack to take the rest of the country.

“I could see them going through Laos. Or landing somewhere in the south. Maybe both.”

He pointed to the map on Jackson’s desk, jabbing his finger at the yellow amoeba in the center that represented Hanoi.

“In three or four days, maybe even less, they can be down in Quang Tri Province. From there, the country is effectively cut in half. Then they can take their time. My guess is that they save Hanoi for last. All of the Vietnamese troops are concentrated up here, on their border at the northeast. The Vietnamese might be able to pull them down to Hanoi, but never to Saigon. Excuse me, Ho Chi Minh City.”

“Saigon is fine,” said Greene. “Even the Vietnamese call it that among themselves.”

“The south is what they really want,” said Zeus. “Because of the agriculture and the oil off the coast. But they have to take Hanoi eventually. They could even offer a deal. Your lives for tribute. Something like that.”

“How do you stop them?” asked the president.

“I’m not sure you can,” admitted Zeus. “I haven’t seen the intelligence, Mr. President.”

Zeus did have a few ideas, starting with immediately destroying the road network in and around Quang Tri Province — including Highway 28 in Laos. Shifting forces south immediately by aircraft and ship, rather than waiting for an attack that would never come, might also help.

The president nodded as he spoke.

“All of this might only slow them down,” said Zeus. “But, uh, from our point of view, that’s probably the best we could hope for. You know, kind of a diplomatic opening?”

“Slow them down.” Greene pushed himself off the wall and bent over the map. “How long can they hold out without help?”

“I wouldn’t want to guess.”

“How long did they hold out in the simulation you ran?” asked Jackson.

“Well, we, uh, we won that. So I guess you’d say they held out forever.”

The others exchanged glances. President Greene looked as if he was trying to suppress a smile.

He looked shorter in person than he did on TV and thinner, but only a little less intense.

“Usually, any side opposing China loses,” added Zeus. “It’s, uh, I guess the odds are pretty much against you.”

“Major, how did you happen to pick Vietnam to war-game for?” asked Greene.

“It’s kind of a long story, sir, but basically I was told that was the force I was to play for. So I followed orders.”

“You think you could win if you were the Chinese?”

“Oh, that’s not a problem, sir. I can always figure something out.”

“Good.” Greene turned to his chief of staff. “Get him on the task force, get him out there. It’s all right — I’ll call the chief of staff myself. I’m sure she’ll see it my way.”

Zeus knew his future had just been decided for him — dramatically decided. He started to stammer a thank-you.

“It wasn’t my idea,” the president told him. “I agree with it, but the head of the task force asked for you personally.”

“Uh, who — ”

“Harland Perry,” said Greene. “I believe you already know the general. He’s an old friend of mine. I think you’ll get along with him pretty well.”

4

For all his education, the French ambassador had never taken the time to learn Chinese. They had to conduct the interview in French. Cho Lai, rising from the red couch where he had received him, looked at him now in contempt.

“What you say is certainly important,” said the Chinese premier. “But Vietnam has been the aggressor, and we must defend our territory. It would be the same if a part of France were attacked. You would not react lightly — or you would find yourself in the situation you were in when the German tanks came in 1940.”

“This is not 1940,” said the ambassador quietly.

“Very true. And we will not allow it to become a replay of that time. We are not enemies,” added Cho Lai, softening his tone. “The Chinese are very large investors in France. Just last week, we were awarded two new seats on the board of Groupe Caisse d’Epargne. I received a framed cycling shirt as a souvenir. Très bien, eh?”

Groupe Caisse d’Epargne was one of the largest banking groups in France. China had been “awarded” the seats in exchange for not pulling out its deposits — a move that would not only have sent the firm into bankruptcy, but undoubtedly crashed the French economy.

“Of course,” said the ambassador. “But aggression — ”

“This is not aggression. I’ve shown you proof.” Cho Lai waved his hand, and returned to the couch. “A resolution in the Security Council condemning China would not be helpful to our interests. Or to yours, in the long run.”

The ambassador hesitated, but then said the words Cho Lai had been waiting to hear.

“We would veto any resolution condemning our good friend China,” said the ambassador. “So long as the situation is as you say.”

Clearly, he was following his government’s wishes, not his own — but that was of no consequence.

“Then there is no problem for any of us,” said Cho Lai. “This entire matter will pass in a week or two. The Vietnamese will come to their senses, and everything will be finished. Fine. Let me call for tea.”

5

With Lai Chau taken, the Chinese army began concentrating on its next major target farther south, the Na San airbase. Trucks and tanks raced nonstop down Route 107 to Route 6 in broad daylight, moving into position. Temporary forward airbases — little more than landing pads bulldozed from farm fields — were constructed to help support the assault.

Na San had played a critical role in Vietnam’s liberation from the French. Attacked by Giap during the campaign that led to the Battle of Dien Bien Phu, it was ultimately held by the French after considerable bloodshed. But the French misinterpreted their victory there, and made the grave mistake of using the Na San victory as a model for their defense of Dien Bien Phu. It was an error on par with the Germans’ decision to take and then hold Stalingrad, with similar results.

Jing Yo had considered the Na San and Dien Bien Phu battles carefully. His unit’s job — much more critical than at Lai Chau — was to seize the control tower at the Na San airport, and use it to direct the large assault group into the base. The defenses ringing the airport, while not extensive, would now be on high alert. Jing Yo had to bypass them, sneak into the tower, then hold on while all hell broke lose.

The easiest way to do this would have been to get onto the airport grounds before the invasion was launched; the team would have then had an easy time overcoming the guards and getting into the tower. And indeed this had been the original plan. But the assignment of the other tasks had made this impossible, and so Jing Yo had adapted.

Shortly after the battle for Lai Chau ended, a small helicopter skimmed in over the tree-lined streets, heading for a spot on the road just north of the bridge Jing Yo and his men had managed to hold. The helicopter was a warhorse from another era — a Bell Huey UH-1, the same type that the American army had used to great effect farther south some fifty years before.

This particular chopper had not seen action in the Vietnam-American war, and until roughly six months earlier it had been rusting forgotten in a boneyard in the Philippines. The men who had renovated it had found its Lycoming engine dilapidated beyond repair, and had replaced the power plant with a Harbin design nearly twice as powerful, though it had a considerable distance to go before it could prove itself as dependable as the venerable Lycoming. They had also chipped away all of the rust, replaced the rodent-chewed wires with new ones, and given the pilots an avionics system that would have seemed like something out of Star Trek to the helicopter’s early crews.

Most important, they had dressed the helicopter in the dull gray camouflaged tones favored by the transport division of the Vietnamese air force, topping the image off with a yellow star in a red circle and bar field used by the Vietnamese air force. The helicopter looked exactly like the two old Hueys still used by the Vietnamese air force in the area to the south.

After picking up Jing Yo and his squad, the helicopter flew south to the Ta Sua Nature Preserve, settling down in an isolated clearing several kilometers from the nearest road. The idea was that Jing Yo and his men would get some rest while the main assault elements got closer to the objective.

But sleep didn’t come easy to the young lieutenant. The attack on the scientists’ camp and the ferocious battle at Lai Chau had unsettled his internal balance. He knew from experience that he could restore it only through meditation, and so, after urging his men to rest, he walked a short distance up a nearby hill and began to meditate. Legs folded, he began to breathe slowly and deeply, pushing up from his diaphragm. His mind hesitated, still filled with distractions. Jing Yo concentrated on the muscles in his stomach, pushing his mind into the tendons as he had been taught at age sixteen. Then he lifted his hands to the sides of his body, moving them upward in a circular motion.

Ego was a stubborn master. His mind remained distracted. Images of the battle passed back and forth in his head. The sensations of doubt, of weakness, of dishonor, drifted through his consciousness.

He and his men had done well; their objectives had been met. Yet the ego would not be satisfied. The ego wished perfection, wanted glory and accolades so overwhelming that no mortal man could hope to enjoy them.

Ego had always been his problem, from the very moment the monks took him in. “Stubbornness,” his first mentor called it.

Stubbornness.

But the universe was around him, and so long as he could breathe, he could find balance. So long as he could feel the muscles in his chest expand and contract, the toxins infecting his mind would drift back into the void.

Jing Yo lost track of time.

That was the first sign. He felt the warm breeze tickling his tongue; that was the second.

And then there were no signs, no thoughts, only breathing, and finally, balance.

The wind blew lightly through the trees to the east, rustling through the branches like whispers drifting down a hallway. Jing Yo let the wind push into his lungs, its energy rekindling his.

Gradually, he became aware of another presence nearby, watching him through the long blades of grass on the slope from the wooded area. The rising sun made it hard for him to see, the sharp rays blurring and glaring as they struck the green slope.

It was black, dark, moving toward him slowly.

Striped orange. A tiger.

Jing Yo could feel each shift of the animal’s weight against the ground, the slow dance toward him.

Jing Yo rose from where he was sitting. He had faced the tiger many times in his training. It was the spirit of his fears — the enemy within.

As a young trainee, Jing Yo had been exhorted to face the tiger as the dragon — to assume the power of water, endlessly mutable, energy ready to be channeled at a moment’s notice.

The tiger saw him and stopped.

“What are my fears today?” Jing Yo said to it. “Failure. Disgrace. Ego fears — fears of the temporary. I am of the eternal. I am the dragon. You are only a creature of the earthly moment.”

The animal moved its head, warning him to retreat. But that was just a tactic — show the slightest weakness, give even an inch to fear, and it would overwhelm you.

Jing Yo spread his fingers and pulled back his arms. His muscles flexed, then stiffened, ready for the attack.

Confronting the tiger did not guarantee victory. But it was nonetheless the necessary course.

“Ha-ah!” said Jing Yo, moving his right foot forward as he brought his arms up into attack position.

The tiger growled. Its shoulders pushed back, gathering strength for a pounce.

“Ha-ah!” said Jing Yo again.

The tiger growled, lower this time, then leaned to its left. In an instant, all of its weight shifted — and it slunk backward through the grass, retreating.

Fear could be controlled; that was the lesson today. It was a lesson he had learned many years before, and had relearned many times since. It was a lesson he would learn many times in the years to come.

A voice shook Jing Yo from his meditation.

“Incredible — you scared the damn tiger away!”

Jing Yo turned to find Sergeant Wu squatting on the ground, a few feet away. Wu rose slowly, trembling.

“I thought one of us — I thought one of us was going to be its breakfast,” said Wu. “You stared him down. I can’t believe it.”

“Why are you without your weapon?”

“I came looking for you,” said the sergeant. “Colonel Sun wants to talk to you.”

“Check on the sentries,” said Jing Yo, walking back up the hill. “Make sure they are aware there is a tiger in the jungle.”

“Of course.”

One of the helicopter’s crewmen was waiting with the chopper’s secure radio. Jing Yo took the handset and held it to his ear.

“What are you doing, Lieutenant?” snapped Colonel Sun. “Sleeping?”

“Meditating.”

“Do your meditation later. The attack time is moved up. The tower must be taken within the hour.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Don’t fail in this, Lieutenant.”

You are a fearful man, thought Jing Yo as he handed the handset back.

The men were groggy but did not complain when Jing Yo woke them. They donned their fake Vietnamese uniforms and filed toward the helicopter at a deliberate pace; no one ran, and no one lagged behind. They were veterans now, Jing Yo thought; they were just beginning to understand who they were.

It took three battles to test a man. His action in the first could not be counted for anything. War was too confusing to be sorted into categories the first time it was experienced; keeping your balance amid the blows was impossible until you understood where those blows might come from, let alone how much they hurt.

The second battle was almost always a reaction to the first. A man who had frozen might do the opposite, making a grave mistake. A person who had acted like a hero might be filled with the dread he had ignored during his first battle and be overwhelmed. There was no predicting.

So the third battle was the real test. By the third battle, the sound of gunfire, the rumble of the earth as a bomb went off — neither of these things was new. The soldier had survived two encounters, as a hero or a coward, or more likely as something in between. Stripped of his illusions, a man would face himself.

Jing Yo’s third battle had come long ago. So had Wu’s — a good sergeant, competent and loyal, in his way, Jing Yo decided. For most of the rest of the squad, this would be only the second.

Much room for error.

“We are being queried by their air traffic controller,” said the pilot five minutes after they were airborne.

“Very good.” Jing Yo turned to his men. “Be ready.”

They were quiet. He couldn’t read their faces in the shadow-laced interior, but he didn’t have to; he knew their expressions would mix fear, anticipation, and even joy. He gripped the hand strap on the metal framework between the cockpit and crew compartment and began breathing slowly, pushing his ribs against the armored vest, easing it outward and then pulling it inward. The pit of his stomach was empty.

“They’ve accepted us,” said the pilot. “Three minutes to the airport.”

Jing Yo looked over and caught Sergeant Wu’s eye. He nodded.

“Prepare!” yelled the sergeant.

The commandos rose as one from the benches. Weapons were readied, belts cinched.

Jing Yo saw the airport runway through the window as they began to bank into a landing pattern. A pair of MiGs — probably inoperable, according to the premission briefing — were parked in a tarmac apron area at the far end. A civilian aircraft was on the opposite taxiway, waiting to take off.

There was a helicopter nearby. And a second one.

Were they being sucked into a trap?

Two helicopters? There was generally only one — it was a bit of deception they were counting on.

Did the Vietnamese know they were imposters?

Jing Yo twisted around and leaned into the space between the two pilots.

“There are two helicopters at the airport,” he said. “Did they ask questions?”

“No,” said the copilot. He was a Vietnamese language specialist, chosen specifically because he sounded like a native.

Or had he been chosen because he was someone’s nephew? In China, one could never be absolutely sure, and Jing Yo’s Vietnamese wasn’t sufficient for him to judge the man’s abilities.

“Lieutenant, we are almost over the runway,” said the pilot.

“Proceed as planned,” said Jing Yo. He reached into his pocket for his earplugs, slipping them into his ears as he joined his men.

The helicopter skimmed forward, exactly as it would do if landing on an ordinary flight. It then began to veer to the left, toward the designated parking area near the civilian terminal. At the last second, the pilot flexed his control, jolting the chopper upward. They flew another three hundred meters, hopping over the terminal building, past the security gate, and right next to the small parking area flanking the tower.

When they’d rehearsed the landing, the lot had always been filled with cars. Today it was empty. That allowed the helicopter pilot to put down closer to the tower than planned, shaving precious seconds off the timetable. But as he hit the pavement, Jing Yo realized the lack of cars might mean there were no workers — it might really be the trap he feared.

Too late.

“Go! Go! Go!” shouted Sergeant Wu.

One team raced for the building; a second, headed by Wu, ran to the auxiliary shack next door, taking out the phone lines that connected the base with the outside world. When that was accomplished, the second team would split up, half providing security at the base of the tower and the other half circling around the far side of the runway, aiming to take out two antiaircraft guns there.

The point man for the tower group, Private Han, and Corporal Chen were already at the tower door. They had it open — no locks, no need for explosives.

It must be a trap.

“Move! Move!” shouted Jing Yo, the last one out of the chopper.

The helicopter was already up. If it was a trap, they were doomed.

The smell of burning metal hit Jing Yo’s nose as he pushed into the building. He hadn’t heard any gunfire yet, but he could smell that too as he started up the metal steps that led to the control area. The building, opened only within the past year, was basically a staircase topped by a large glass-enclosed room where the flight controllers worked. There were no security checks at each landing, just more steps.

Jing Yo slung his feet on the metal treads, jogging upward. He kept his head up, eyes darting. There were shouts above, but still he hadn’t heard gunfire.

The earplugs were good, but not that good.

Have I gone deaf? he asked himself. Did someone throw one of the loud grenades, a flash-bang, to get into the control room?

No — he heard the voices around him, barely muffled by the plugs. And he heard his own steps, the slight rasp on the metal.

The steps came up into the middle of the control room. Jing Yo saw the rail as he approached and put out his arm. Accelerating, he leapt upward, vaulting over the pipe and landing only a few feet from the console area.

Three men lay on the floor, blood pooling around their heads. All Vietnamese. One of their pistols lay on the floor; the others hadn’t managed to unholster their weapons.

“The tower is ours,” said Corporal Chen.

Jing Yo scanned the consoles quickly. They seemed to be working.

“Geijui, get to the radio,” Jing Yo told the corporal who had been trained as an air controller. He was to use the Vietnamese circuits to broadcast to the incoming flights.

A body lay in front of the console where Geijui was to work. He hesitated, his face pale.

“Bring the bodies downstairs,” Jing Yo told Chen. “Put them below the steps. Quickly. Then make sure there are no charges set anywhere inside.”

As the squad got to work, there was an explosion outside. Jing Yo pushed up on the console and craned his neck to see if it had been the auxiliary shed, but all he could see was the shack’s black sloped roof.

Sergeant Wu ran up the stairs a few moments later.

“Pin and Fushan are at the door,” said Wu. “The rest of the team is going for the antiair gun at the southeast.”

“Good,” said Jing Yo.

“Now comes the fun part,” added Wu.

Jing Yo picked up a pair of binoculars from the shelf below the window and began scanning the airstrip. The Vietnamese unit responsible for providing security to the base had not yet reacted; no troops were pouring from the barracks, no messengers running frantically from the headquarters building.

Jing Yo pulled out his radio and sent the prearranged signal that the tower had been taken: “The ostrich has been beheaded.”

Before he could return the radio to its pocket in his vest, a cloud of black smoke appeared beyond the runway. The bombardment had begun.

“Direct the fire,” Wu told Chen, handing over the radio. “Tell them they have a good hit.”

Jing Yo went to the door at the side of the room, which opened onto a metal catwalk that surrounded the tower. Privates Ai Gua and Han were already there, lining up their rocket-grenade launchers on the mobile antiaircraft emplacements at the northern side of the field.

The flak guns were four-barreled ZSU-23 cannons mounted on tank chassis. Though old, they were devastating weapons against slow-moving aircraft, helicopters especially.

The back of Ai Gua’s launcher flared as his grenade shot out. A second later, white smoke enveloped the farthest truck. Han fired next, scoring a direct hit on the gun next to the one Ai had hit.

The other antiair unit began firing at the tower a few seconds later. The barrage was thick but at first missed the tower completely, shooting wildly high and well off to the side. The swarm of bullets moved toward them slowly, slamming into the tower almost directly below where Jing Yo was standing before moving across.

Ai Gua cursed — he could not get his launcher loaded correctly.

Han fired, but his grenade flew wide, exploding harmlessly on the runway in front of the ZSU-23-4. The antiaircraft gun raked the tower a second time, this time shattering the glass above them.

Ai Gua continued to curse. Han fired again. His grenade hit the front of the antiaircraft truck, just below the turret. The gunfire stopped.

They had only a few seconds to catch their breath. The two track-mounted ZSU-23-4’s at the far end of the runway swung their guns in the tower’s direction and began firing. Tracers flew through the air wildly, well above the tower and several degrees left and right, but Jing Yo realized it would take only a few moments for the gunners to adjust.

The ground team wasn’t close enough to get the trucks yet. They’d have to take them from here with the RPGs.

Jing Yo went to Ai Gua just as the private finally managed to get his grenade inserted. He stopped short, waiting for the customary hiss as the rocket shot from the launcher.

He didn’t hear it. The weapon began to smoke, but the grenade remained attached.

“Throw it down,” yelled Jing Yo.

Ai Gua remained in his firing position, stunned. Jing Yo reached for the barrel of the weapon. His hand seemed to catch on fire — the propellant was burning and the barrel hot — but by the time the sensation of pain had reached his brain the launcher had struck the ground and exploded.

Han fired again, hitting the antiaircraft gun on the left straight on. The other one stopped firing.

“Help Han,” Jing Yo told Ai Gua, who was staring at him.

“Your hand.”

“Help Han.”

Ai Gua jumped up, scooping his ammo case along as he went to his comrade.

A second later, a fresh rocket flew from the tower, knocking out the last antiaircraft truck.

“Remain vigilant,” Jing Yo told the two privates before going back inside.

“Force is on its way,” Wu told him. “Leading helicopters are about ten minutes off.”

“The antiair guns have been disabled.”

“What the hell happened to your hand?”

Jing Yo held out his right hand, looking at it. It was bright red. The left seemed unscathed, its throbs duller.

“The weapon misfired,” he said. “How far away are our troops?”

“Someone get the lieutenant a burn kit. He needs attention.”

“How far away are the troops?” Jing Yo asked.

“Twenty minutes.”

“The fighters should have been here by now.”

“They’re always late,” said Wu.

Jing Yo wrapped his hand with ointment, gauze, and a pair of cold packs, diminishing the pain. By the time the bandages had been taped, the control tower had come under small arms fire from the north. Bullets flew through the now battered windows and ripped into the metal below. The area around the control room just below the window was armored, so they were not in immediate danger. But it was impossible to return fire from inside.

“Aircraft inbound!” announced the controller.

“About time,” said Wu. “Damn air force is always late.”

The aircraft were a pair of MiGs assigned to shoot up the defenses.

“Make sure they know we took out the antiaircraft guns,” said Jing Yo. “Tell them to concentrate on the barracks.”

There was a flurry of gunfire outside. The Vietnamese had launched a counterattack against the tower.

Ignoring the pain in his hand, Jing Yo went back out on the catwalk. He got about two steps from the door before a hail of bullets forced him to dive face-first on the grillwork.

“Grenade!” yelled Han.

Jing Yo wasn’t sure whether he was warning about an incoming grenade, or one he was dropping. An explosion settled it — the private had targeted a knot of Vietnamese soldiers below.

Jing Yo’s bandages made it impossible to hold a gun in his right hand, but he could drop grenades easily enough with his left. He pulled one of his Type 82-2 grenades from his vest. Holding it against his chest, he slid his finger up the seam, undid the tape that held the plunger, and with the pin out and grenade armed, dropped it over the side.

There was a small explosion, followed by a much larger one, then a second and a third — incoming artillery shells, fired by their own forces. The last was so strong it pitched Jing Yo back against the rail; he just barely managed to keep his balance before turning and racing inside.

“Those are ours!” shouted Wu.

“Tell them to stop firing at us!” Jing Yo screamed.

“I’m working on it,” said Chen. He was on his hands and knees, talking on the sat radio with division. Chen unleashed a string of curses at whoever was on the other end of the line.

The shelling continued for a few more rounds, then began retreating to the west. Jing Yo heard the first helicopters approaching. Down on the far end of the runway, the team that had been tasked to hit the antiaircraft guns went to work on their secondary mission, marking the landing zone with red smoke, indicating that the helicopters would be landing under fire.

The pain in Jing Yo’s right hand flared. He tried to force it away as he went back to the door. He stopped short at the threshold — the walkway had broken and was hanging down off the tower to the left. He leaned out to look for his two men, then threw himself back into the control room as bullets began hitting into the side wall.

“We’re going to have to close that door,” said Sergeant Wu. “They get a grenade in here, we’re done.”

There was no panic in Wu’s voice. There was no emotion at all. Closing the door meant stranding the two men outside, but Wu was right — unless the armor-paneled door was put back in place, they were all vulnerable. More important, their goal of keeping the tower intact would fail.

Jing Yo went to the door and closed it himself.

Red smoke drifted upward from the runway. The first helicopter was landing.

The tower shook violently. There was an explosion below — inside the tower.

“They’re coming up!” someone yelled.

Jing Yo bit the bandage holding the ice packs onto his burned hand and then tore it off. One of the large windows shattered. The tower smelled as if it was on fire, the stench a sickly mix of metal and tar or very heavy plastic.

Where was his rifle? Someone had taken it from him earlier, but he couldn’t remember where they had put it.

Jing Yo saw a gun on the floor. He grabbed it, fingers screaming with pain, then ran to the stairwell.

Wu leaned over the rail, firing madly.

“I see the little bastards,” yelled the sergeant. “Watch out for their grenades.”

Wu fired a fresh burst. There didn’t seem to be any return fire, though it was difficult to tell with the rattle of the bullets striking the outside of the building. Unlike the control area, the stairway section was not reinforced with armor, and the bullets punctured the thin aluminum as if it were paper.

Wu reached for a grenade from his vest.

Jing Yo grabbed his arm. “What if our men are down there?”

“They’re dead by now, Lieutenant.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for the briefest of moments, though it was an eternity under the circumstances.

“Do it,” Jing Yo said.

Behind him, Chen crouched at the console, using the satcom radio to talk with a communications aircraft above. Every so often he would raise his head, peeking at what was going on outside before ducking back and continuing his conversation. Private Wing, trained to watch the radar and report to Chen and Geijui, had his hand over his forehead, shading himself from the glare — though it looked as if he was actually trying to avoid looking at what was going on outside.

Corporal Chen was on the satcom, talking to the division communicator, who in turn was speaking with the commander of the troops now hitting the field. Geijui half kneeled, half crouched at the console, watching what was going on in the field and describing where the Vietnamese forces were, using their circuits to talk to the Chinese air force.

Ignoring the bullets still sporadically flying through the window, Jing Yo climbed onto the console shelf, gripping one of the CRTs as he scanned the airport. Four helicopters disgorged troops at the southern end of the runway. The men ran off into the grass, disappearing from view momentarily before emerging on the far taxiway. Vietnamese soldiers were scattered around the airport grounds in small knots. Their resistance did not seem coordinated — a concentrated attack on the runway might have caught the helicopters on the ground or at least contained the troops there. But there was plenty of gunfire, and Jing Yo knew the battle’s outcome was far from determined.

Black smoke rose in a tight curl from a small transformer shed near the far end of the runway. Jing Yo’s men were supposed to move into that area after laying down the smoke, but he couldn’t see if they were there or not.

The artillery shelling had stopped to allow the helicopters to land. As soon as the first wave of choppers was off, it began again, concentrating on the barracks area and the defensive positions near the highway. The barrage was intended to make it hard for the Vietnamese to rush their troops over to the runway area, preventing them from reinforcing the men who were protecting the hangars and the aircraft. But the firing was less than precise, and the main effect of the shells was to add to the monumental sense of chaos and confusion.

A big part of the problem was the lack of team radios and the insistence that all information be funneled through the division communicators, a remnant of old army doctrine modeled on the centralized Soviet concept. In modernizing the Chinese army over the past decade, the general staff had picked the early stages of the second American war in Iraq, the so-called Shock and Awe phase, with its lightning attacks and generous use of tanks and airborne elements. But the generals were reluctant to loosen their grip on the lower commanders, diluting the relative effectiveness of the attack by making it difficult to coordinate its elements.

“They’re coming again!” yelled Wu from near the stairs. “I need more grenades!”

Jing Yo jumped from the console and took a grenade from his vest with his left hand. He hopped down the two steps to Wu, put his right hand around his shoulder, then dropped the grenade. As soon as it left his hand, he pulled backward, yanking the sergeant back as well.

The grenade bounced down the steps, rebounded off the wall, then exploded in the stairwell. The firing below immediately stopped.

Jing Yo felt Wu’s weight as he rolled off him. The sergeant grunted, then helped him up.

“They’re concentrating their attack here,” said Wu. “If we don’t get some relief, we’ll run out of ammunition eventually.”

They had practiced the operation countless times. Jing Yo always understood that his men would be hard-pressed if the assault did not go well. But he had also believed that once the helicopters were landing, the enemy would either concentrate on them or retreat, leaving the tower alone.

He’d been wrong.

The problem was to pressure their attackers somehow. He needed someone to hit them from the side or behind, take their attention away.

Jing Yo hoisted himself back up onto the console. The assault team was fanning out at the southern end of the complex. There were several knots of Vietnamese between them and the tower; he could not expect them to reach him very quickly.

They would have to supply the counterattack themselves.

“Private Wing, help Sergeant Wu,” said Jing Yo. He opened the med kit on the floor and rewrapped his burned hand in gauze and tape, leaving his finger free to fire.

“What are you going to do?” Wu asked.

“Provide a diversion. Open the door to the catwalk for me.”

Wu frowned, but followed him to the side and put his hand on the handle.

“I hope you aren’t thinking of jumping,” said Wu.

“Not today.”

Rifle slung over his shoulder, Jing Yo put his left hand on the side of the frame and steadied himself. If he’d had two good hands, he would have climbed upward and used the roof as a vantage point. But with only his left hand really able to grip, he could only work with gravity, not against it. He swung his weight to the side, then let go of the frame.

The catwalk gave way as Jing Yo landed, swinging down as it tore two more of its anchors. He grabbed hold of the rail with his left hand and the trigger finger of his right, scrambling forward and up. Jing Yo managed to push along the grate for about three meters before reaching part of the deck that was still level. Then he crawled toward the ladder that ran down the side of the tower.

As he neared it, a head popped out from around the bend. Thinking the Vietnamese had come up with roughly the same idea he had, Jing Yo swung his rifle up to fire. He stopped at the last second, recognizing Ai Gua.

“Private!”

“Lieutenant!”

“Where is Han?”

Ai Gua pointed up toward the roof. After the catwalk had failed, the two men had climbed up onto the roof, trying to hold off the Vietnamese from there. Seeing that wasn’t working well, Ai Gua had just climbed down the work ladder, hoping to attack the Vietnamese from the side.

“Good idea,” Jing Yo told him. “Come on.”

“Your hand.”

“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

As they started for the ladder, the tower rocked with a pair of small explosions. Han had tossed a pair of grenades down to the ground, hoping to give them some cover.

Any relief the explosions had provided was temporary — bullets began slicing into the tower skin when Jing Yo was about halfway down the side.

It was too high even for Jing Yo to jump. He continued downward, another four or five rungs before one of the bullets caught him in the back, slamming into his bulletproof vest.

While the vest absorbed the bullet and much of the impact, the force felt like a horse’s kick in the ribs. Jing Yo’s grip loosened on the rungs. Feeling himself falling, he pushed out with his legs, centering his balance as he plummeted the last twelve feet to the ground. He hit evenly, legs and spine loose as he had been taught, and rolled off to the side, tumbling over and coming up on his knee.

Ai Gua was in the grass nearby, firing toward the other side of the parking lot. Shaking off the shock of the impact, Jing Yo got up and ran to him. He tapped him on the head, indicating he should follow, then ran to the side of the tower, beginning to circle around toward the door area.

An armored personnel carrier moved down the access road toward the tower. Jing Yo fired a few shots at it, trying to hit the gunner sitting in the upper hatchway. His aim was off, and all he succeeded in doing was drawing the gunner’s attention — the man swung his heavy machine gun around.

As the first bullets began to rake the concrete, white smoke blossomed from the gun. There was a white flash, followed by a volcanic eruption of fire — Han had hit the APC with a rocket-propelled grenade from above.

Jing Yo took two steps out from around the side of the building. Men lay everywhere. A few moved. Others were frozen in position, dead.

On the access road, soldiers filed beyond the APC, two abreast, trotting toward the building. He laced them with bullets, sweeping his automatic rifle front to back. The men twirled and fell like rag dolls, caught completely unaware.

As the APC smoldered, Jing Yo ran to it, crouching at the side as he fired into the small wedge of men near the door to the tower. One or two managed to get off shots at him as they fell; most simply went down. He tossed his magazine and continued to fire until no one moved.

Ai Gua ran up behind him.

“Two more APCs coming up the road,” said the private.

The two vehicles crossed through a field of high grass. Their machine guns were already zeroed in on the tower.

“Come on,” he told Ai Gua, jumping up. “Quickly.”

They made it across the parking lot without being shot at. Once in the grass, Jing Yo began circling to the left of the approaching armored vehicles. The soldiers who had been mounting the attack on the tower knew they were there and, apparently realizing what they were up to, began firing into the field. But the grass hid Jing Yo and Ai Gua well enough that they realized it was a waste of ammunition.

The APCs, meanwhile, continued in a long arc designed to take them around to the Vietnamese; once there, they would undoubtedly lead another attack on the building. Both vehicles were only equipped with heavy machine guns, but they would provide plenty of cover for a new charge.

Jing Yo got to within twenty meters of the lead carrier when he spotted a soldier running alongside it. The lieutenant stopped in the grass, watching as other soldiers appeared — there were at least a half dozen, moving alongside the vehicles.

“What do we do?” whispered Ai Gua.

“Go that way.” Jing Yo pointed to his left. “Get around to the other side that they’re taking. In sixty seconds, I’ll begin firing.”

“Against all those men?”

“We only have to slow them down until the landing teams can fight their way here,” said Jing Yo. “We just have to get their attention.”

Ai Gua looked dubious.

“Go!” Jing Yo reached out his arm and pushed the private. “Go.”

Ai Gua shoved away, crouching as he ran. Jing Yo hoped to get the Vietnamese in a crossfire, but even if he succeeded, he and his private were badly outnumbered. They were down to their last rounds, without any more grenades.

The most they could hope for was to delay the APCs. Every minute they won would increase the odds that the men in the tower would survive.

Jing Yo moved slowly, paralleling the vehicles. He began counting softly to himself, measuring Ai Gua’s pace, waiting for him to get into position.

When he reached one hundred, he raised his rifle and fired.

The soldiers near the APCs, at least those he could see, went down.

But the vehicles didn’t stop moving.

Bullets began flying around him. Jing Yo hugged the ground, then began squirming around to his left.

Maybe he could sneak up on one of the Vietnamese soldiers, take his grenades, then force open the hatch.

The idea formed in his head, not yet a plan. He rose to all fours and changed course, thinking he might have an easier time taking one of the men from the rear. As he got up, a long, shrill whistle vibrated at the back of his skull. Jing Yo threw himself forward instinctually, his muscles reacting before his brain could give the command.

Incoming!

The first artillery shell landed almost directly on the APC. A second and third bracketed it, spraying clods of grass and dirt through the air.

The shells began to fall in a thick rain. Some of the Vietnamese soldiers who had been with the vehicles began to run back in the direction they’d come, trying to escape. Jing Yo watched as they ran through the steady downpour of bombs. For a few seconds, it appeared as if they might escape the onslaught. Then a shell struck near the lead runner. A swirl of dirt enveloped him, and he disappeared like a magician escaping in a cloud sent by heaven. The man closest to him continued to run, apparently unharmed.

Then the next shell hit. This time, the air seemed to turn red. Four men fell. Another flew into the air, tumbling over like an acrobat as a series of explosions pummeled his lifeless body.

The artillery fire increased. Belatedly, Jing Yo realized he was in just as much danger as the Vietnamese. He began backing away through the grass, staying as low as possible as the shells continued to fall.

Several of the Vietnamese soldiers who’d been waiting for the APCs to appear were mesmerized by the shells. They stood watching them land in the field, oblivious to the gunfire a few hundred meters away.

He had only one magazine left, the one in his gun. Shooting them was a waste, of bullets — they were out of the battle, out of the war. They were useless as soldiers, little more than dead men waited to be buried.

Jing Yo almost wanted to warn them, to tell them to get down. One by one, they started to go down. At first, Jing Yo thought they had been caught by stray bullets. Then he saw Han firing from the top of the tower, squeezing off single bullets.

A Vietnamese soldier lying in the field a few dozen meters away rose, bringing up his gun to target Han. Jing Yo aimed his own weapon, taking the enemy soldier in the side of the head.

Blood spurted as the bone shattered like a piece of overripe fruit.

The shelling stopped so abruptly that Jing Yo didn’t realize at first what had happened. He turned back, disoriented. Then he remembered Ai Gua. Fearing the worst, he began moving cautiously in the direction where he’d last seen him.

Someone shouted to him on his left.

“Halt!”

The command was in Chinese.

Jing Yo turned. Four men, guns ready, were standing ten yards away.

“I am Lieutenant Jing Yo,” he said loudly. “Chinese commandos.”

“Lieutenant!” Ai Gua rose and waved on his right.

The four soldiers eyed him warily.

“We have taken the tower,” he told the men. “Get your commander — the tower is secure.”

6

Peter Lucas had met Jimmy Choi only once, and then for only a few minutes in an airport lounge, but the meeting had burned an indelible image of the South Korean mercenary into his brain. He saw him now as Jimmy spoke over the phone, his voice a sharp rasp, his English clipped and slangy. In Lucas’s mind’s eye, Jimmy had a gold buzz cut, a day-old beard, a gold chain dangling over the dragon’s claw tattoo at the apex of his breastbone. He was dressed in a precisely tailored black suit, with an open white shirt, tails out. He was slouching and grinning.

Jimmy was chewing something — probably a cigar, given his affection for Habanos. He was drinking something too — Lucas had finally tracked him down in a bar in Mandalay, Myanmar.

“Pete — what can I do to the CIA today?” asked Jimmy.

“I need help in Vietnam.”

“Bad place to be right now,” said Jimmy.

“What are you drinking, Jimmy?”

“Shirley Temple. Yes?” The mercenary laughed.

“I have somebody I need to get out. They’re far north, near the border.”

“Ho-ho — very expensive proposition.”

“Can you do it?”

“Where we go?”

“Up near the Chinese border. Somewhere near Lao Cai. I don’t know exactly where yet. I’ll have the information in the next twenty-four hours.”

Jimmy didn’t answer for a second. Lucas heard the ice in his glass clinking.

“Lao Cai very interesting place,” said Jimmy, exhaling as he smoked his cigar. “Too much interest for me.”

“The person I need to get is not in Lao Cai. He’s in the area near there.”

“Even more interesting. Ho-ho, Uncle Pete, you have one very expensive problem on your hand.”

Lucas decided to try a different tack. You couldn’t threaten a man like Jimmy Choi directly; he would surely stand up to anyone who seemed to bully him. But you could hint that his future would become, as Jimmy liked to put it, “interesting” if he didn’t do what you wanted.

“What are you doing, Jimmy? Working for that drug dealer again?”

“Ho-ho, I am on vacation.”

“Yeah, right. Mandalay is quite the vacation spot. Who were you hired to assassinate?”

“Ha-ha, Uncle Pete, you are so funny. You should come here and keep me company. The tables are hot.”

“Since when do you gamble?”

“I gamble every day. Not with money.” Jimmy laughed at his joke and took another draw on his cigar, a long one. Lucas saw him smiling.

“I can get a plane to meet you in Laos,” offered Lucas.

“Ho-ho, no thank you. I do my own transportation. I own two planes now.”

“Business is that good, huh?”

“Oh, you pay for it. Always pay.”

He might have added, through the nose. When they got to the point, it turned out Jimmy wanted five million dollars.

Park had authorized five hundred thousand.

“I might be able to swing one million,” said Lucas. “But I don’t know.”

“One million — ha! I cannot find Vietnam on a map for one million dollar. Let alone Lao Cai.”

“What if we paid it to one of your Chinese bank accounts?” said Lucas. “Denoted in Chinese currency?”

“China money not very good. Much inflation. Maybe we try euro?”

“Inflation is never a problem for a man like you, Jimmy — you spend it before you get it. The equivalent of one million dollars, in yuan, ten percent up front, the rest on delivery.”

Jimmy Choi laughed. “You hack into account and steal it when we done?”

“If I did that, Jimmy, you’d never let me sleep in peace.”

“You got that right, buster.” Jimmy laughed.

They negotiated a bit more — the mercenary wanted the money figured in euros and deposited in a South African bank, not even admitting that he had accounts in China. He was not particular what currency the transaction originated in, as long as the fee was sufficient to cover any currency charges.

“And expenses,” said Jimmy just as Lucas was about to conclude that they had a deal.

“Screw you. Your expenses come out of your share.”

“Gas very expensive today,” said Jimmy. “I see markets going crazy as we speak. We work out compromise. You give Jimmy your credit card number and everyone relaxes.”

Convincing Park to okay the one million dollars wasn’t easy. Lucas wasn’t sure whether he was really worried about the money — which would have been uncharacteristic — or if he was having second thoughts on the whole enterprise. Finally, his boss agreed.

“But no results, no money.”

“That’s why I’m only paying him ten percent up front,” said Lucas.

“What’s going on in Hanoi?” asked Park.

Two of the agency’s three officers were in Saigon; the other was filing reports every half hour. Their status — more specifically, the question of who was leaking information to the Vietnamese — had been put on hold temporarily. But Lucas was still being very careful about what information they would receive: they hadn’t been told about the mission, and wouldn’t be.

“I expect that they’ll find out at some point,” Lucas told his boss. “We may never really know the entire story there.”

Park said nothing. Lucas knew he was in the process of setting up an elaborate and time-consuming trap to test each officer; it could take weeks or even months to figure out what was really going on. The alternative was to flush all three careers, which Park clearly didn’t want to do.

“What’s going on in the city?” he asked. “The airport is completely out of commission?”

“There were still fires burning there fifteen minutes ago. Power is still on, there and down in the capital, but the landlines are down. The cell system is still up; the military is using it as an alternative. They’ve shut down all the servers they know about — the last independent blogger went offline just before I called.”

“Do you think they can stop China?”

“How do you stop the ocean?” said Lucas.

7

Josh stayed on the trail for another hour, following it as it twisted up and down the mountainside southward. Finally he spotted some thatched roofs through the woods, peeking between the foliage. Moving off the trail, he made his way slowly toward them, at times walking, at other times dropping to all fours and crawling through the grass.

The trail swung down a shallow hill and then across a narrow valley to come into the village about a half mile from where he’d first spotted it. Two bamboo huts, both with well-weathered walls and roofs, shouldered against the trail. Beyond them sat three much newer houses made of painted brick and some sort of cement stucco, with metal saltbox roofs slanting backward amid the fronds.

No one seemed to be in any of the buildings. Josh was ready to step out and have a closer look when a girl of six or seven darted between the houses, running as if she was being chased. He froze, gripping his rifle, expecting to see soldiers chasing her. When none appeared after a minute or so, he realized it was more likely she was playing a game, running from another child. Whatever she was doing, she had moved on, beyond the nearby houses; he could no longer see her.

Josh crawled forward, driven almost unconsciously by his hunger, a vibrating pit in his stomach and chest. He moved out of the jungle like a tiger, head close to the ground, sneaking toward its prey. He listened for the girl and her playmates, but heard nothing as he stalked to one of the brick structures.

The walls were painted blue, the color of the sky on a cloudless summer day, so bright that they looked as if they were plastic. Josh rose, holding his breath as he listened to hear if someone was inside. The wall he was near stretched maybe twelve feet. It had a door but no window; small air vents lined the top where a soffit would have been on an American home.

Josh started to sidle around to the corner, but then decided not to bother — he could be seen from the other house and the clearing beyond, and if he was going to go inside, he was best off going quickly.

The door had a simple knob without a lock. Josh turned it slowly, then pushed in carefully, pressing himself into the house as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

It was humid, almost dank, even more than outside. He gripped the gun tightly. A table sat immediately in front of him, anchoring a kitchen area, with a small, simple refrigerator and a stove. Immediately beyond this were mats, piled along the floor. There were no other rooms in the house.

Sure the house was empty, Josh pulled the door closed behind him. Light filtered in around and through paper shades on a pair of windows to the left, and once more his eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimness. When they did, he went to the refrigerator.

His hunger was conscious now, and so overwhelming that everything was blocked out. He pulled open the door to the fridge. There was no light, and when he dropped to his knees he felt barely a chill from the appliance.

Two bottles of citrus juice sat on the middle shelf. Above them was a covered bowl of some sort of noodle dish; below sat a box of oranges. Josh grabbed two of the oranges and sat down, pulling at the skin, frustrated when it refused to give way in large pieces.

As soon as he had a hole big enough for his mouth he bit into it. Juice streamed from his mouth. The perfume overwhelmed him; he devoured the orange, turning it inside out as he ate. Slightly overripe, it nonetheless seemed the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.

He ate the second one just as quickly, almost drunk with it. He got up and tried the noodle dish. It had a sharp, spicy smell, but there was no holding back — he scooped the noodles with his fingers and ate greedily.

Done, he put the bowl back and took out one of the bottles. The liquid had a putrid fish scent. He quickly lowered it from his mouth and recapped the bottle. He tried another bottle; the smell was even worse.

Yet he felt an urge to drink it.

Josh’s hands trembled as he put it back. He had to keep control.

Clothes were folded neatly on small shelves at the side of the room. There were different piles, most with only two or three items. He found a man’s shirt, a long peasant-style shirt that fell to his knees, and put it on over his own, which by now was torn and muddy.

Judging from the piles, five people lived here — two women, a man, two children.

The guess comforted him somehow, as if he’d made some sort of connection with the people, as if they were helping him.

Judging from the sparse furnishings, the family was poor, but they had a solid, new house. Possibly it had been built by an international aid agency. People like that would be happy to help others. They wouldn’t begrudge him the food and shirt.

And if they did, so what?

The thought seemed ugly, almost foreign, but there was truth in it — he would have to do what he needed to survive. Surviving wasn’t only in his best interests. It would help the Vietnamese, ultimately. He would tell the world about what the Chinese were doing.

Was that why he had to survive? Or was it just that he didn’t want to die?

Both.

Which was more important?

“Neither,” he said aloud. But then he realized that he could not, must not, lie to himself. “Living is most important. For now.”

Josh went back and cracked open the door, peeking through the narrow slit to make sure there was no one watching. When he didn’t see anyone, he pulled it open just barely enough to slip through.

Josh worked his way over to the older houses, which lay near the road. There were no signs of life; even the little girl had completely disappeared. Again, he found the first door he tried unlocked. Salvaged wood boards of different sizes and shapes were piled inside the building.

He was on his way to check the other when he heard a truck approaching.

Josh reached the woods just as the vehicle came into the clearing near the two older huts. It was a troop truck. Men in uniform jumped out, but at first he wasn’t sure whether they were Vietnamese or Chinese. He listened as someone barked orders.

Chinese.

Realizing that they would probably fan out into the nearby jungle after searching the huts, Josh began slipping deeper in the woods. Two soldiers trotted toward the path; Josh quietly circled in the opposite direction, only to find himself hemmed in by the road.

A field lined with young fruit trees sat on the other side of the road. Josh paralleled the road, moving away from the village downhill, hoping he could find a point where he could easily get across without being seen. He’d gone only a few yards when a big truck began laboring up the other side of the hill. Moving back, he crouched down and waited for it to pass.

It was a tractor cab pulling a low-rider trailer. On the trailer sat two large bulldozers. The truck stopped in the middle of the road, and the two men in the cab got out and began lowering the ramps at the rear of the trailer. Another truck appeared behind it, also with two dozers. A third truck brought a large excavator. A minute or so later, a pair of gray vans pulled into the field and disgorged the operators; within ten minutes a crew was at work leveling the field. They worked methodically, knocking the trees down, pushing them aside, and running over and over the field.

Josh watched with fascination, absorbed in curiosity though not forgetting that he was in danger. He could hear other trucks arriving farther up the road. Soon a chain saw started up, then two more; within a few minutes the saws were so many and so loud that he could have shouted and he wouldn’t have been heard.

The Chinese were building a base.

The realization satisfied his curiosity, and he turned to leave. As he did, he saw a pair of eyes framed by some tree fronds nearby.

His heart froze in his chest. His throat grew so thick he couldn’t breathe, let alone swallow.

The eyes moved, and he saw they were part of a small face — the girl he’d seen earlier.

Josh put up his hand but she darted off to the right, moving quickly away.

Worried that she might tell someone about him, he started in her direction. But after a few steps he realized he’d never catch her.

Josh went back along the road, skirting the area where the men were clearing the fields. A fire had been started to burn some of the brush. A pair of soldiers, rifles under their arms, patrolled along the road.

There were wide spaces between the trees, and Josh had little trouble weaving his way south, keeping a good distance from the road. There was a lot of traffic on it; big trucks or tanks kept rolling past every few minutes.

About an hour after leaving the village, Josh sat down to rest on a downed tree trunk. He leaned his head forward, chin supported by his hands and arms, which in turn were propped on his thighs. He stared at the ground, his mind taking a temporary respite.

Something moved just out of his range of sight. It rustled through the brush, moving slowly. It was quiet, somewhat softer than the chain saws and earthmoving equipment two or three kilometers away.

It sounded like an animal, a Vietnamese deer maybe.

Food.

He’d make a fire. That wasn’t a problem: he still had the matches he’d found the other day, and a lighter. There was plenty of wood.

He got up slowly, barely daring to breathe, and brought his rifle up.

Josh waited. His nose began to twitch — he felt a sneeze coming on. He reached his hand up, squeezing the nostrils to stifle it.

His prey was only a few feet away. Josh steadied the gun with his right hand, waiting.

Brown fur appeared, then gray. He pitched the rifle down to aim, letting go of his nose.

Not fur — hair. A person.

A girl.

The girl he’d seen earlier.

She turned and saw him. Shock was in her face, surprise.

Fear.

Then he sneezed.

The girl bolted and ran into the woods at her right.

He’d never seen anything so frightened. That must have been the way he’d looked when the police found him those many years ago. Maybe it was even the way he looked now.

“Hey,” he said in a stage whisper, not daring to talk much louder even though he was a good distance from the road. “It’s okay. Xin chào. Hello. Xin lỗi. Sorry.”

It was the most polite, nonthreatening thing he knew how to say in Vietnamese, though given his extremely limited vocabulary, there wasn’t much of a choice. But the little girl either did not hear him or wasn’t persuaded. She continued to run.

Josh followed her for a short distance, but quickly realized it was hopeless. Even if she didn’t know the jungle here, she would be pretty good at hiding, and was unlikely to make the mistake of dropping her guard again.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he said softly, hitching his pants and walking again.

8

It turned, out to be ridiculously easy for Mara to find a truck; it even came filled with gasoline.

It did belong to the Vietnamese army, but that could be considered a plus — civilian-style vehicles were more likely to draw attention from the soldiers she was bound to meet on the way.

The truck, along with two others, was sitting at a curb near an intersection a mile from Mara’s Hanoi hotel. The building next to the curb was on fire.

It was far from the only one. City officials, after some confusion, were shepherding their limited resources to protect the government areas. It was likely that the soldiers who had parked the trucks here had done so thinking they’d be safe, but the shifting winds had been spreading the fires throughout the morning and early afternoon.

Mara pulled her motorcycle over, hopped into the truck, and pressed the starter. The engine cranked to life.

She didn’t want to give up the motorcycle, so she pulled forward a few feet, then got back out and wheeled the bike around to the back. Jumping up on the tailgate of the truck to lower it, she saw that she had an audience — two young teenage boys were standing across the street, watching her.

“Help me,” she told them in Vietnamese. She motioned to the bike, then switched to French. “I need to get the truck — we have to take the truck from the flames. Do you understand? Fire.”

The young men looked at each other. Neither one moved to help her — but they didn’t try to stop her either, which was her real concern. Mara jumped back down and grabbed the bike. It was heavier than she’d thought. She could barely get it off the ground; there was no way she could lift it high enough to get into the truck.

She put it back down, took a breath, then decided to try again. As she strained, the two teenagers came over and helped.

“Can you drive?” she asked them, switching to English. “The trucks — we have to get them down the road to the police.”

The teens shook their head. She repeated it in Vietnamese.

“Di thắng. Go straight,” she told them, pretending she thought they had understood. Mara slammed the tailgate shut, then waved at them to take the other trucks. “We’re going to the police. I can talk to you there.”

Mara didn’t bother looking back as she got in. Most likely, she thought, she hadn’t fooled them. But the soldiers would be looking for their truck soon anyway.

She ran her hand through her hair as she drove through Hanoi, pushing it back on her head. She really needed a uniform, but it didn’t appear that the truck’s rightful owners had left one.

A few minutes later she came to a roadblock. Several bicyclists were stopped while soldiers went through their papers.

There was no place to turn around. Mara considered jumping and running, then noticed a church steeple and got an idea.

Rolling down the window, she climbed halfway out the cab and leaned on the horn.

“I need to get to the bridge!” she shouted, first in English, then in French, and finally in Vietnamese. “We have to get soldiers to the hospital! Men are dying.”

The bicyclists turned and stared. The two soldiers looked over at her as if she were crazy.

Which was not the worst assessment they could make.

“We need to move. The bridge!” she repeated.

One of the soldiers strutted over. Mara began explaining that she was a nun — she reached beneath her shirt and pulled out her cross, holding it up as evidence.

The majority of Vietnamese, especially those in the north, were not Catholics, but the Catholic orders had a long history of charity and relief work, and nuns were generally viewed favorably. Elsewhere, Mara might not have looked very nunnish, but the paucity of Westerners in the region helped her cover story.

Her cross was small, but her manner was emphatic, and after a few minutes of being harangued, the soldier decided to pass the buck to his companion. He pointed at the other soldier and told her to talk to him.

Mara, naturally, completely misinterpreted this as an okay to proceed — and made sure the other soldier did as well, smiling and waving at him as she drove past.

“Sister Jean, pray for my soul,” said Mara, offering up both prayer and apology to one of her old teachers as she escaped down the street.

The cover of an aid worker was too good to pass up, and Mara quickly set about shoring up the image. Soon after reaching Route 32 — there were soldiers along the highway, but they weren’t stopping military vehicles — Mara spotted a complex built around a Buddhist monastery. She explained to the monks that she was bringing emergency supplies to Son Tay, a city on the Red River to the west. She offered to take the monks with her, and for a moment worried that one of the kindly brothers might actually take her up on the offer. But the monks were already tending to a number of people left wounded and homeless from the attacks, and instead they offered her some bandages, blankets, and bed-sheets.

Her next stop was in a town about five miles away. Parking the truck, she found a small shop and bought several pairs of men’s clothes and a cap for her hair. She also got two peasant-style dresses, and a basket for lunch. She had just gotten the basket filled and climbed back in the cab when the satellite phone buzzed.

“Hey, Bangkok, how we doing?” she asked, holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder as she put the truck in gear.

“How are you doing, Mara?”

“DeBiase! They have you back on the communications desk, Million Dollar Man?”

“I requested it specifically so I could talk to you,” DeBiase told her. “Where are you exactly?”

“You’re not tracking me?”

“You have to transmit for thirty seconds,” he told her. “But yes, we are. It was mostly a figure of speech, like hello.”

“Hello. I’m near Hoa Binh,” she told him. “I want to stay south of the Red River for a few miles. I think there are more troops on that side of the river.”

“How far north can you be by tonight?”

“China if I have to be.”

“Pick a place farther south, and hopefully a little safer.”

“I was thinking of Nam Det, if there aren’t many troops in the way.”

“Hmmm.”

“Are you looking at the satellites? What do they say?”

“The latest satellite says there are no troops there. The Chinese still haven’t come across the border at Lao Cai.”

“Maybe they won’t.”

“Don’t bet on it. Nam Det…You’d have to go up Route 70.”

“I’d planned on it — if there aren’t a lot of checkpoints.”

DeBiase began clicking through information screens on the computer in front of him. Besides satellite data, the U.S. now had Global Hawk UAVs patrolling to provide real-time information on what was going on.

“There are two points I’d steer you around, darling. One is Phan Luong, which the Vietnamese are using as a mustering point for their reserves in Tuyên Quang. The other is farther north, near the Thac Ba Reservoir. That one’s the problem — there are no alternate roads unless you go through Yen Bar.”

“I can do that.”

“I don’t think so — the Chinese are bombing it right now. The analysts seem to think they’ll attack and occupy it tonight.”

Mara tried visualizing Vietnam in her head. The rivers that cut southward were flanked by mountains; her route back to Nam Det was in the shadow of the Con Voi Mountains, between the Chay River and the Hong. The Da River valley, farther to the west — and on the other side of the Hoang Lien Son Mountains — was the main route of the Chinese advance, though no one expected them to stay there very long.

“I think my best bet will be to BS my way past the checkpoint at Tuyên Quang,” she told him. “The question is when.”

She looked at her watch. Assuming she could keep her speed of fifty kilometers an hour — an iffy proposition, admittedly — she’d be at the checkpoint no later than five p.m., just as dusk was falling.

“Can you get past?” asked DeBiase.

“Sure. I’ve gotten by two already. I just tell them I’m a nun.”

“That works?”

“They don’t know me very well.”

Mara asked DeBiase if he could arrange an equipment drop; she needed a backup radio, batteries, and most of all ammunition. DeBiase told her he’d have to work on it. Two hours later, he called back to tell her Lucas had wangled an unmanned aerial vehicle to drop the gear on the field at Nam Det just before dawn.

Assuming she could get there.

“We’ll know in an hour,” Mara told DeBiase. “If that roadblock at Tuyên Quang is still there.”

“It is. The Vietnamese are telling people in some of the villages near the Chinese border to leave and go south. You’ll be running into refugees soon.”

“I’ll try not to hit them.”

“Yeah.”

“That was a joke, Jess. You’re losing your sense of humor.”

“I know.”

Figuring she would be stopped at Tuyên Quang, Mara decided to try and polish her image. She used a needle and thread to sew a makeshift cross out of sheets on the top of the truck, but didn’t have enough left over for the sides. She had only a few boxes of supplies — a pathetic effort if she really was working for a relief group. Mara rearranged a few things, but there was only so much she could do, and when she climbed back into the cab and put the truck in gear, she felt even less confident than before.

A half hour later, Mara saw the first refugees walking along the road. They were a family of four, a mother and father with two children around seven and nine, a boy and a girl. Each carried a big bundle on his or her back. They didn’t look at her as she passed.

Mara thought they were an anomaly — the area had so far missed the fighting — but within a few minutes she saw more people, bunches of them, groups of ten and twelve. Most were on the side of the road, but here and there a group strayed onto the asphalt. Bicyclists were scattered among the walkers, most pedaling slowly and glumly alongside relatives or friends. By the time she’d gone another kilometer, the highway was flooded with people- old people, middle aged, children, some pulling carts, a few dragging bundles placed on pieces of wood and poles.

Another kilometer farther on and the road was almost impassable.

A few of the refugees stared at her as she drove, slowly, pressing forward against the tide. But most didn’t look at her at all; they looked at nothing but the black tar of the road, oozing up in the late-afternoon heat.

The steady flood of people overwhelmed a small village that straddled the highway They seemed like ants climbing through the remains of a dead animal, moving forward. A few of the inhabitants stood in their doorways, jaws slack, unable to entirely comprehend what was going on.

North of the village, Mara found she could go fastest by straddling the edge of the highway and shoulder. People would move off the road more easily there, and she managed to get the truck to twenty kilometers an hour for several stretches. But she was constantly slowing down, often hitting the brake as an old person got stubborn in front of her, or a child didn’t pay enough attention. By the time she got close enough to Tuyên Quang to see the checkpoint, the sun had set.

Mara had wondered why she hadn’t seen any automobiles on the way up; she had assumed that it was because the area was so poor. Now she saw that the authorities were seizing all motor vehicles — cars, trucks, and motorbikes — at the checkpoint. Once stripped of their vehicle, the refugees were then literally pushed onto the road, told to go south. The entire area had apparently been ordered evacuated shortly after Mara set out from Hanoi.

Her truck was the only vehicle heading north, and at first as she drove up Mara thought she would just get right through, without even being stopped — the soldiers were focused on the cars and the refugees. But as she passed into the bright glow of the spotlight illuminating the checkpoint area, an officer turned from the other lane and put up his hand.

Mara thought of ignoring him and simply driving on. But when she saw two soldiers step from the shadows ahead and shoulder their rifles, she downshifted and stopped.

“I have medicine for the orphanage at Nam Det,” she told the captain when he strode over. She used English, deciding that what she needed to say was too complicated for her Vietnamese. “I am with the Sisters of Charity. We have to get the children out safely.”

The captain either didn’t understand her English or didn’t care to soil his tongue with it.

“Why are you driving an army truck?” he asked in Vietnamese.

“General Tho gave it to us,” Mara said, switching to Vietnamese as well. “The soldiers who were supposed to guard me would go only as far as Vinh Yen. They left me on my own. They had to join the fighting. Maybe you could have some of your men assist me. There are many people who need help with the evacuation there. The little children — ”

“Out of the truck!”

When Mara hesitated, the captain took out his pistol and pointed it at her. His two soldiers did the same with their rifles.

“I can get out,” said Mara, raising her hands and reaching for the door handle.

The captain pulled the door open.

“I’m a nun,” she said, holding up the cross.

The captain yanked her from the truck, throwing her on the ground.

If it had been just he and she, even with the gun, even with her cover story of being a nun, she would have jumped from the ground and thrown herself into his chest. He was a little rooster of a man, probably fifty pounds lighter than she was, and no match for her, especially if caught off guard.

He had a rooster face as well as body, a sharp nose that jutted prominently from his face — a target just waiting to be kicked in.

But he had the two soldiers nearby, and there were many others close by. Even if she escaped at first, she’d stand out in the city, and beyond.

What would a real nun do?

Pray to God to strike the bastard down.

And maybe cry, depending on the nun.

Mara had never been the weepy sort, but she forced herself to simper now, protesting about “God’s little children” who needed to be saved. The captain ignored her, ordering his men to search the truck.

Pushed aside, Mara tried calculating an escape route. There were too many soldiers around to give her good odds, though.

She could grab Rooster Face’s pistol and use him as a hostage.

Satisfying, but ultimately counterproductive. Best to keep with the cover story, play it through. Worst case they were going to send her south with the refugees. She might miss tonight’s drop, but that could be rescheduled.

No, worst case she could be arrested. That was a possibility, but probably a complication Rooster Face wouldn’t want to deal with.

Worst case was even worse than that. But she kept such possibilities locked off in a different part of her brain. No need to examine them now.

“Where are your orders?” the captain demanded as his men finished searching the cab, signaling with their hands that they had not found anything.

“Orders?”

“The general who gave you permission. Where are his orders?”

Mara had some trouble with the words and his accent. She thought at first that he simply meant her papers; she gave him her “safe” EU passport, which identified her as an Irish citizen. Mara had already rehearsed an excuse about why the passport didn’t call her “sister” — she was a prenovice, a special category of nuns in training who had not yet joined the novitiate.

“My passport,” she said, pushing it into the captain’s hands.

“Where are your orders?” repeated the captain, throwing the passport on the ground.

“The general did not give me orders. He gave me guards,” said Mara. “Soldiers.”

“And where are they?”

“They left me. I didn’t think it was my place to question them. I am a nun, not a soldier.”

“You are a foreign bloodsucker.”

Among the many sisters Mara had known growing up, one in particular had been stubborn and strong. A strict disciplinarian, Sister Jean Marie had been the scourge of the parochial school Mara attended until sixth grade. Mara imagined she was her now — a massive, if necessary, leap of imagination, but one that gave her a map to follow.

“I suck no blood,” she said, raising her head as she stiffened her spine, both literally and figuratively. “I am doing God’s work for the least fortunate.”

“God is a fairy tale,” answered the captain, adding several words that would probably have made Sister Jean Marie blush.

“The orphans are not fairy tales, and they do not care who feeds them. God or fairy tale,” said Mara. The Vietnamese words sprang into her head as she played the role, her confidence gaining. “These are poor children who must be saved from the Chinese devils.”

While the captain was not impressed by Mara’s religious claims, much less her pose as a nun, his two soldiers were clearly uncomfortable, shifting back and forth behind him. One of them looked particularly embarrassed, frowning and looking down at the ground whenever she glanced in his direction.

“We will repel the Chinese scum,” said the captain.

“I pray that you will.” Mara made a point of looking at his soldiers. “I thank God that you have such fine men in your command.”

This only made the captain more angry. He spun back to his men. “Have you searched the back of the truck? Get your lazy asses in there. Find out what this she-bitch has. Probably poison for the children.”

The soldiers rushed to comply. They opened the tailgate, then hauled the motorbike down. It slipped from their hands and bounced on the ground.

“And what does a nun do with a motorcycle!” thundered the captain.

“I needed a way to get to the general’s camp,” said Mara easily. She pushed her chin up, just as she imagined Sister Jean Marie would do. “One of our parishioners, a very humble and kind man, took pity on me when I said I would walk, and — ”

“Silence! Every word you utter is a lie.”

The captain walked over to examine the motorbike. He picked it up, frowned at it, then let it drop back into the dirt. He ordered the soldiers to confiscate it.

Mara sensed a compromise was in the works — he was going to take the bike but let her go. The swap was okay with her — she’d make it up to its owner somehow.

The worst thing to do, though, would be to admit that the unspoken deal was a good one.

“Where are you going with the motorcycle?!” she shouted.

“Nuns have no need for such things,” answered the captain.

“It’s not ours. It is our parishioner’s. It is his only possession.”

“Then he should have been more careful with it.”

The captain walked away, striding toward a knot of other soldiers, who were interrogating the refugees. Mara waited for a second, then scooped up her passport and jumped in the truck, happy to have gotten off so cheaply.

9

By dusk, Josh had walked another five or six kilometers, still roughly paralleling the road. There was a lot of activity on the highway, with trucks passing by at a furious rate. The few glimpses he’d caught convinced him they were all Chinese.

There were aircraft as well — jets high overhead and helicopters in the distance.

He was being followed. He knew it had to be the little girl he’d seen earlier, though she was very careful now about not getting close enough to let him see her. He heard noises in the brush, noises unlike those a deer or other animal would make, or a frog, or even the wind.

Pale green, with overly large black eyes, the frogs sat on the rocks and low plants, looking as if they were trying to decide which insect to pull out of the air next. Their color made them blur into the surroundings, and Josh didn’t notice them until one leaped almost into his face as he walked, spooked by the human’s approach. After that, the scientist realized the amphibians were all around him, occasionally scattering as he walked, but most often just sitting still, clacking in a low, guttural call, and staring.

It wasn’t until night began to fall that he realized he could eat the things.

The first frog he tried to catch hopped away into the brush, escaping easily. The second, which he tried to scoop off the ground in front of him a moment later, leaped up toward his hand, smacked against his open palm, and rebounded down against his leg. The live feel of the thing surprised him. It felt like a wet human biceps slapping against his hand. The webbed feet scratched gently at his flesh, the legs flailing awkwardly as he grabbed for them. The sensation was so odd that Josh stared at his hand as the frog went free.

It should have been easy, considering what he had done to the man whose rifle he had, and yet it was hard, very hard.

He was thrust back into his precollege days, biology class in high school, dissecting a frog. They’d tried injecting adrenaline into the thing to see what it would do to its heart.

One of the girls had complained that they were being cruel to animals. The teacher agreed.

If I think like that, I might just as well lie down and die right now. I’m not a scientist, I’m a survivor.

A few meters farther on, he saw two frogs sitting within two feet of each other at the side of the trail, separated by a pair of leaves from one of the plants. Singling out the frog on the right, Josh lowered himself in front of it.

I’m a survivor.

He raised his hand, then began to extend it. When he was about ten inches from the frog, it leapt to the left, escaping easily. Instead of swatting after it, he turned to catch the other one, spotted it in midair, and swung his hand. Much to his surprise, he grabbed the animal. It started to squirm, pushing its head out of his fist until he held it by only one leg.

Josh tightened his grip, clamping his hand against the squirmy skin. Then he swung his hand down, hammerlike, dashing the frog’s head against the ground.

He hadn’t meant to kill it, just get it to stop squirming. The blow split the creature’s skull. Blood and the gray ooze of brains spilled out.

Josh felt like he was going to get sick — like he had to get sick. He twisted around and put his hands on his knees, ready to retch. But nothing came out.

I have to survive, he told himself. I’m going to survive.

The next one was easier, and the one after that easier still. He caught ten frogs in all, dashing their brains out and piling them at the end of a small clearing about a hundred meters from the road. He brought some twigs together to make a fire, then decided he was too close to the road. He pulled up his shirt, put the dead frogs in it as if he were a kangaroo, and walked through the jungle until he found another clearing, this one with several clumps of dried grass, which he used to start the fire. With sturdy sticks he roasted the frogs on spits, something he had seen in a movie.

Or thought he’d seen. The boundaries between experience and dream seemed to have eroded.

And nightmare.

The fire threw up sparks as the frogs roasted. He picked at the skin of the first frog’s leg, burning the tips of his fingers. He managed to pull the flesh out, then lost it as it slipped to the ground.

He used his teeth on the second leg. The meat was tender, not really like chicken as some people said, unique.

He ate two more, quickly. Then a third and fourth.

He took his time with the fifth, hunger nearly satiated. Josh savored the bites, trying to work out the taste — not really fishlike, yet it seemed closer to that than chicken.

Something rustled in the brush. Two eyes looked at him from the dark shadows, their whites glowing with the reflection of the fire.

The girl.

“Here,” said Josh, lifting the half-eaten frog toward her. “I can cook some for you.”

She didn’t move.

“I’ll make a fresh one. Here.”

He leaned over and took another frog, holding it away from her as he poked the stick through its mouth and then out its body. Then he put it over the fire.

“They’re good,” he told the girl. “You have to eat. You need to eat.”

She was still staring at him. A good sign. He tried to remember the Vietnamese word for hello, but stress had drained his vocabulary away.

“How old are you?” Josh asked, still speaking English. “Five? Seven? I have a cousin who’s eight. I think he’s eight. I lose track. Maybe he’s ten. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

He reached and turned the stick, roasting the other side of the frog.

“My name is Josh. I’m a scientist. I study weather. It’s a good thing to study these days. A lot of call for it. Because it’s changing, you know. And, um, everything changes with it. These frogs, probably. I’ll guess they’re higher than they used to be. I mean their range. Probably it wasn’t up this high. They’re adapting, or they will adapt. They’re following their food source. I don’t know a lot about frogs, but that’s not exactly a radical guess. They are frogs.”

He stopped speaking and looked down at the animal on the skewer. “I think they’re frogs, not toads. Fauna’s not my thing.”

The girl took a step forward, parting the brush. She wore traditional Vietnamese pajamalike clothes, but her shoes were Western-style sneakers, cheap knockoffs that you could get in most Asian cities. Josh crouched down to her level, trying to make himself look less threatening.

“You can eat,” he said.

She launched herself forward, streaking toward him so quickly that his only reaction was to flinch, thinking she was going to bowl into him. Instead, she grabbed the frog and continued past him, escaping into the woods beyond.

“Hey!” he shouted, but she didn’t stop.

He jumped up just in time to see her disappear into the jungle. Josh stood for a second, unsure what to do. Then he grabbed his rifle and started after her, worried that she would go all the way out to the highway.

He had lost sight of her, but he could hear her running through the brush’. He followed along for thirty or forty meters, falling farther and farther behind. He could see only a few meters through the shadows and the trees; with every step the light seemed to fade further, until at last he could barely see to the tips of his extended hands.

Josh stopped and listened, quieting his breath as best he could so he could hear. She was somewhere ahead, not too far, maybe only a few yards, moving slower than before.

Did it really make sense to try and catch her? It wasn’t like he could talk to her. The only reason to grab her was to keep her from telling the Chinese about him if she was captured.

That was the only logical reason. He’d followed her — why?

Because he wanted her to be his friend. He wanted her to realize he was on her side, he was one of the good guys.

A poor reason to risk his life. Yet he felt compelled to continue after her.

Six or seven steps farther on, Josh heard the sound of heavy vehicles moving in the distance — Chinese troop trucks, no doubt, coming down the highway. He moved a little faster, threading his way through the thick brush and trees.

Something swiped his face. He rebounded, thinking it was a snake and then realizing it was just a tree frond he hadn’t seen. But his reaction threw him off balance; he stumbled to his left, crashed against a tree, and fell over.

Josh lay facedown in the brush, not thinking, not encouraging himself, not despairing. He got to his knees slowly, listening, in full survival mode, listening and only listening.

There were other sounds ahead, something else moving through the jungle.

Voices.

Chinese.

He focused his eyes on the jungle before him. The brush parted — the girl, running to his left.

Two figures in gray swept across from the right.

Josh’s rifle had slipped from his shoulder as he fell. Before he could grab his pistol, the girl and the soldiers disappeared.

Two more figures crashed through the brush, five yards away.

They were nearly next to each other. Two hands on the gun, he fired quickly, taking both down. Then something else took over — Josh leaped up, ran, and without thinking about what he was doing, fired point-blank into the skulls of both fallen soldiers. He swept down, grabbed their rifles, pulling them off the fallen men. He pushed over the bodies, grabbed clips — big banana-style clips. He dropped the pistol — the clip was empty — and left the rifle he’d been using, walking in the direction the other soldiers had taken, moving slowly and as quietly as he could, all of his attention focused on following them. No stray thought, no emotion or feeling, interfered with his eyes or ears.

She will go toward the fire, and they will follow her.

Josh veered left. He began moving sideways, keeping his eyes focused on the direction they had gone, but still moving toward the fire. After five or six yards he stopped and listened — he could hear sounds but not make them out.

The fire was a red glow directly in front of him, thirty yards away.

The girl screamed.

Josh resisted the urge to charge ahead. He walked even slower, sifting through the trees, drifting there as if a leaf being pushed by the gentlest of breezes.

The two soldiers were smacking the girl’s face.

Josh brought one of the rifles up and aimed. But at this range, in the dark, with a gun he’d never fired before, he worried that he wasn’t a good enough shot to ensure he’d hit just the soldier, not the girl.

He started to sift closer.

One of the men grabbed her from behind and began shaking her.

Do not charge them. Wait. Move forward.

One step, two steps.

The other man yelled something, angry. He looked in Josh’s direction.

He’d heard something.

The soldier holding the girl threw her down.

Now!

The gun was set on full automatic. Josh emptied the clip in a quick sweep. Out of bullets, he threw the gun down, grabbed the other off his shoulder left-handed, the trigger wrong, everything wrong except what he was doing, except what he had to do.

One of the soldiers was down. The other staggered to his right.

The rifle jumped in Josh’s hand. Some of the bullets went wild. The rest did their work.

The girl was still lying on the ground, dazed, when Josh reached her, sliding on his knee next to her side.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Okay, okay.”

She looked at him, big eyes, no voice.

“Did they shoot you?”

She blinked. There was no blood on her that he could see, no wounds.

“Come on,” he said, jumping up. He went to the soldiers, took a pistol, as many mags as he could stuff in his pocket and beltline. His heart was pounding.

The girl was still on the ground.

“We go! We go!” he told her, running back.

He reached down and grabbed her shirt. She winced, injured somewhere he couldn’t see.

“Come on, we go, we go,” he told her.

He lifted her to her feet. She wasn’t crying, but she was more than scared.

“Up, we go,” he said, and he bent down and levered her up onto his shoulder before turning and starting off in the forest, away from the fire and dead soldiers.

10

Of all the unmanned aircraft and drones the U.S. military operated, “Gumdrop” was arguably the strangest looking. Roughly the size of an executive’s desk, it had a sharply faceted body and two wing surfaces, located almost on top of each other biplane-style, about a third of the way from the nose. The wings changed shape, thanks to gas-filled bladders inside them. It couldn’t go very fast, largely because its engine was so small, but the wing arrangement made it extremely maneuverable.

The small engine was a handicap in another way — it could handle only a limited payload, especially when taking off from the ground. Because of this, on many missions, Gumdrop was launched from the wing of a larger aircraft, generally a C-130.

The engine had been specified to keep the aircraft’s infrared signal as small as possible. Indeed, the signature was said to be smaller than a Bic lighter at one hundred yards.

The facets in the body, along with radar-absorbing coating, made its radar profile even smaller. The Air Force officer who had first briefed Mara on the aircraft’s capabilities — a captain with horrible skin and even worse salami-breath — had bragged that it was smaller than a mosquito at three miles.

Mara didn’t care particularly about its radar or infrared profiles, except for the fact that they allowed the aircraft to deliver packages under the most stressed circumstances. She had received several in Malaysia, including one delivered to the top of a burning building surrounded by rebel forces.

By comparison, the drop to the field at Nam Det was child’s play.

Nam Det and the small village where she had taken Kieu appeared to have been abandoned. The house where she’d left the injured pilot was empty, the only evidence that he had been there the missing sheets on the bed.

Mara checked her watch. It was five minutes to two. Gumdrop was supposed to arrive exactly on the hour. Rolling up her skirt and holding it against her thighs, she trotted along the edge of the old runway, taking one last look in the ditch to make sure there was no one there. Then she jogged onto the edge of the field. Unfurling the skirt, she counted off her steps until she found the center; she then walked from there to the end and counted off three long steps before looking up at the sky.

Gumdrop — its official designation was R26A Unmanned Drone/Replenishment Profile, or UMDRP — was already descending overhead, coming down through ten thousand feet in a gradually tightening spiral. As it passed ten thousand feet, its remote pilot, sitting in a bunker in Utah, reoriented his long-range infrared sensors to look for heat sources on the ground. The computer assisting him immediately spotted Mara, informing him that a single subject was standing precisely.012 meters from the target area. The pilot continued scanning the screen, observing the nearby jungle to make sure there was no one else waiting nearby.

The computer spotted Mara’s truck, identifying it as a Chinese version of the venerable ZiL, a Russian design older than not only the pilot, but his father. The pilot had been told about the truck, but though it served as an additional recognition point, the Air Force lieutenant was under orders not to take anything for granted on this mission. So he reached with his right hand to a panel above his flight controls and hit one of the presets on the infrared control screen. This initiated a face-recognition routine that compared the infrared portrait of Mara’s upturned face to images stored in the unit’s library. In Mara’s case, the library was particularly rich; besides the standard reference image prepared by the CIA for all of its paramilitary and field officers, there were two dozen training images and nineteen different “mission references,” the term used to describe images that had been made and stored during previous operations.

Had the pilot cared to, he could have examined the images personally, noting perhaps that while Mara had recently gained a few pounds, her weight was still down significantly from the training period eighteen months ago. But with a long night ahead of him, the pilot followed standard procedure, taking the computer’s word for the final confirmation. He pressed his mike button and told his mission controller that he was on final approach for the drop.

Several thousand miles away in northwestern Vietnam, Mara strained to see the UAV above her. Its black paint and small shape made it hard to pick out in the night sky, and the engine was so quiet that on most drops the first indication that it was overhead was the sound of the parachute deploying.

Tonight, Mara thought she saw a dark shadow sailing overhead. Sure enough, a second later she heard the distinctive fuuu-lumpk as the drop chute opened.

To increase accuracy and reduce the chance of last-minute winds taking the dufflebag-size package off course, the package was dropped close to the ground using a chute that allowed a relatively quick descent. On one of her first missions, Mara had made the mistake of running toward it as it fell and nearly gotten knocked out when it came down on her head. Now she knew better. She tensed, waiting as it sailed a few feet away. Only when she heard the whoosh of air rushing from the landing cushion did she trot forward to retrieve it.

The first thing she did was swap one of the new batteries into her satellite phone. Then she slung the shoulder pistol holster across her chest, situating the military-style Beretta inside. An AK-47 with a folding metal stock sat at the bottom of the case; she took it out, inserted one of the magazines, and made sure it was ready to fire.

Imagine what Sister Jean would have done with that. No boy would ever have made a face behind her back.

Armed, Mara detached the small parachute, rolling and folding it into a small ball. Tucking it under her arm, she zipped up the bag and carried it to the truck. After activating one of the GPS locators — it sent a signal to a satellite the CIA could use to track her — she took the chute out into the jungle looking for a spot to hide it. She was just wedging it beneath a pair of large rocks when the satellite phone rang; it was Lucas.

“You have the package?” he asked.

“Just got it.”

“Why didn’t you check in?”

“God, Peter, I was about to.” She pushed the rocks in place, then rolled over another one. “So, do you have our friend’s location yet?”

“Negative. He’s still an hour or so away from the call-in time. In the meantime, your help is on the way. They should be there inside half an hour. You can head west; we’ll have his exact location and a contact procedure next time you check in.”

“Can I trust these guys, Peter?”

“I trust them.”

“Not the same thing.”

“They’re familiar with Nam Det. They’ve done some work out of there in the past.”

“They parachuting or landing?”

“Mara, these are contract guys. They make their own arrangements,” said Lucas. “As far as I’m concerned, if they can get there by flapping their arms, that’s fine.”

“You don’t know?”

“I would assume they’re coming by plane and landing.”

“You know what ass-ume means, don’t you, Peter?”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes tonight, Mara. Especially old ones.”

“Is that how we’re getting out?”

“Not necessarily. We’ll make arrangements. What’s the situation there? How close are the Chinese?”

“Haven’t seen them.”

“Lao Cai is thirty kilometers away. There are reports that they’re shelling it. The thinking is they may attack over the border there, and push south down the Hong River valley. You should avoid that area.”

“You think?”

Lucas didn’t say anything. Mara imagined him grimacing at her sarcasm, probably ready with a comeback but not wanting to use it.

“I’ll be okay, Peter. And thanks for the helpers.”

“Yeah, all right. Check back in when they’re on the ground.”

Besides the gun, batteries, and food, Gumdrop’s package included a handheld computer that doubled as a GPS device, night glasses, and extrastrong bug repellent. But in some ways the most valuable thing in the pack was a paper map of the area.

Mara had learned in Malaysia that paper maps had several advantages over the computerized ones she’d grown up with. They didn’t zap batteries, never crashed, and gave you a much better idea of where you were in a single glance. Scrolling through a small GPS screen made it hard to plan a direct route across the Hong using all of the tiny local roads. The topo maps, which were included in Gumdrop’s package, showed she had at most three different choices if she was going to avoid Lao Cai at the north and Pho Rang at the south. The Chinese weren’t the concern at Pho Rang — the city was bound to be used by the Vietnamese as a rallying point because it sat at the intersection of the largest north-south and east-west highways in the region.

After working her alternatives out on the map, she connected the handheld computer to her sat phone and used it to access the latest satellite and surveillance images posted in a secure online space for her by Bangkok. The most recent photo, an infrared shot by a Global Hawk surveillance aircraft, showed a small concentration of Vietnamese vehicles in the mines south of Lao Cai — mobile reinforcements, according to the analysts’ notes. There were troop trucks parked along Route 151 north of Tang Loong, but it looked like she would have clear sailing south. Reaching 279, she could cross the mountains and go north up 32; at that point, she would have to worry about Chinese troops rather than Vietnamese.

Mara’s plan was still somewhat tentative, and would have to remain so until she had a definite location for the scientist. But her basic idea was to get the truck as close to the area as she could, and then hike in on foot to find him. Once she had him, she would cross back over the lines to wherever Lucas arranged the pickup.

Mara used the computer to read the synopses of the analysts’ predictions about the Chinese assault, then examined the photos one more time before disconnecting and wiping the computer’s memory clean.

She was ready. So where the hell were her “helpers”?

Climbing onto the hood of the truck, Mara put on her night glasses and scanned the night sky. Slightly thicker than prescription sunglasses, which they were modeled to resemble, the glasses had a resolution of 64-721 p/mm, with an adjustable brightness gain over 3000/fL/fL — in layman’s terms, their magnification and night vision were the equivalent of military-issue Gen III night monocles but much smaller, lighter, and easier to use and conceal.

The sky was empty. Mara leaned back against the window of the truck, the AK-47 in her lap, waiting. Twenty minutes later, she finally heard the drone of a small plane approaching.

“About time,” she muttered, slipping to the ground.

The plane was an American-made Cessna, a single-engine Sky wagon. Flying at treetop level, it dropped abruptly onto the runway, charging all the way to the end before slowing just enough to turn around. It trundled back and turned once more, prop still turning. The door on the side of the aircraft opened. Four figures emerged, each hauling a pair of rucks. They ran quickly off the end of the field, hunkering down.

Mara flashed her small LED flashlight: two greens.

Someone on the team flashed a response: three greens. The man closest to the runway rose and circled his arm. The plane’s engine revved and the Cessna shot down the field, airborne in seconds.

As soon as the plane was away, the men rose and began stalking over. Even though they’d just gotten the all-clear signal — and knew that the plane would have been the first target in an ambush — they nonetheless moved across the field with guns ready, scanning back and forth as they came.

All except the last man, who sauntered over as if he were walking down the boardwalk at Atlantic City after hitting a double jackpot.

“Hey, CIA,” said Jimmy Choi. “You must be Mara.”

“You’re Choi?”

“My friends call me Jimmy.”

“What do your enemies call you?”

“Enemies? Enemies all dead.”

Jimmy laughed and stuck out his hand. He was tall, and not just for a Korean. He squeezed her hand; she squeezed back.

“So, you find yourself trouble here, huh?” said Jimmy.

“No. I’m getting somebody out of trouble.”

“Ho-ho. You don’t worry now. Jimmy Choi here. We get you out and gone before you can sneeze.”

“Ah-choo.”

“Ha-ha, funny, funny. This our truck? Good. Get in. I drive.”

“I’ll drive, thank you.”

“Jimmy good driver.”

“No doubt. Who’s who here?”

“Eenie, Meanie, Moe,” said Jimmy.

“Ha-ha.”

Jimmy laughed, but it turned out that two of the mercenaries were named Meanie and Moe. Meanie was a short but unusually wide Korean, whose right cheek was intersected by a thick and jagged scar. Moe looked to be a Russian or maybe a Mongol. Neither man said anything when they were introduced, nor did they add their full or real names, which was just as well — Mara really didn’t need to know.

The last mercenary was an American, though Mara wouldn’t have known for certain had Jimmy not told her he was a countryman. His name was Jeb and he had a chiseled light brown face that made him look even thinner than he was. He had an East Coast accent.

“Where you from?” Mara asked.

“Eritrea.”

“What state is that?”

“It’s in Africa. My mother’s American. Most of my life I grew up in Africa.”

“Well, glad to be working with you.”

She shook his hand. His grip was soft, barely there.

“We go now,” said Jimmy.

“Hold on. I have to run down the situation for you,” said Mara.

“I know situation.”

“You know where our subject is?”

“General area.”

“I’ve already mapped out a route. Let me show you.”

“Show on way. I drive. We’re waste of time here,” he added in his funky English.

“I drive,” said Mara. “Get in.”

As soon as the others had their gear in the back, she started out, going as quickly as she dared in the dark. Even with the night glasses, it was hard to see the edges of the road, and she found herself constantly hitting the brakes. It didn’t help that Jimmy kept interrupting her as she tried to lay out the game plan.

“Easiest way to get there, we go over border, come back around,” he said.

“What border?”

“China.”

“That’s crazy. We’ll never get across,” said Mara.

“I cross the border all time. Very, very easy.”

“We’ll do much better in Vietnam,” she insisted. “We go where troops aren’t.”

“Ho-ho. Suit self.”

“I will. And it’s yourself.”

“Jimmy very suited. Thank you.”

Mara drove for roughly an hour, heading southwestward. Jimmy Choi was quiet, occasionally consulting a small clamshell computer. Mara thought it was a GPS unit until Jimmy gave her directions.

“Have to change your road,” he said. “Troops on road to south.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know where troops are,” said Jimmy. He tapped his clamshell.

“That’s a computer? What are you looking at? You have your own satellite?”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” said Jimmy. But he didn’t explain where the image came from. Mara guessed that he was hacking into someone’s system, probably the Russians’.

“Can I see that?” she asked, reaching for the computer.

He pulled it back.

“You ask questions, I answer them. You go to 178 — ”

“I’m not going north. It’s too dangerous, and we’ll be too far from where our target is,” snapped Mara.

“Okay, okay, don’t have cow. We go it your way.” Jimmy laughed. They could have been deciding on what restaurant to try. “Tell me route. I check.”

The route, at least according to Jimmy’s photos, was still clear. They made it across the Chay and then the Hong, speeding through the small village of Pho Lu before seeing the first signs of the war — a huge crater that blocked the roadway about a mile out of town. Trees on both sides had been knocked down by the blast.

“Ho-ho. We fix,” announced Jimmy Choi. “Quick, quick.”

He leaped out of the truck. Seconds later, two chain saws started up. In five minutes, there was enough of a path on the right side for Mara to squeeze past.

“It’s going to be light soon,” said Jimmy when he got back into the cab. “We should stop and rest until they have the spot.”

“I want to make the Hoang Lien Son Mountains first. We’ll be safer there.”

“Hour drive. Maybe more.”

“We can make it.”

“We change into Chinese uniforms there,” declared Jimmy. “Closer to their lines than the Vietnamese.”

“You have one for me?”

“Ha-ha, we find you one, too.” Jimmy took out his little clamshell computer and began fiddling with it. “Turn left at next road.”

“Why?”

“Need pit stop. Yes?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“There, dirt road.”

They were almost on it. Mara had to hit the brakes to make the turn.

“Park here. Quick. Pull off.”

Mara pulled onto the shoulder. Jimmy Choi jumped from the truck and ran into the back. Mara climbed down and was surprised to see the mercenaries scrambling into the jungle.

“Hey! Hey!” she yelled, charging after them.

The men were moving at a good pace, and Mara felt a stitch start in her right side. She ducked through the trees, gradually losing ground. Finally she stopped. There was no sense chasing them.

“Hey!” she yelled after them. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.”

What the hell was the sense of coming all this way into Vietnam to desert her?

Unless they were setting her up for an ambush.

Mara spun around, then dropped to her knee.

Now what do I do?

Mara took a deep breath, listening. If it was an ambush, the Chinese would have surrounded the truck by now. Not seeing her there, they’d be fanning out in the jungle.

Or maybe they’d just wait for her to come back.

No wonder Jimmy Choi didn’t want to show her the satellite images, the bastard.

Mara took the night glasses out of her pocket with her left hand, still holding the rifle ready with her right. Even though it was no longer dark, the glasses were powerful enough for her to see anyone hiding in the nearby brush.

No one. She folded them back in her pocket, then took a half step sideways in the direction of the road. As she did, gunfire began reverberating through the jungle.

11

Josh ran until he couldn’t breathe. Legs shaking, he sank to his knees. The girl clutched him as tightly as she could, her fingers wrapped into the flesh at the back of his arms.

“I need to rest for a minute,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you.”

He gently pried her grip loose.

“It’s okay,” he repeated. “Just let me get my breath.”

He knew she couldn’t understand his words, but he hoped his tone might reassure her. As soon as he rose she grabbed his leg, clamping her arms around him.

Josh listened for a moment, trying to hear if the Chinese were following him. If they were, they either were moving very quietly or were a good distance away.

“Come on,” he told the girl. “Let’s go.”

He pushed forward gently, trying to move her. She shuffled back a step, absolutely locked onto him.

“Hold my hand,” he told her. He gripped her left hand with his and gently pushed her to the side. It took several strides before she was willing to walk rather than be dragged. Both of her hands were welded to his.

It was like walking with a weight attached to him.

Why did I help her? Why did I think I had to save her?

I didn’t think — that was the problem.

I’m in survival mode — I have to save myself, not someone else.

Leave her!

Even as the words formed in his mind, Josh felt repulsed.

He did what he had to do. And what he had to do now, for both their sakes, was to move more quickly. He scooped her up and began trotting again, willing strength into his legs.

Josh went on like that for another half hour, running and walking, trotting and catching his breath, until finally no amount of urging could keep his legs moving forward. He slipped down against a large tree, all but collapsing on the ground. The girl sat beside him, silent, eyes open wide as if they might let in his thoughts.

The sparse overhead canopy allowed most of the early evening’s moon rays through. Josh could see between ten and twenty yards all around him.

He’d forgotten to turn his phone back on. Remembering it now, he pulled it from his pocket and turned it on. There were no calls waiting, and no indication that Peter had called. But of course it was still locked, on emergency only.

So how had he gotten the call? Because it had happened; he hadn’t imagined it. It was real.

Damn! How had he forgotten?

He pounded the ground, then looked up. The girl was still staring.

“What’s your name?” he asked. He struggled to remember the Vietnamese words. “Tên em là gì?”

She didn’t respond. Em was the term you used for a child.

He tried again. The girl squinted, as if she were trying to figure out what he was saying.

“My name is Josh,” he said. “Tên tôi là Josh. Josh. Josh.”

He tapped his chest several times, repeating the Vietnamese words. He wasn’t sure of his accent, and most especially the tones, but he’d used the phrase several times, and knew he was at least close.

“Mạ,” she said finally. “Tên tôi là Mạ.”

Her name, or nickname, was Mạ. Josh knew the word; it was Vietnamese for seedling.

“A good name,” he told her. “A very good name.”

The sat phone, still in his hand, began to vibrate.

Josh’s fingers trembled as he reached for the Receive button. “Hello?”

“Josh, where have you been?”

“I’m conserving the battery,” he said, not wanting to admit that he’d left the phone off. His voice was dry.

“Okay. I can understand that. Listen, I have people on their way to you. They’ll be with you by tomorrow night at the latest.”

“Where are they meeting me?”

“Josh, we know where you are, and they’re going to come get you. Just stay where you are now.”

“I can’t stay here. I have to move.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“I can’t stay here,” he told him.

“All right, Josh. Calm down. We’ll work this out.”

“Give me a number that I can call. Unlock this phone.”

“It’s not going to work that way.”

“Make it.”

“Josh, I can’t explain the technicalities right now. And frankly, I don’t know all the tech stuff anyway. You have to trust me on this, all right? We’ll get you out. All right? Josh? Josh?”

“All right. But we can’t stay here.”

“What do you mean, we? Who’s with you?”

“A girl.”

“A girl?”

“The soldiers were going to shoot her. Or something.”

“There are soldiers where you are?”

“A couple of miles away. I’ve been running for a half hour, an hour — ”

“Is she there? Can you give her the phone?”

“You don’t trust me?”

“You don’t speak Vietnamese. I have someone who does, who speaks it very well. I can speak it — ”

“How do you know I don’t speak Vietnamese?”

There was a slight pause. “It’s not on your curriculum vitae.”

“What are you, checking up on me?”

“I wanted to make sure I was talking to the real Josh MacArthur, yes. I did research you. Yes.”

“You have files on me?”

“Josh, don’t get angry with me. I’m trying to help. I know you’re going through a lot.”

“You have no idea what I’m going through, mister. No fucking idea.” Josh looked over at Mạ. She looked worried, as fearful as he had seen her with the soldiers. “I have to go,” he told Lucas. “Call me back in two hours. No, three.”

“Will you leave your phone on?”

“It will be on in three hours.”

“It would be more helpful — ”

Josh slapped the phone off and put it in his pocket.

“Come on, Mạ,” he said. “Let’s find a better place to hide.”

12

Mara ran toward the gunfire, AK-47 poised. The gunfire had a very familiar ring to it — a thick, almost bell-like sound that she associated with the Chinese Type 99 assault rifle, the upgraded bullpup-style gun China had developed and “sold” to the rebels in Malaysia.

Not good.

Her muscles tensed, her vision narrowed. She sprinted from cover to cover, ducking behind large trees, staying as low to the ground as possible. There was another road through the jungle ahead, maybe thirty meters away.

By the time Mara slid in behind the broken trunk of a large tree near the road, the shooting had stopped. She waited there for a moment, ducking her head left and right to see, trying to find an angle that might reveal what was going on.

Nothing.

Mara eased forward, finger edging against the rifle’s trigger, resting there ever so lightly.

Something moved on the left. She spun, dropped to her knee — and just barely kept herself from firing.

“Ho-ho, you take time catching up,” said Jimmy Choi. “All the excitement done.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Mara’s curse only made Jimmy laugh harder.

“What the hell is so funny?” she asked. “I could have shot you!”

“You’re a professional. You wouldn’t shoot.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Come on. We have something for you.”

Still seething, Mara followed the mercenary out of the jungle onto a hard-packed road. A Chinese EQ2050 Hanma — the Chinese version of the Hummer, also known as a Mengshi or Dongfeng Hanma — sat just off the road. Four Chinese soldiers had been killed in the field. Jimmy’s men dragged the dead bodies into the jungle.

“One of us not a good shot,” said Jimmy, pointing at a body that was stained with blood. “Bad luck for us. We have only three uniforms.”

“You did this for the uniforms? You took off, took all this risk, for the uniforms?”

“Hanma big bonus. Chinese Hummer. Voom, voom.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. No. No. You have to tell me what the hell you’re doing. Don’t you understand? You work for me.”

Jimmy Choi laughed.

“Don’t laugh at me. Damn it — you don’t just take off like that.”

“We get job done.” Jimmy shrugged.

“Sure, if they don’t stop us.”

“Bad luck for them they stop us.” He pointed to one of the bodies. “Those would fit you. You try. We close our eyes.”

They took the Chinese Hanma as well as the troop truck, threading their way north with help from Jimmy Choi’s images. Except that it squeezed her boobs, the uniform fit fairly well. She didn’t look very Chinese, however, and the general strategy was to avoid getting very close to the Chinese army if possible.

Soon after they stole the truck and the uniforms, Lucas called in with another update on the Chinese situation. They were continuing to concentrate their efforts farther south and west; the only units in Mara’s area were small scouting parties, probing defenses and looking for resources that might be useful.

He gave her a precise location for the scientist — two miles from a Chinese forward operating base being constructed in Lai Chau Province.

“Well at least he’s not in it,” she said sarcastically.

“They actually don’t have a lot of troops in the area around the base,” said Lucas. “They’re focusing their efforts farther south.”

Mara knew the troop estimate had come from analysts who were basically making educated guesses from satellite photos. She knew better than to trust them.

Shortly after eleven in the morning, she and Jimmy Choi’s team reached the heavy jungle area surrounding the Hoang Lien Son nature preserve. They went up a small streambed, stopping near a small copse about a quarter mile from the road to rest. Twelve kilometers separated them from the spot where Lucas had said the scientist was hiding.

“Hey, glamour girl, we’ve been waiting for you,” said DeBiase, answering a split second after the connection went through. “What’s going on?”

“You tell me. Where’s our subject?”

“Hiding. We’ll contact him as soon as the sun goes down.”

“You sure he can last until then?”

“He tells us he’s fine.”

“This guy’s for real, right, Million Dollar Man? Because if he’s not, I’m going to be seriously upset.”

“We’ll have a full brief for you tonight, Mara. We should be able to get you in direct contact with him right before the rendezvous. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Everything going well?”

“As well as could be expected.”

“What do you think of Jimmy?”

“He’s a nutjob.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“Not necessarily.”

“He’s one of the best,” said DeBiase, a little too cheerfully.

“That’s damning with faint praise,” said Mara. “I’m going to get some sleep. Call me if anything changes.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

13

The news that the Chinese troops had massacred several villages did not surprise Premier Cho Lai. The men were peasants, poorly educated, and raised to believe that all races were inferior to the Chinese. The incitements that their commanders had given them to join the battle had undoubtedly pushed them to believe that their enemy was little more than rats to be eradicated as any exterminator would.

But the implication of the message that his intelligence network had intercepted — that there was a Western witness who had evidence and who might be believed in the UN — was more problematic. While the premier was sure of the Russians, the French assurance was not on very firm ground. If France caved in to American pressure — and Cho Lai had no illusions about where the U.S. would stand — then the Poles would be next, followed by the Germans. He would have to follow through on his threat to pull the country’s deposits from the French banks, thereby weakening the country’s investments elsewhere. The situation would be difficult.

At some point he would have to confront the rest of the world, but he greatly preferred to do it later, after Japan if possible.

The real problem was the U.S. president. Cho Lai had believed that he, of all people, would be happy to see the Vietnamese crushed. For a brief time he had even toyed with the idea of inviting the Americans to take part in the feast. But the American was a wily opponent, crafty and sure of himself.

The ancient emperors would have been pleased to take on such a worthy enemy.

But that did not make the problem any less vexing. The scientist had to be dealt with. Immediately and discreetly.

Cho Lai turned to General Lang. “Get me Colonel Sun. I will speak to him personally. No one else.”

14

Jing Yo didn’t expect Colonel Sun to be in too good a mood when he returned to Na San from the division meeting; that would be against his character. Still, given that they had achieved all of their objectives, and that by all reports the Chinese army was advancing at an even quicker pace than expected, he did think his commander would be at least neutral. But the frown on the colonel’s face was obvious even from fifty paces as he stepped off the helicopter.

“The camp at Ba Nheu Sang,” barked Sun as he strode toward the hangar building that had been commandeered as the commandos’ headquarters. “The scientists.”

Jing Yo fell in, unsure what the problem was.

“Your hands?” asked the colonel as they walked.

“My right hand was burned but has been treated.” He held it up. The bandage covered the palm; the rest was fine. “The wounds are of no matter.”

“Good.”

Sun snapped off a salute as he passed the two guards at the hangar door. Ordinarily, Jing Yo had no trouble keeping up, but Sun’s anger was driving him at a rapid pace, and the colonel reached the door to his office several steps ahead of him. Sun threw the door open and went to his desk, a narrow metal table salvaged from one of the terminal offices. The room itself had been used as a storehouse for parts until the Chinese takeover. The bins, nearly all of them empty, lined the wall behind Sun.

“Close the door,” said Sun. “The man you chased — you killed him?”

The question had an accusatory ring to it. Jing Yo’s hand lingered on the doorknob as he tried to decide whether to remind Sun of his order or not. In the end, he decided mentioning it would at least put Sun on notice that he knew the full story, not whatever one the colonel was going to adopt.

But of course, it had to be done judiciously. Not to avoid the truth, as his mentors would say, but to make the truth something all could view with calmness.

Calmness being a relative quality in Sun’s case.

“He had gone into the water, as I reported at the time,” said Jing Yo. “We were told to suspend the search. We were required elsewhere, with a higher priority.”

Sun’s frown deepened, but he did not explode.

“It may not even have been him,” said the colonel. “It probably wasn’t. This is what happens when we use general troops. Incompetents. Peasants. This was a job the commandos should have done.”

“A problem, Colonel?”

“An incredible problem, Lieutenant.” Now Sun’s temper flared. “A problem that must be rectified. That you will rectify.”

Jing Yo waited. Given the injuries his unit had sustained, he had expected he and the surviving members would be rotated back home for replenishment and training. That was not a prospect he relished — much better to be in the middle of fighting, he felt — but he knew his men would welcome the rest.

“Here. Look at this.” Sun reached into the pocket of his shirt for a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it to Jing Yo. “This is a transmission he has made. An American. Josh MacArthur. A CIA agent, undoubtedly.”

Jing Yo took the paper. According to the heading, it was a transcript of a transmission made within the past twenty-four hours by sat phone.

“From this description — ”

“The village at Pa Nam. Not the one you responded to that night,” said Sun. “They covered it up, but apparently not well. Their commander has been recalled.”

Jing Yo nodded.

“Peasants with guns. But we are the ones who have to fix it. Because,” Sun added derisively, “we are the only ones who are competent in the Chinese army. Only the commandos can carry out an order without screwing it up.”

“Do we have the coordinates of the phone that was used to transmit this?”

“We have an area location. The American spy made a second transmission a few hours ago. You’re to meet with an intelligence officer from divisional at Ba Hong forward operating base in an hour to discuss the latest information.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Sun folded his arms in front of his chest, shaking his head. Jing Yo stepped back, bowed his head, then prepared to leave. As he reached the door, Sun stopped him.

“Beijing has heard of your fine work,” the colonel said. “The premier himself asked about you.”

Jing Yo felt his face flush.

“It will be very clear that this problem originated with the regular army,” said Sun. “But we must not fail to correct it.”

“I will correct it to the best of my ability, Colonel.”

Sun nodded, dismissing him.

15

The small house and the buildings surrounding it looked normal from the top of the hill, and it was only when Josh and Mạ got a dozen meters away that he realized something was wrong. A pair of goats were braying in the yard between the house and the livestock barn, pleading hungrily for attention. They were standing at the edge of a pond so wide it blocked the way. It looked as if it had been there forever, yet it blocked off not only the yard but the driveway to the road, which easily twisted around several other obstructions on the three-hundred-yard path from the macadam.

Josh guessed what had happened — a Chinese bomb had hit the ground and disturbed an underground spring or well piping. The goats might have been able to swim across, but the pond’s sudden appearance baffled and spooked them.

The rear of the house had been hit by another bomb or missile. The explosion had cratered the rear third of the structure. Afraid of what he might find in the house, Josh decided not to scout it by himself; he didn’t want the girl to see any dead bodies. So he carried her around the back of the barn to a small saltbox shanty covered in sheets of rusted tin. Putting Mạ down, he knocked on the door, even though the building looked barely big enough to hold a few rakes.

The structure shuddered with his tap.

“Hello,” he said. “Xin chào!”

No answer.

The door was held in place by its odd angle against the threshold; he had to lift it up and toward him to open it. The interior was empty except for an old shovel and several seed bags of grain.

“Here, come on,” he told Mạ, gently pushing her inside. “You stay here. I want to look at the rest of the farm. Stay.”

He mimed her sleeping, and pointed to the seed bags on the floor. The girl looked fearful, almost on the verge of tears. Josh dropped to his knees, trying to explain that he would be back. He mimed himself walking around — fingers on his palm — and looking for trouble — hands cupped like binoculars — and then coming back. When he was done, she looked confused rather than reassured, but she stayed when he pressed the door closed.

About ten feet of the side wall of the house had disintegrated, and there was a sizable hole where the floor had been in the back room. Josh squeezed gingerly around the jagged edge, slipping between the leaning interior walls into what had been a children’s bedroom. Except for the cracks in the walls and ceiling, it appeared entirely untouched by the chaos. Bedrolls were neatly lined up against one wall. A small shelf above them held a rock collection; stones of all sizes and shapes sat on the linoleum paper surface as if on display. Two dolls, one made of vegetable husks and the other of yarn, flanked the collection, as if they were guarding it.

Josh tucked the yarn doll under his arm and went to explore the rest of the house. It was large and clearly belonged to a relatively well-to-do family. The furniture in the living room looked Western and new. The television was a large LCD screen.

The blue power light was on. Curious, Josh went and pushed the Power button. The TV flicked off. He pushed it again, expecting that he would get a screen of static. Instead, he got a picture — snowy, but visible.

A newscaster was speaking, not in Vietnamese, but in Chinese. Josh couldn’t follow what he was saying, but the graphics that flashed on the screen showed an arrow arcing into China, and then arcing back.

Were the Chinese saying that the Vietnamese had attacked first?

The newscaster’s face came back, angry, flushed.

He was saying that, wasn’t he? Claiming the Vietnamese were getting what they deserved for having attacked first.

But Josh knew they hadn’t. He’d lived through it. And he had evidence.

He put his hand on his pocket, touching the digital video recorder.

As he did, something creaked behind him. Panic seized him before he could turn around, before he could grab the rifle hanging from his shoulder. It was so important that he live, and yet here he had gone and let his guard down; he was going to die.

But it was only Mạ.

“You scared me,” he told her. “I told you to stay.”

She held her hands out to him.

“Look, a doll,” he told her, holding out the toy he’d found.

She ignored it, raising her hands up and down emphatically. It was the signal they’d used while walking, indicating she wanted to be carried.

“It’s okay. I’m just looking around,” said Josh, kneeling to talk to her. “Did you know this house? Did you know these people?”

She didn’t answer, just kept pumping her arms.

“Is this your house?” he asked.

He tried to think of a way to put the question into gestures, looking upward, pointing at her. But she didn’t understand. She grabbed hold of his shirt and tugged him toward the window.

“What’s up, Mạ? What’s going on?”

She pointed through the window. He pulled the curtain back to see.

There were soldiers in the field, moving toward the building.

16

Zeus propped his hands on both cheeks, holding his face about four inches from the surface of the conference room table where he’d taped the large-scale map of Vietnam’s western provinces. The map’s features were a blur of yellow, green, and brown, swirling before his eyes. He needed sleep, real sleep, and if he couldn’t get that, he needed coffee, the stronger the better.

“Trying to learn by osmosis?” said Win Christian across the room. The snicker in his voice was anything but subtle.

“I got the map memorized already,” Zeus said, lifting his head slightly. “I’m trying to blank out your face.”

“Very good, Zeus. Just remember, I’m chief of staff. Anything you want, from dental floss to a weekend off, goes through me.”

“Nice.” Zeus knew he wouldn’t be getting any free time for the foreseeable future, and he’d already stocked up on dental floss. “I’ll tell you what I do need. Real-time access to the satellite data. Can you arrange that? There’s no reason we can’t have it immediately, not an hour later. I don’t need the analysts to tell me what I’m seeing.”

“We all need it. Intel is screaming for it.”

“They should scream louder.”

Zeus stretched his muscles. The Chinese plan to invade Vietnam clearly incorporated American doctrine — lightning strikes away from the main centers of resistance, along with coordinated air and armor movements. Cover a lot of ground, don’t let the enemy know precisely what you are up to. It was Shock and Awe, Chinese style.

But the Chinese army wasn’t the American army, and it wasn’t fighting in a desert, where Shock and Awe had had its proving ground. There were flaws in the strategy — plenty of them, starting with the limited road network in the areas they were attacking, and the decision to keep the flanks lightly protected. The latter had been a feature of the second Gulf War, where the risk was carefully calculated and deemed acceptable. In this case, it seemed like an even greater gamble, though the Vietnamese had yet to make the Chinese pay for it.

Tanks were the keystone of the attack. The Chinese Type 99 main battle tank was a hell of a weapon, a main battle tank that, while not quite on par with the American M1A1, easily overmatched anything the Vietnamese were able to field. It was fast and powerful, capable of moving along the roads at high speed and then overcoming all but the most concentrated defenses. Its most glaring vulnerability was the fact that, like the Russian designs that had inspired it, its extra ammo was kept in the crew compartment, an invitation to disaster if it met a high-powered antitank round.

Had this been a simulation, Zeus could have blunted Red’s attacks by making the most of this vulnerability. He’d hit the leading edge of the attacks with old but sturdy A-10A Warthogs, chewing up the leading edge of the invading force. He could mop up with special operations teams deposited near key intersections, who could strike with shoulder-held antitank weapons when the tanks came through.

But in real life, the Vietnamese had no A-10s. Their antitank weapons were either old Russian designs or Chinese-made-for-export missiles that conspicuously lacked the punch to get past the Type 99’s skin and explosive reactive armor. Even if they somehow managed to get defensive forces in the right place — a big if at the moment — the Vietnamese weapons were the equivalent of peashooters as far as the tanks were concerned.

That could be partly solved by giving the Vietnamese new weapons. But even if they were flown over immediately from Army stockpiles, there’d be a delay in training and deployment. Several days at the very least, and by then the Chinese would have enough of the country that it wouldn’t matter.

So there had to be another way to stop the Chinese. Or at least slow them down.

They’d just taken Na San and were staging there for their next big run. As Zeus saw it, tonight they would zoom down Route 6, probably overrun Moc Chau, and then go on either to Hanoi or farther south, down to the area of Nimh Binh.

Nimh Binh was the far better choice. From there, they had a real road network south. They could cut Hanoi off, take it at their leisure.

Everything they had done so far pointed south. Think of Shock and Awe — the big defenses were initially bypassed, then attacked at a time of the aggressor’s choosing. The Chinese would do the same here. The Vietnamese expected the attack around Hanoi — most of their forces were very close to the city, even north of it. So that would be the last place the Chinese would go.

The country would open up after Nimh Binh. There were real highways, and plenty of them. Plus, the satellites had shown some activity on Hai Ham on their last pass. The Chinese island off the Gulf of Bac Bo pointed like a fist to Vietnam’s midsection. It was the perfect place to stage an amphibious assault from.

A pincer from both directions, once Hanoi was cut off. The south was the real prize, and it lay nearly unprotected.

So what would I do if this were Red Dragon?

Slow the tanks down. That was the first job. Make the Chinese take their time. Even if meant steering them directly toward Hanoi. Hanoi was a battle that the Vietnamese were prepared to fight. They might not win, but they at least had defenses in place.

Or send the Chinese into Laos. Easy pickings, but it would upend their timetable. The roads there were even worse than in northwestern Vietnam, especially in rain. Plus, they wouldn’t be able to hide behind the PR line that they were invading Vietnam only to ensure their own safety.

As if anyone would believe that anyway. Anyone outside the UN, that is.

He needed a bottleneck, something more than just a road.

“General, I didn’t expect you here tonight,” said Christian as General Perry came into the room.

“Well, I am. Zeus, how are you?”

As the general walked across the room, Zeus flinched involuntarily. He started to salute, then realized Perry wanted to shake his hand.

“Good to have you aboard, Zeus,” added Perry. “Win has filled you in on the details?”

“Yes, sir,” said Zeus, though it had sounded more like a statement than a question. “I’m coming up with a strategy for the Vietnamese.”

“You have the problem solved yet?”

“If I could get some A-10As over there, sure.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work.” Perry’s smile disintegrated into a frown.

“No, sir.”

Did generals have to turn in their sense of humor when they took their first star? Or did the promotion board limit its review to candidates who never got a joke?

Christian was smirking behind Perry, as if to say, You idiot; now you’re on my turf.

That burned Zeus. Really burned him.

“I, uh, did have a little bit of an idea,” he told Perry.

“Let’s hear it.”

Zeus looked down at the map, hoping inspiration would strike.

“They’ll come down this way, the main attack, right down Route 6 to Moc Chau. All the intelligence points to it,” said Zeus.

Perry looked at the map. Zeus stared at it as well, hoping it would spark his imagination. It didn’t.

“How are the Vietnamese defenses there?” Perry asked.

“About on par with their defenses everywhere else except Hanoi,” said Zeus. “Almost nonexistent. But I don’t think they should take their stand there.”

“No?”

“They’d get creamed.”

“You’re not suggesting they run away, are you?”

“If it would work, definitely. But, uh, what they have to do is, uh, slow the tanks down, try and get some of the momentum back — they have to stop the tanks temporarily and get the Chinese commanders to have to think on their feet. The um, Shock and Awe, which is what they’re trying, is predicated on flexibility. Chinese doctrine isn’t flexible. It hasn’t been. Some units — their commandos are very good. But most of the infantry is very poorly educated and trained. Some of them are just basically farmers and, uh, in some cases criminals.”

“How does this help the Vietnamese?” asked Christian. “How do they stop the tanks?”

“What they should do is flood the plain here,” Zeus said, the idea coming to him as he saw the red line of the highway curling around the reservoirs at Song Da. “Divert the water from Song Da Lake south, destroy the road right before Routes 6 and 15. If they did a good enough job with the water, blew up the bridges, gutting the road — if they do that, the Chinese would have to stop. They’d have to stop.”

The idea blossomed full in Zeus’s mind. He saw the strategy now — cede Moc Chau, give up everything down to the Mạ River. Using the water from Song Da — the tanks would be forced through a narrow, slow passage. The Chinese might cut a road through the jungle — or they might do the next logical thing and divert eastward, going after Hanoi. In either case, their plan would be thwarted. They’d need days — maybe weeks — to reorganize everything. Time to get help to the Vietnamese.

General Perry said nothing as Zeus fleshed out the plan, possible strategies popping into his mind. It was all a big roll of the dice, but at this point anything the Vietnamese did was a roll of the dice.

“What’s to keep the Chinese from just blowing through Laos?” said Christian. There was a sneer in his voice. “They can slam right through there, bypass whatever the Vietnamese try setting up at the reservoir, then turn up in Saigon.”

“That’s mountainous terrain, mostly jungle, with even fewer roads than where they are now,” said Zeus. “I mean, they may try it — it may be an alternative for them, especially if they’re not planning an amphibious landing. But getting through those mountains with the tanks — they’ve done okay so far on paved roads, but Laos is a lot worse. Narrower — you can check the intel and — ”

“Amphibious landings are not their forte,” said Christian.

“That’s right. But intelligence shows a buildup of activity on Hai Ham.”

“A landing in Vietnam would give them practice for Taiwan,” said Perry drily. “Your thinking is very sound, Major. Do you think the Vietnamese would agree?”

“I couldn’t, uh, speak for them, General.”

“A rhetorical question, son. You’ll come with me to explain it to them. We’ll both find out together.”

“We’re going over to the embassy?”

“We’re going to Hanoi,” said Perry. “There’s an RT-1 waiting for us at Andrews. We’ll be there in a few hours. The Vietnamese want our help. Unofficially, of course.”

17

A sharp pain pinched Josh’s chest as he watched the soldiers move across the field. Every muscle froze. He couldn’t breathe.

Mạ tugged at his hand.

“Yeah, we have to go. We have to — go,” said Josh, forcing the words out. He pushed his legs to move, walking stiffly to the next room, which had a wall facing the front of the house. Halfway to the window, he spotted soldiers outside, up near the road. They were just standing there, but they could easily see the window.

“This way,” Josh said, pulling Mạ backward with him. He fought against the panic trying to seize his chest and slipped into the scarred and battered room at the rear corner of the house. The soldiers hadn’t reached the rear yard yet.

Josh grabbed Mạ, holding her under his side as he skirted the hole and then climbed over the rubble. As soon as they were out of the building, he threw himself and the girl down to the ground.

“Crawl,” he whispered. Then he pulled her up and showed her how to go, on all fours, toward the rough grass and weeds a few yards away.

Mạ needed no urging; staying low to the ground, she scampered ahead and disappeared in the brush.

When he reached the grass, Josh turned back around to try and get a look out at the field and see what the soldiers were doing. He couldn’t see much of the barn, or the field in front of the house. He backed up, still on hands and knees, pushing the grass back and forth — a telltale sign, he knew, that someone was hiding there.

Josh froze, then eased his head to the side, looking for a passage where he could crawl without disturbing the vegetation. He spotted one a few feet away. Pressing his stomach into the earth, he moved toward it as wormlike as possible. The earth smelled wet, with a vague manure scent.

His nose started to twitch.

Josh caught the sneeze in the crook of his arm, smothering it. He held his breath, and bit the side of his lip with his mouth. The pain felt almost good, reassuring. It was an easy trade — endure this pinprick of pain in exchange for safety.

But there were no deals to be made with fate. The soldiers began to yell. Once more Josh froze.

Some gunshots.

Mạ!

He started to jump up, rifle poised. He knew exactly what he was going to do: run out to the soldiers, finger pressed on the trigger of the rifle as he ran. He’d get a small measure of revenge before they killed him. He’d release his anger — not just from the assault by the Chinese, but from everything, from the unfair slaughter of his family when he was a child, from everything.

As he started to spring up, a small hand gripped his side. Mạ’s touch was light, but it stopped him. Josh folded forward.

The girl curled herself around him. He pulled Mạ close, expecting the soldiers to run to them at any second.

But they didn’t. There were more shouts, a little farther away.

Josh smelled smoke. He let go of the girl and crawled forward a few feet, raising his head.

The barn was made of wood. There were stacks of bamboo near the sides. The soldiers had taken these and set fires.

The door opened. Two figures emerged, coughing. Some of the soldiers nearby began firing. The men fell.

They looked like farmers to him. They definitely weren’t soldiers.

There were more shots. From the bam? Josh couldn’t tell.

The soldiers were running, moving toward the barn.

Go, now, while everyone’s attention was there.

He took out his video camera, fumbling with it. There was about forty-five seconds of memory left, part of the file he’d erased the day before. He pressed the button and began shooting.

Go! Get out of here!

Another figure came out of the barn, hands up. The soldiers cut her down as well.

The memory on the camera was full. He turned it off, slid it back into his pocket.

More gunfire. They were firing into the barn now, blindly.

Mạ was kneeling next to him. Rising into a crouch, Josh poked her to come with him. He started moving through the field, gradually rising, moving so fast that he was tugging the girl.

“Come on,” he growled at her beneath his breath. Finally he reached down and pulled her up on his hip, running full speed toward a thick wedge of trees. Just as he reached it, he saw it was bordered by a barbed-wire fence. Afraid he couldn’t stop in time, he plunged down to the side, rolling on the ground and then into the wire.

Mạ began to cry.

“Sssh,” he said sharply.

One of the barbs had gone into his side. He felt it as he pulled away. He pulled the girl up, checked her — she didn’t seem to be hurt, just scared, very scared.

“Through here.”

Josh held up a strand of the wire. Mạ didn’t move. He leaned down, levering the strands apart so the space was bigger.

“Go,” he whispered to Mạ, trying to make his voice sound gentle, knowing that he had to be reassuring even though he felt anything but.

Mạ squeezed through. Josh followed. His stomach hurt as he contorted. His right pants leg caught on one of the barbs, snagged, and ripped as he forced his leg to follow the rest of his body.

Through the wire, he rolled onto the ground, fighting the pain. He forced himself up, then felt a new wave of panic when he didn’t see the girl.

“Mạ.” Her name sounded like a groan. “Mạ!”

He took a step, felt the pain swell in his side. He looked down. There was a black spot on his shirt.

Something moved near him.

“Mạ?”

The girl popped out of the brush. “Kia,“ she said, pointing.

He wasn’t sure what the word meant, but he pushed himself forward, glad to see her, still half fearing the worst.

A bicycle was leaning next to a tree. It was almost brand new, obviously parked there very recently, maybe by one of the people in the bam as an emergency escape.

They were on a slight rise; ten yards down the hillside a trail wound through the woods.

Josh grabbed the bicycle and walked it down through the trees to the path. The trail was rough but passable. He climbed onto the seat.

The pain in his side wasn’t that bad. He could deal with it. He would have to.

“Come on, Mạ,” he said. She ran over; he started to grab her but she already knew what to do, climbing directly onto the crossbar.

His side seemed to split open with his first push on the pedal. Josh struggled to ignore it, pushing with his left foot, and then his right.

Go, he told himself. Go!

After twenty yards, the path met a blacktopped road. Josh veered onto it without really thinking, grateful for the easier pedaling and surer balance. It was only after he’d gone a hundred yards that he realized he was back on the road the Chinese must have used to get to the house. But it was too late to turn back. He leaned forward, his chest touching Mạ’s side, putting as much energy into his legs as possible. His torn pants leg flapped against the chain guard, a steady if light drum keeping time as he went.

Another sound rose over it, behind him. A truck.

Several trucks.

Josh veered off the road onto the shoulder. Mạ hopped off; he grabbed the bike and pointed to the trees.

His head was swimming by the time he reached the thick clump of vegetation. He put the bike down and lay down, curling around his wound, trying to get his breath back. Mạ sat next to him, her tiny body on top of his.

The trucks took longer than he expected to arrive. The sound kept building and building. Finally Josh forced himself up to take a look. At first he couldn’t see anything. Then a green and brown blur passed by — a camouflaged command vehicle.

Not much.

Another blur, similar in size and shape.

A lot of noise for just two trucks.

And then a gray truck passed by, a two-part troop vehicle. Then another. And another. A whole parade of them, an endless parade.

Josh sank back in despair.

“I should have shot them when I had the chance,” he said aloud. “Now there’s way too many. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

Mạ looked at him.

“We’re not giving up,” he told her. He made fists. “We’re not.”

She looked at him fearfully. Maybe she thought he was crazy, or was lying. Maybe she knew it was hopeless.

Was it hopeless? If he died, what would happen to the girl? What would happen to the world — the evidence of what had really happened here would be lost forever.

The whole damn world was depending on him — he was a witness.

Josh touched his pocket, making sure the camera was still there.

So was the sat phone.

Josh took the phone out and turned it on. It was still locked.

He dialed the emergency number. The line seemed dead. But he knew it wasn’t — Peter had heard him.

More trucks passed on the road. And something bigger, heavier.

Tanks.

“Where the hell are you, Peter?” said Josh into the handset. “Get us out of here now. I repeat — get us the hell out of here now. Now!”

18

The division intelligence officer wore eyeglasses with lenses thicker than any Jing Yo had ever seen before. The frames were at least a size too big for his small head, and as he spoke, the glasses worked their way toward the edge of his nose, until finally they seemed ready to fall straight off. Had the briefing been any less serious, Jing Yo would have broken out laughing. As it was, he had a hard time concentrating on everything the man said.

The American scientist who had managed to escape the camp had at least one satellite phone and was using it to communicate with the outside world. He had made at least one call on a civilian network even though China had already blocked calls on the network. The intelligence people suspected that he had received calls through a network used by the American military, and were working on detecting and monitoring them.

“We have aircraft operating in this area here,” said Owl Eyes, pointing to the map. “You see his transmission was in this area, not very far from FOB number two. We have two aircraft crisscrossing the area, listening for transmissions. The next time he makes a call, we will be able to pinpoint it.”

“On the military network or civilian?”

The briefer shook his head. “Civilian definitely. Military maybe. There are a number of factors — we may at least be able to find a transmission. Decrypting it — possibly, but there are no guarantees.”

“Good,” said Jing Yo.

Not coincidentally, FOB #2 was the forward operating base where they had met the briefer. It was a former orange grove plowed under for use as a helicopter landing field.

“The electronics aircraft are excellent planes. Canadian Twin Otters.” Owl Eyes continued, telling how the insides had been gutted and then equipped with electronic devices that were at least as good as anything the Americans were fielding. It was undoubtedly an exaggeration, though how much Jing Yo couldn’t tell.

Nor did he really care. He was much more interested in finding a helicopter for his team.

There were plenty outside. The newest ones — Z-10 gunships — were ferocious warplanes but could not carry passengers. For that job they would use Chenyang Stallions, Chinese copies of the Sikorsky S-76. It was a smaller, more maneuverable aircraft than its brother, the more famous S-70 Sikorsky Blackhawk used by America and its NATO allies. The Chinese company that built the helicopters was being sued by Sikorsky for patent violations — a sign to Jing Yo that it had done its work well.

“The American may have several men with him,” said Owl Eyes. “If this is a trap, he will be armed with antiaircraft weapons.”

“Why do you think that?”

Owl Eyes gave him a blank look. “I think that because, because it makes sense.”

“If it is a trap.”

“I would not underestimate them.”

“I don’t.”

But neither did Jing Yo overestimate them. The Americans bled like anyone else. He had dealt with a few in Malaysia, generally through proxies. They were very good, most of them, but human.

The intelligence officer started to tell him a few things about the terrain, how large swaths were being developed for farmland because of the effects of climate change, and how the jungle had become even more unruly because of the increased carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, which encouraged growth. Jing Yo already knew a great deal about all this; he’d had to learn it when planning his original mission. But he let Owl Eyes talk, unsure whether the man was authorized to know about those missions or not.

When they were finished, Jing Yo went to the mess tent to get himself some tea and something to eat before tackling his next piece of business — wrestling more men to help in the search. He had only his squad at present. True, he could call on regular army units to help — but they were the cause of the problem in the first place, and he was loath to rely on them.

That was the real difference between the Americans and the Chinese. Surely the Americans did not have to worry about politics and infighting between commands, the logrolling that was necessary to get simple directives fulfilled and enough men recruited for a task. Jing Yo was involved in a mission of considerable importance — or so he was told — yet he had not been assigned enough men to carry it out. Even the helicopters that were to transport him had been given over grudgingly.

How important was the mission, really? Maybe now that Na San had been taken, Sun simply wanted him out of the way.

No. The colonel’s anger had been real. And despite that, he had spoken almost kindly to Jing Yo. That could have meant only that this was more than a wild-goose chase.

Owl Eyes rushed into the tent, breathless.

“Lieutenant! We have him! We have a location for you! Six kilometers away! Hurry!”

19

It seemed to Mara that she had just begun to drift off when the satellite phone began ringing desperately, its shrill clatter reverberating through the back of the truck.

“Yeah?” she said as she grabbed it.

“Mara, this is Lucas. Are you sleeping?”

“Sleeping?”

“Get up. I have a precise location on MacArthur. He’s in trouble. You’re only four kilometers away.”

Mara jumped up, shaking the fatigue and confusion away. “Give me coordinates,” she said. “GPS.”

“They’re already uploaded. How soon can you get there?”

“I can’t get anywhere until I know where they are.”

“Open up your system.”

Mara slid over to her gear, which she had piled next to her makeshift bed. She grabbed the handheld computer.

It was four kilometers away, all right, but there was a mountain in between. The nearest road would almost double the distance.

“What sort of troops are near there?” she asked Lucas.

“Our latest intelligence is nearly an hour old. We had elements of the Forty-fifth Division sweeping through. They’re infantry, light vehicles. There’s a small armored unit attached, APCs and armored cars. A handful of tanks. They were probing the area.”

“Roadblocks? Checks?”

“None on the latest imagery. We’re scrambling to get more real-time data and coverage. You’ll probably be there before we get it, though.”

“Great.” Mara reached down and began pulling on her boots.

“Be careful, Mara. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

You should have told me that before I joined the company, she thought.

Jimmy Choi had taken the first watch himself. His usual smile slipped when Mara told him that their subject was in trouble — but just a bit.

“We pull his fanny from fire, what you say?” The Korean slapped his hands together. “Four kilometers nothing.”

“It’s more like eight on the roads.”

“Four, eight — good round numbers. Very lucky.”

Jimmy trotted over to the tented lean-to his men had erected to sleep under. Three minutes later, he had them ready to go. He and Meanie, his fellow Korean, sat together in the Hanma. Moe, the Russian, rode shotgun in the truck with Mara behind the wheel; Jeb, the American-Eritrean, was in the back.

Moe grunted when Mara handed him the paper map. She didn’t speak Russian, and if he spoke English he had yet to share a word of it. But he looked vaguely Asian, certainly more so than the fair-skinned Jeb.

And Mara, for that matter. She pulled her soft cap down and pulled up her collar, obscuring but not hiding her European features.

Moe rode with a Chinese rifle locked and loaded upright in his hand. His own FN SCAR, configured for close-quarter combat with a stubby barrel, sat on his lap. He had ammo all around him, and two pistols on the floor. Mara worried about taking the bumps too hard.

The Hanma had the lead. Jimmy took them down the streambed pretty fast, then spun onto the hardtop, pressing the command car for all it was worth. Mara did the best she could do trying to keep up, but it was definitely a losing battle. The Hanma’s engine was nearly the same size as the truck’s but had a lot less weight to pull.

“Tell him to slow the hell down,” Mara told Moe finally as Jimmy disappeared around a curve. “We have to get there together. And in one piece.”

Moe didn’t answer. In fact, he made no sign that he had heard.

“Give me the radio,” Mara said, holding out her hand. “Radio.”

Moe grunted, but apparently not in assent, because he didn’t move. Mara slammed on the brakes.

“Radio, damn it.”

Moe looked at her, then slowly unhooked his headset and handed it over.

“Choi, where the hell are you?” said Mara, holding the mike up.

“Where you, boss lady?”

“I’m way the hell behind you. Wait for me until I catch up.”

“Ho-ho. We’re in a hurry, right?”

“We have to get there in one piece.”

Jimmy started laughing. Mara put the truck back into gear. She found him waiting two curves ahead.

He didn’t adjust his speed all that much. As they came down a hill, they passed out of the jungle and suddenly had a good view of the valley where MacArthur had made his call.

“Wait,” Mara said over the radio. She slammed the brakes hard enough to jar Moe, then jumped out of the cab, running to the side of the road with her binoculars.

Lucas had described the surrounding area, saying that there was a farm very close to MacArthur’s hiding spot. Mara saw a farm that she thought might be it; smoke was rising from the barn. Roughly two dozen Chinese soldiers were in the field watching as it burned.

“Shit,” muttered Mara.

She pulled out her sat phone and called Lucas back. “Peter, can you connect me with the scientist?”

“How close are you?”

“Maybe two miles.”

“I’m reluctant to call him right now, Mara. It looks like the Chinese have an ELINT plane in the area. They may be looking for his signal.”

“I’m looking at the farm you said was near where he was. The Chinese have surrounded a barn. It’s on fire. If he’s there, I want to know.”

“Shit. Shit.”

Mara heard Lucas putting through the connection, then switching her into the line. A thin, tired voice came on.

“Yes?”

“It’s Peter, Josh. Are you in the barn?”

“Barn? What — no. No, I’m not.”

“Good. Are you safe where you are?”

“No.” It was an emphatic no.

“I want you to find a good hiding place, a very good hiding place, and stay there,” said Mara. “I’ll worry about everything else.”

“Who are you?” Josh asked.

“Josh, I want you to find a hiding place near where you are,” said Peter. “Don’t say anything else. Sign off now.”

His line cut out.

“Stand by for the location,” Lucas told her. “It’s two kilometers to the west of that farm.”

Lucas said something else, but his words were drowned out by the heavy drone of approaching helicopters.

“Ho-ho, better get back in the truck,” shouted Jimmy Choi from the Hanma. “Those are Z-10’s — Chinese versions of the Apache. If they even suspect we’re not on their side, they make us wish we were.”

20

Mạ didn’t weigh much, but in his depleted state, she felt like an anchor as Josh struggled up the hill on the bike, desperately pedaling away from the burning barn. The gun strap kept slipping down his arm. He tried twisting his shoulder up to keep it in place, but the only real solution was to take his hand off the handlebars and move it back. Every time he did, the bike pitched to the left, and he had a hard time keeping his balance.

Sheer adrenaline propelled him, but even adrenaline had its limits. Finally Josh had to stop, the bike nearly dropping out from under him as his strength failed. Mạ jumped off, landing on her bare feet, legs bent and body ready, as if she were a wrestler getting ready for an opponent.

“We’ll have to hide,” he said.

Josh got off the bike and wheeled it into the jungle beyond the road. Mạ followed as he pushed through the thick bushes. He rammed the bike forward so carelessly that he nearly pushed it into a tree.

He was starting to lose his grip, starting to give in.

I’m in survival mode, he told himself. Stay alert. But the words were more a theory than a command, and far from a plan. What was the plan? To survive long enough for Peter to grab him and get him the hell out of there. Which was hardly a plan at all.

What if they just gave themselves up to the Chinese? Weren’t the Chinese America’s allies? Or friends, at least. Business partners. America bought Chinese goods, all sorts of goods. China bought American bonds.

The soldiers he’d seen in the field weren’t anyone’s friends.

Josh rolled the bike under a nearby bush, hiding it. The Chinese would never see it from the road, and they’d have no reason to come here — unless they were looking for them.

What if the man who called himself Peter wasn’t working for the CIA at all? What if he wasn’t American? What if he was Chinese?

The thick stretch of trees gave way to a sparse patch of jungle, very lightly wooded. Josh stopped at the edge of this partial clearing, trying to figure out what it was. Rock outcroppings poked from the ground at his right; the terrain seemed too rocky to be a farm field. But maybe that’s why it had been abandoned.

Mạ tugged at his arm, then pointed to his side.

“I’m okay,” he told her. “I cut myself.”

The pain from the wound had slackened. It no longer seemed to be bleeding, though his shirt was stained dark red. He held out his hands, shrugging as if it were nothing. She looked as if she was ready to cry.

“It’s okay. Just a cut. A lot of blood, but no real harm,” Josh told her. “Okay. It’s okay. You understand ‘okay’?”

He tried to think of words to use to reassure her, but he couldn’t find any. His Vietnamese vocabulary, never large to begin with, had totally deserted him.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find a place to hide.”

He walked along the rock outcroppings. There had been a road here not very long ago. The jungle had rushed back in, but it was too soon for thick trees.

Josh spotted the remains of a shack, busted down and overgrown, opposite the rocks. A rusted sign lay half covered with dirt and weeds in his path. He pointed to it, trying to get Mạ to read it, though he wouldn’t have understood even if she did.

The loud stutter of an approaching helicopter, of two or three or four helicopters, reverberated through the hills. Josh looked up and decided they needed to find a spot with more cover from above.

“This way,” he told Mạ, starting toward what looked like a large rock about twenty yards ahead.

As he came closer, Josh saw it wasn’t a rock at all, but the remains of a structure. It was too overgrown and ramshackle to provide any cover. Just beyond it, however, the rocks formed a narrow ledge and a cleft in the hill. He led Mạ to it, and pushed her beneath it. She barely fit, but Josh knew he couldn’t leave her alone.

“I’ll hide in the trees,” he told her, this time remembering to mime. “I’ll be right there.”

She grabbed hold of his leg and wouldn’t let go.

“You’re safer here,” he said. “They’ll come after me. They won’t bother you. They won’t be expecting a kid.”

He hoped he wasn’t lying.

As he started to push her back into her spot, he looked up and caught sight of something large beyond the row of rocks, a green hole at the edge of the jungle.

It took a few seconds for him to realize that it was the gaping mouth of a mine shaft, roughly six feet tall and only partly reclaimed by nature.

He tugged Mạ from her hiding place. “Come on,” he said. “There’s a mine shaft. We’ll hide there. We can both hide there. Come on.”

21

Jing Yo tightened his grip on the handle at the side of the helicopter door, waiting as the aircraft banked toward the small farm on the side of the hill. Thick black smoke curled from the undersides of the tin roof, seething outward as if the barn were a pot with an overcooked stew. He looked back into the compartment and saw Sergeant Wu grinning behind him.

“Did our work for us,” yelled the sergeant, leaning toward him. “Now maybe we get some rest.”

The helicopter pitched backward slightly as it landed. Jing Yo leapt onto the uneven ground and, head lowered, trotted toward the knot of soldiers standing near the building.

“Who’s in charge here?” he yelled.

“Sergeant Wong,” replied the private closest to him. The man barely glanced at him.

Ordinarily, Jing Yo didn’t stand on ceremony, especially when in a hurry, but the private’s attitude could not be ignored.

“Stand at attention when an officer talks to you,” he barked.

The private turned and frowned, then complied.

“What is your name?” said Jing Yo.

The soldier finally realized that he might actually be in trouble. He went ramrod straight, hands to his sides, and snapped out his name, along with the requisite sir and tone of respect.

“Take me to Sergeant Wong,” said Jing Yo.

“He’s in the house.”

“Take me to him. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jing Yo told Wu and the rest of the team to watch the bam, then went with the private around the back end of the building, circling through a narrow garden and farm yard before reaching the small yard separating the bam and building. A dead goat lay next to the pond bordering the yard. Its head had been chewed up by 5.8 mm bullets. Flies buzzed across the wounds.

Ordinarily a private’s attitude toward an officer mimicked that of his squad sergeant, and Jing Yo expected to be met with disrespect from Sergeant Wong. But the sergeant spotted the commando patch on Jing Yo’s uniform and was instantly cooperative.

“Lieutenant, a pleasure,” said Wong. He held out his hand. “I am Sergeant Wong. How can we help the commandos?”

“You may have a person I’m looking for. Have you searched the house?”

“We are in the process of doing so, Lieutenant.”

“You and I must talk. Alone.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. A pleasure.”

Jing Yo led the sergeant outside. As they walked toward the front of the house, he noticed that no one was standing guard on that part of the property. In fact, the soldiers were poorly organized, clumping around the barn and the house.

“Why haven’t you secured this property?” Jing Yo asked.

“It is secure, Lieutenant.”

“You have no guards along the road, or on this side of the house.”

“Who would we be guarding the house from?”

“Before you search an area, you secure it.”

“We weren’t searching it, Lieutenant. We were moving through. Our job is to probe Viet defenses. We found three snipers in the barn,” he added. “We smoked them out.”

“Where are they?”

“In the field, not far from where we shot them.”

“Take me to them. Make sure the area is secured and searched. My men will search as well.”

The three people who had run from the barn were lying faceup about thirty meters from the still-smoldering structure. Their eyes gaped at the blue sky; they wore puzzled expressions on their faces, as if they couldn’t yet believe they had passed on.

Two men, both Vietnamese.

“Why were they shot?” Jing Yo asked the sergeant.

“They were snipers.”

“Where are their weapons?”

“We haven’t searched the barn yet. No sense risking our own necks, eh, Lieutenant?”

Jing Yo knelt down to check if either of the men had identification cards. Neither one did.

“You know these Vietnamese,” continued Wong. “They’re all trained killers. They were guerrillas during the war with the Americans. They see a uniform and it gets them excited. Blood to a shark.”

“These were the only two men at the farm?” asked Jing Yo.

“We’re still searching.”

“Why didn’t you search before you set the barn on fire?”

“We were just in the process when we came under fire,” said the sergeant.

He answered quickly, his voice high. Jing Yo concluded that he was lying. Most likely one of his own men had begun to shoot out of panic, perhaps even before the fire had been set. It wasn’t important; finding the American was.

“Sergeant Wu, send someone up to the house to help the search. You and I will look in the barn.”

22

Peter Lucas stared at the computer screen, waiting for the refresh to take effect. The image was coming from a Global Hawk 2 unmanned reconnaissance aircraft, which was flying over Laos. Flying at just over 120,000 feet, the plane used a special lens to get a sideways view into Vietnam without actually going over the territory. The camera showed incredible detail: if someone stood on the ground with a pair of coins in his hand, an expert could tell the difference between the penny and the quarter. But it wasn’t good enough for Lucas — it didn’t show him where MacArthur was.

Had he gone to the farm? Or was he running from it when he called?

“You can let the computer refresh on its own,” said DeBiase, standing next to him. “It’s not going to go any quicker if you do it manually.”

“It gives me something to do.”

The screen flashed and the image began redrawing itself. The barn was still on fire. The two helicopters, which had been at the edge of the frame on the last shot, were now on the ground.

“Those helicopters are a bad sign,” said DeBiase. “They wouldn’t have sent them unless they were there for something important.”

“Mmmm.”

“You could call him.”

“Ringer might give him away. If he’s hiding there.”

“They’ll find him sooner or later. Mara’s awful close. The Chinese may find her instead of him.”

Lucas tapped his fingers on the console. DeBiase was right. He reached to the keyboard, selected the dialer, and called.

The phone started to ring as Josh neared the entrance to the mine. He stopped, then took a step toward the cave, then decided to answer the phone.

“What?” he said.

“Josh, it’s Peter.”

“Are you who you say you are?”

“Josh, listen — ”

Mạ tugged at him. The helicopters were practically overhead.

“Go to hell,” said Josh. He hit the Kill button and shoved the phone in his pocket as he ran toward the cave, his finger moving to the trigger of his gun.

Mara studied the Chinese helicopters from the cab of the truck. She’d never seen the gunships before. They looked a lot like American Apaches, but with faceted sides and a thick cowling over the engine. These were features designed to make the chopper stealthier, though in their present configuration, with thick air-to-ground missiles and gun pods on their stubby winglets, they didn’t look like they were in much of a mood to pass by unnoticed.

“What we doin’, boss?” asked Jimmy Choi over the squad radio.

“We’re waiting until we get a positive location,” said Mara. She still had the Russian’s headset.

“And what we do if it’s on the barn?”

“What do you suggest we do?”

“Ho-ho. I suggest we blow through the Chinese army.” Jimmy laughed. “If you get rid of the helicopters. No helicopters, we’re in like

Flynn, babe.”

“I’m glad you can laugh at a time like this.”

“Better than crying, right?”

“Seriously.”

“Serious — helicopters a problem but we have grenades. We can take down two or three. But maybe kill your scientist, too.”

Mara picked up the sat phone to call Lucas and find out if he had a location, but he beat her to it. She hit the Talk button as the phone started to ring.

“It’s Mara. Go ahead, Bangkok.”

“Mara, listen. I’m just beaming you the GPS coordinates. He’s on a hill two kilometers southwest of that farm. The helicopters are circling all around the area. But the only ground troops we can see are at the farm.”

She picked up the field glasses and scanned the area. The hill was probably the one almost directly to her left, less than a mile away.

“Can you get him?”

“Definitely,” she said, digging out her GPS to make sure.

Jing Yo raised his rifle, ready to follow the soldiers into the smoldering barn.

Was the scientist the man he had chased into the water days before? If so, he was a difficult opponent, a man with much luck or many lives, perhaps both. And skill.

His satcom radio buzzed. Jing Yo raised his hand, signaling Wu to wait, and answered the hail. It was the intelligence officer from division who was helping track the scientist.

“I have a new fix for you,” said Owl Eyes excitedly. “Not three kilometers away. He’s just communicated within the last two minutes. Hurry; he may be trying to escape.”

They were airborne two minutes later. Jing Yo stood in the space behind the flight deck between the two pilots, crouching forward so he could see. The GPS coordinates, projected onto a rolling map in the center of the helicopter’s control panel as well as on the HUD or heads-up displays in front of the pilots, indicated the scientist was on a small hill to their right as they flew.

“No place to land,” said the pilot.

“Land in the road,” said Jing Yo.

“Not wide enough. The rotors will clip the trees.”

“We have a field half a klick south, right there,” said the copilot.

“No. We’ll rappel,” said Jing Yo. “We’ll go down lines into the road.”

“As you wish, Lieutenant.”

“Who’s that?” Jing Yo asked, pointing to a command vehicle and troop truck that were coming up the road toward the hill. The direction was wrong for it to be Wong, whom he’d ordered to finish the search as a precaution.

As they watched, the trucks pulled over by the side of the road and several soldiers got out, sprinting up the hill.

“You sure they’re not your people?” the copilot asked.

Had Sun put another unit on the job without telling him? It would be just like the colonel.

But no; Sun didn’t have enough resources to waste them in a meaningless competition.

“It doesn’t matter. Get us in there.”

Mara’s heart pounded as she jogged up the incline. She swept her eyes back and forth, dodging the biggest rocks and clumps of brush.

“Josh!” she yelled, nearly out of breath. “Josh! Peter sent us! We’re here. Where are you, Josh?”

There was no answer.

“Josh!”

Mara took one last look at the handheld computer’s GPS display, then slid it into her pocket in favor of the sat phone.

“Peter — some of us are wearing Chinese uniforms. Tell him it’s okay.”

“I’m trying to get him, Mara. He’s not answering.”

“Shit.” She kept the phone in her hand and yelled. “Josh! Come out! We need to get you the hell out of here now!”

A line of rocks on Mara’s left ran up the side of the hill like exposed ribs. She began following them, moving slowly so she could see any possible hiding places.

The vegetation cleared. The ruins of old buildings were scattered around, ghosts from a not-too-distant past.

“Josh!” Mara yelled again.

Jimmy Choi, Moe, and Jeb came up behind her.

“Where is he?” said Jimmy. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“He has to be nearby,” said Mara. “Maybe he saw our uniforms and panicked. Search the sides of the woods- I’ll take that lean-to or whatever the hell it is.”

A helicopter had begun circling above, moving around the hill.

Was it a trap? It had that smell.

“Josh!”

There was a cave near the summit of the hill — no, a mine shaft.

Mara put her phone to her ear. “Peter? Did he go in the mine?”

“He didn’t say anything about a mine.”

“Are we in the right goddamn place?”

“Mara, I wouldn’t let you go to the wrong place. You’re about ten feet from where he was when he called — ten feet south of the exact spot.”

The exact spot was two or three steps from the entrance to the mine. He must’ve gone inside.

“Josh!”

Her voice echoed into the darkness. She took her LED key-chain light out of her pocket and held it up. The dim light didn’t shine very far into the shaft.

Jimmy Choi ran up outside. “The helicopter is going to land,” he told her. “Very bad news.”

“Don’t let it. I think our guy is in here. I’m going into the cave.”

“Ho-ho. You make us earn our money, lady. We see you at the truck.”

Jimmy’s laugh stayed with her as she stepped forward into the darkness.

Jing Yo glanced down at the road as he reached for the line at the side of the helicopter. They were less than thirty meters from the road surface, hovering within a meter of the nearby trees. He could see the Hanma a few meters away. From the markings, the vehicle looked like it belonged to an artillery scouting team; very possibly they had been diverted from some other chore.

“Let’s go!” he yelled over the roar of the rotors, swinging out. Feet in place, he began to slide downward.

Something passed overhead, a bird flashing with incredible speed.

Jing Yo’s instincts took over, and though still a few meters from the ground, he released his grip on the line. The rope snapped at him, angry. The sky howled, an angry wind erupting as he fell.

Jing Yo spread his arms, relaxing his muscles as his feet hit the ground. He rolled forward, hitting the ground far harder than he would have under ordinary circumstances, but not so hard that he was in danger of breaking any bones. He rolled forward, falling as he had fallen many times before, swirling upward as he had been trained to do, balanced, perfectly balanced — everything was a matter of balance.

The air exploded. Jing Yo was pushed to the ground. He struggled to get back up, to understand what had happened.

The helicopter was down. The jungle was on fire.

Josh pushed Mạ ahead as the voice echoed through the tunnel, holding and prodding her with his left hand while he felt along the wall with his right. It was pitch-black; he couldn’t even see Mạ’s hair, let alone the wall or what was ahead.

A set of iron rails ran down the center of the tunnel, but the side where they were walking was smooth. There were hooks in the wall from an old rope guide. Josh started counting them as he went, hoping to use them as a rough gauge when he came back.

He heard his name echoing through the tunnel, distorted by the walls.

It had been a clever trick all along. The Chinese had thought of everything.

Mạ halted. Josh pushed her lightly, then stumbled against her, twisting downward and slipping down against the wall.

They’d come to a barrier. Wooden slats were posted sideways across the passage, cutting it off.

Josh scrambled to his feet and ran his hands along the boards, top to bottom, trying to find an opening. Mạ moved with him, clinging to his leg, as he worked left.

The path was completely cut off. Josh reached his hands back and forth, then started along the other wall, hoping for an opening.

“Josh!” came the call behind him. They were closing in.

He still had the gun. It was the only way now.

He dropped to his knee, raising the rifle. But then he got another idea — perhaps he could use the barrel as a crowbar, prying off enough of the boards to at least send Mạ through.

He got up and began feeling for a slit big enough to stick the barrel in. Mạ tugged at his pants leg.

“It’s okay,” he told her.

The sound of someone coming for him grew louder. He chose one of the narrow spaces between the boards and pushed the tip of the barrel against it. The gun slipped from the tiny hole, nearly falling out of his grip.

“Josh,” said Mạ, tugging.

He turned and saw a faint bluish light glimmering in the tunnel. It was above his head; he hadn’t realized how sloped the tunnel was.

“All right,” he said, getting down on his knee again. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I thought we would be safe here.”

He tucked her behind him and got ready. There was nothing else to do now. Offering his life in exchange for the girl’s was worthless; they’d just kill her after they shot him.

How many were after him? If it was only a couple, he could fire, grab their guns and ammo, maybe make it out of the tunnel.

That was what he was going to do.

“Josh? Are you in here?” said the voice.

It was a woman. She was a decent English speaker, too. The Chinese really had prepared very well.

“Peter sent me. I’m going to get you out of here, but we have to hurry — there are Chinese troops nearby. They have helicopters. Come on, Josh. We have to leave now.”

“Oh, you’re damn good,” muttered Josh.

“It’s not a trick.”

The light stopped moving.

“Josh — I know you don’t trust anybody, but I’m not with the Chinese. I’m an American. I want to get you out. You have important information, don’t you? You can tell the UN — the world.”

Josh felt his finger cramp against the trigger. The blue light was faint; they must be far away. If he fired now, would he be able to run close enough to grab the fallen soldiers’ weapons before their comrades came? How many of them were there?

“Josh — do you hear me? I know you’re near. Come on — we have to hurry.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Right now there’s only me. Outside I have four men. Josh — you can trust me.”

“Bullshit!”

Mara stretched to keep the flashlight as high as possible, hoping it would illuminate more of the tunnel. She couldn’t see where he was, but it must not be too far away, maybe just a few inches beyond the dark circle ahead.

“Josh? There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Mara started forward. “I understand why you’re worried. I had the same fear myself. But if you were Chinese, you would have shot me by now. And vice versa. If I was trying to trap you, I could have rolled a grenade down the shaft.”

“You bastards!” he shouted.

Mara threw herself down, sprawling on the floor of the tunnel a second before Josh fired two bursts in her direction. The bullets were well over her head, but as they flew into the roof of the tunnel they rained splinters down from the ceiling.

The LED had slipped from her hand as she landed, spinning as it hit the floor and sailing toward Josh. She saw a figure crouched against the blackness ahead, starting to rise.

She started to get up, only to throw herself back down as Josh fired again.

Josh felt the rifle click empty. He launched himself forward, desperate, determined to sacrifice himself for the girl. It was the only thing he had now, the only reason for his existence. He flew through the air, aiming at the dark shadow in front of him, his feet barely touching the ground.

He bowled the shadow over, wrestling desperately, struggling. It had more energy than he thought, more power — he hadn’t hurt it at all, maybe hadn’t even wounded it.

“Stop, you idiot!” it yelled. “Stop. I’m here to help you, damn it.”

The shadow flung him around, twisting him to the ground. It jumped on him.

Josh’s energy fled. The gash from the barbed wire reopened, shrieking with pain. Everything he’d suffered over the past several days, his lack of food, of sleep, every injury, sapped his strength, left him weak and powerless. He lay on the ground, completely drained, ready for death.

Mara felt the fight go out of him. She gave him a hard smash to the jaw just in case, then pushed backward, rising and starting to pull him with her. As she took a step, something flew into her back — a wild animal, scratching and biting.

“Off!” she yelled, swirling around, unsure what was attacking her.

It was the size of a small bear, with all its fury.

A girl?

“Em!” yelled Mara, speaking Vietnamese as she tried to restrain the tornado. “Little sister, stop. I’m your friend. I’m a friend of Josh’s. Stop. Stop!”

The girl continued to hit her. Mara managed to grab her shirt and push her against the wall, trying not to hurt her yet desperate to stop her so they could leave. Finally the child’s fury expired. She deflated, falling against Mara like a rag doll.

“We have to get out of here,” said Mara. “Josh — Josh, are you all right?”

He groaned, and pushed himself back against the wall.

“Come on,” she told him.

“I don’t trust you.”

“If I was working with the Chinese, would I have come in here alone? God, you’d be dead by now. Come on.”

Mara scooped up her AK-47 and flashlight and began trotting up the mine shaft. Looking back as she reached the first arc of light, she saw Josh following, the girl clutching his side. He’d picked up his gun and held it by the barrel, practically dragging it along.

Mara threw herself down near the mouth of the cave, crawling to the entrance on her hands and knees. It was eerily silent outside.

“Jimmy, where are you?” she asked over the team radio.

There was no response. She moved out of the cave mouth cautiously, worried that the Chinese had overwhelmed Choi’s people and had set an ambush. But there was no one there.

“Come on, come on,” she said to the others, waving them from the cave. “We have a truck down on the road.”

The helicopter had crashed into the trees near the road, lodging itself about ten meters off the ground. The grenade that had hit it started a fire near the engine compartment; within seconds it consumed the entire helicopter.

As Jing Yo ran toward the wreckage, he heard the anguished scream of one of the crewmen stuck in the aircraft.

“Jump!” he yelled, even as threw himself onto a tree trunk below the wreck and began shimmying upward.

Jing Yo got about halfway up when the chopper’s fuel tank exploded, shaking him and a good part of the wreckage from the tree. Tumbling, he smacked against another tree, rebounding into a thick bush a few feet from the ground.

He lay twisted in the branches for several minutes, his wits scrambled.

“Lieutenant, are you all right?”

Sergeant Wu’s voice roused him like the cold air the monks would let into the dormitories after taking the novices’ sheets. Jing Yo pushed to get up.

“Careful, you’re about two meters from the ground,” said Wu.

Jing Yo brought his feet down, gradually regaining his senses as he slithered through the leaves to the ground. He took a wobbly step, then stopped and forced a deep breath into his lungs.

“You okay, Lieutenant?”

Rather than answering, Jing Yo looked up. Only a third of the helicopter remained in the trees. The rest was a tangled mess, scattered in a haphazard circle around the area.

“There was a crewman,” said Jing Yo.

“They’re all dead. Come on — our guys are on the road. Let’s find who did this.”

Sergeant Wu led him back to the shoulder of the road, where the rest of the team had gathered, crouching in a defensive position. Jing Yo took out his satellite radio and gave it to Ai Gua.

“Find out what the situation is,” he told the private. “Get division to talk to the helicopters. Where is our enemy?”

“There are soldiers in the jungle near the hill,” Ai Gua said a few minutes later. “And near the trucks.”

“We take the trucks first,” said Jing Yo.

Disoriented and still weak, Josh followed Mara out of the cave. She was a big woman, nearly as tall as he was, and dressed like a Chinese soldier. But what she’d said had to be true — if she was on the Chinese side she’d have killed him by now.

“My people are down by the road,” she told him, holding out her hand to stop him as he followed. “Wait.”

Josh heard the pop-pop-pop of automatic weapons as he squatted down. Little Mạ clung to his back, her body trembling.

“I’m Mara, by the way,” said the CIA officer, holding out her hand. “Mara Duncan.”

“Josh MacArthur.”

“Yeah, I know. You have video, right?”

A twinge of suspicion came back. He patted his pocket. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Who’s the girl?”

“Mạ.”

“Who is she? Was she on the expedition?”

“No, she found me. She was tracking me through the woods, and then the Chinese soldiers grabbed her. They would have killed her.”

“You saved her?”

“Yeah, I saved her.” Josh felt his face flush. “I haven’t eaten or slept that much in a couple of days. Otherwise I would have pounded your head into the ground. You’re damn lucky.”

“Then you’re lucky, too,” said Mara mildly. “But I don’t know that we have much more luck than that.” She looked at the girl. “Tên em là gì?”

“Mạ.”

“Mara.”

She held out her hand, but Mạ wouldn’t take it.

“You have bullets in that gun?” she asked Josh.

“It’s empty.”

Mara put her hand to her ear, cupping an earpiece for her radio.

“Right,” she told whoever was on the other end. Then she pulled a pistol from beneath her tac vest. “Take this. I hope you’re a better shot in the daylight. Come on. We have to move.”

Josh scrambled to follow her as she ran down the trail. He felt angry — she was treating him like he was a jerk, or worse.

She stopped near the road, catching him as he ran up.

“Hold, hold,” she said. “Easy.”

He flicked her hand away and slid next to a tree, gun ready. When Mạ finally reached them, she threw herself over Josh’s back as she had before. It felt somehow reassuring, though his ego was still deeply bruised.

“Our trucks are just up the road. My guys will drive down this way in a second,” added Mara. “Take the girl when they come. I’ll cover you.”

As she said that, gunfire sounded up the road.

Jing Yo split his small squad in two, sending Wu and three others across the road while he worked up the near side with the rest. They came under fire before they were in sight of the trucks, bullets splashing into the macadam and the trees behind them. Chest pressed against the side of the road, Jing Yo caught a glimpse of someone retreating near the command vehicle. He wore black clothes — clearly not a Chinese soldier.

Jing Yo turned to Ai Gua. “Tell the helicopter to destroy the trucks. The troop truck first.”

Mara heard the truck rumbling toward her and got ready to launch herself into the road. She glanced to the right, looking at Josh and the girl, Mạ. The girl was another complication, but it was very possible that she would be a valuable one — not only did they have an eyewitness and video footage of China’s brutality, but they also had a victim. It would be a PR jackpot.

Assuming she got them back to the UN safe and sound.

Jimmy Choi and one of his men started laying covering fire from across the road. The bumper of the truck appeared as it rounded the bend.

“Let’s go,” said Mara, starting into the road.

A helicopter’s heavy rotor pounded the ground. Mara stopped and turned back, looking for Josh. He was still by the trees, picking up the girl.

“Come on!” yelled Mara. She stepped toward them. “Come on!”

Something flashed behind her. Mara felt herself thrown forward. Then everything went black.