Washington, D.C.
President Greene glanced across the Oval Office at a portrait
of one of his predecessors before taking the call. He'd ordered the painting of FDR placed where he could see it a few months before. Never a big Roosevelt admirer, he'd come to appreciate the Democrat more and more over the past year.
“Mrs. Prime Minister, thank you for returning my call,” President Greene told Ivory Chatham as he retrieved the British prime minister from hold. “I trust you're well.”
“Tolerably well,” she told him. “The weather here has been just awful. Even for England.”
“I'm sorry to hear.” Mandatory chitchat finished, Greene plunged into the reason he'd placed the call. “I've been speaking to both my secretary of state and my national security adviser about your concerns.”
“I'm going to save you the embarrassment, George,” said the prime minister, cutting him short. “His Majesty's government is not currently in a position to help you on the resolution.”
Greene stifled a growl. “Why not?”
“I'm sorry, George. The financial situation is very difficult here.”
“You're not going to succumb to blackmail, are you? This is a critical point. Crucial.”
“I know. The financial situation is very precarious right now,” added Chatham. “And I'm afraid that my government would not be able to sustain a challenge.”
“I hadn't realized the situation was so ⦠precarious.” Greene shifted in his chair. Part of the problem, he believed, was that Chatham faced a no-confidence vote in the Parliament in a few days. She had barely survived the last, and undoubtedly didn't want to do anything to tip more votes against her.
“It's the bonds, George. The Chinese have been very clear that they will withdraw their deposits.”
“They've hinted the same to us. It will hurt them more than us. Certainly in the long run.”
“You're not in the position I am. And frankly, the Chinese have public
sentiment on their side. People think the Vietnamese are getting what they deserve. I'm surprised that's not the case in your country.”
It probably was, though Greene had made it a point to avoid looking at any public opinion polls on the matter.
“People have seen the photos the Chinese have spread around,” added the prime minister. “I know what you've said about them, but they're very convincing. Very, very convincing.”
“What if we had proof that the Chinese staged the entire incident? That the Vietnamese never launched an attack.”
“Of course we suspect that.”
“But if the public had proof. Would it make a difference to you?”
“Well, if we had public opinion on our side, in that case ⦔
“Then let me ask you a favor. Do nothing. For a few daysâtake no stand on the resolution.”
“You have proof?”
“We're working on it,” said Greene.
Northwestern Vietnam
Jing Yo had been following the enemy
soldiers for nearly ten minutes before he spotted the blood. It was a bright splotch on a long blade of grass. He stopped and crouched, wondering if the enemy had managed to set another ambush nearby. When he saw nothing, he moved forward again, staying as low to the ground as he could.
More blood. A big splotch and a little one.
Two more steps and there were three drops, all very large.
The brush got thicker. More branches were broken as they passed, the enemy's haste making its path easier to follow.
It
might
be a trap. They'd been very clever so far.
Jing Yo moved ahead carefully, his eyes straining to see through the brush. There was a shadow ahead.
Stealthily, he crept toward it. It wasn't until he was three meters away that he was sure it was just a tree.
A few steps beyond the shadow, the scattered splotches of blood became a steady line, thin and narrow, then wider. After a few strides, Jing Yo heard a groan ahead.
He strongly suspected a trap. He circled to his right, moving quietly through a group of trees. The enemy soldier had fallen against a bush and was leaning there, half suspended, facedown.
But he was still alive. His hand was clawing at the ground, as if he were a turtle trying to right itself.
Jing Yo sprang forward, rushing toward the man. The enemy soldier had dropped his rifle on the ground.
The gun was Chinese. He wore Chinese uniform pants and top under a bulletproof vest and a regular-issue camo tac vest.
Was he Chinese? What was going on?
Jing Yo reached him just as the soldier managed to push himself faceup.
He looked Chinese.
“Who are you?” demanded Jing Yo, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him. “Comrade, what unit are you?”
The man grimaced, clearly in pain. His eyes opened and closed. He was barely conscious.
Jing Yo squatted down. The bulletproof vest was not Chinese; it was cut higher and was thinner. The inserts seemed to be made of a thousand spheres rather than the stiff plates used by the Chinese and most other militaries.
His radio was foreign as well. He had German-made field glasses, unusual in Asia.
Jing Yo's bullets had caught him in the thigh and groin, tearing apart the flesh. Not serious at first, the wound had been made much worse by the soldier's exertions running through the jungle. Blood was now oozing out onto his uniform at a steady pace.
“Who are you?” Jing Yo asked again.
The man groaned.
“Tell me your name. What unit are you with? Or are you with the Vietnamese?
Tên anh là gì
?” he added, switching to Vietnamese as he asked him his name again.
The man didn't respond.
“You're American?” Jing Yo asked. “Are you CIA?”
No answer.
“Where is the scientist?”
The man yelled in anguish. Jing Yo reached to his vest and took out his morphine injector. He removed the cap, then plunged the needle into the man's leg.
“Lieutenant, what's this?” asked Ai Gua, plunging out of the brush.
“Our enemy is wearing our uniform.”
Sergeant Wu and three other commandos came up behind Ai Gua. Though the explosion had been fearsome, the IED had wounded only two men, both lightly. Wu had left two of his soldiers to care for them.
“Are they Vietnamese?” asked Wu, looking at the man.
“I don't think so, but it's possible,” said Jing Yo. Years of intrigue had taught him not to rule out any possibility; though remote, there was even a chance the man was actually Chinese.
“They must have gotten the uniforms from whoever they stole the trucks from,” said Wu.
“Yes,” said Jing Yo. “We'll continue to pursue them. The best odds are that the scientist is with them, or behind them somewhere.”
“If they reach the road they'll be gone,” said Wu.
“The helicopters will continue to patrol the area,” said Jing Yo. “It's the best we can do.”
Ai Gua had dressed the man's wounds and checked him for identification. He had none, not even a wallet. But he did have moneyânearly a hundred Vietnamese five-hundred-thousand-dong notes were wadded in his pants.
Not a bad amount of cash for a soldier wearing a private's uniform.
“Who are you?” Jing Yo asked the man.
The man began to babble. If he was speaking coherently, it wasn't in a language Jing Yo recognized.
“Stay with him,” Jing Yo told Ai Gua. “We'll go after the others. Kim, you're with me.”
As Jing Yo started back through the jungle, he tried to visualize where the various forces were. The enemy soldiers had retreated eastward; both he and Wu were moving in the same direction and parallel to each other, separated by about a hundred meters. They covered a wide area, but there was still room to lose their enemy. The jungle to Jing Yo's right was thick, and from the satellite maps was almost impassable farther south. The area where Wu was moving was sparser, and backed into a series of farm fields about a kilometer away. Jing Yo had sent troops there before heading to the area of the mine shaft; they should be in place by now, though they had yet to report any contact.
The jungle pitched upward abruptly at a set of rocks that swung in a diagonal to the north. Jing Yo stopped, examining the ridge carefully. It was a perfect ambush point, with a good line of sight to the north.
Just as he started moving to his right, a gunshot cracked through the jungle. He raced forward, throwing himself against the rocks as the gunfire suddenly thickened.
It took him a few seconds to realize that the firefight was at least a hundred meters away. Wu and his men must be under fire.
Jing Yo told Kim to move left, sending the private sweeping around his flank. Then he climbed up the rocks, digging his fingers into the thick moss and hauling himself through the bushes at the top. He rose and started to trot, jogging forward as the gunfire continued. When he had run nearly a hundred meters, he saw something running to his right. He raised his rifle and fired off a burst, then threw himself down. The answering fire came from two distinct directions, right in front of him and to his right.
The one on the right began to run through the jungle.
The enemy had split up. Most likely the man running was with the scientist.
Assuming the scientist was with them at all.
Jing Yo took a few steps back, then started moving to his right. There was a loud pop, and something flew through the trees.
“Grenade!” he yelled, throwing himself down.
The grenade soared over his head and exploded. Jing Yo started moving again, tamping down the impulse to run. He picked his way through the bushes, trying to stay low.
Something green moved through the trees about fifty meters ahead. Jing Yo went down to his knee and fired two bursts.
There was a scream.
Jing Yo leapt to his feet and ran. There was no need for stealth now, no sense in trying to blend into the jungle. It was a raceâhe had to get to the man before he recovered enough to shoot back.
He saw him lying on the ground, writhing in pain, half groaning, half screaming. He was dressed in black fatiguesâno Chinese uniform.
Something about his agony touched Jing Yo, provoking sympathy. He stopped, suddenly filled with compassion.
The man rolled over onto his back. He had a weaponâan FN 40 mm grenade launcher.
Jing Yo leapt to his right as the grenade fired. The projectile passed
so close that he felt the wind rushing past, the breath of a dragon provoked from its lair.
He hit the ground hard, rolling as the grenade exploded in the trees some eighty meters away. Jing Yo got to his feet and, before he took a full breath, killed the man who had tried to kill him, crushing his windpipe with the heel of his foot.
The monks had taught him this lesson long agoâsave your compassion for the appropriate moment. In battle, it is weakness.
The dead man had no ID, but like the other man, he had a considerable bankroll of Vietnamese money. He was out of bullets and had no more grenades. His face, big and gruff looking, seemed European; in any event, he was clearly not a Chinese or Vietnamese native.
Was he the scientist?
He was dressed like a warrior, with combat boots. He looked nothing like the man Jing Yo had seen the first night, or what Jing Yo imagined a scientist would look like. It was much more likely that he was one of the rescuers.
The stutter of automatic weapons interrupted his thoughts. Jing Yo put a fresh magazine in his gun, gazing back to his left. He waited, watching for movement, but there was none. Finally the gunfire stopped.
“Lieutenant!” yelled Wu. “Lieutenant!”
“Here!” answered Jing Yo, finally allowing himself to relax. “It's clear!”
“We got two of them,” said Wu when he arrived a few minutes later.
“I have a third,” said Jing Yo.
“Only four men held us off?” said Wu. “There must have been more.”
Jing Yo said nothing. The soldiers had been very skilled. Certainly there must be more, someone with the scientist. But where?
“The scientist has to be farther along,” said Wu. “Should we pursue?”
“Yes,” said Jing Yo, but even as the word left his mouth he realized he had made a mistake. The scientist had escaped down the stream; the enemy had distracted him, and he had done the logical thing, pursuing them rather than his target.