Shock of War (38 page)

There were any number of things Zeus could say, but Perry was in no mood to be interrupted. His stars were screaming, and the only option was to shut up.

“What the hell got into you, Zeus? You were the responsible one.”

“General, I can't say—”

“You're damn straight, you can't say. Why did you let Christian jump on that tank?”

Perry had obviously gotten a report from the Vietnamese.

“I didn't let him do anything, sir,” said Zeus. “He ran before I could stop him.”

“Christian did that? Christian ran into the line of fire?”

“It wasn't like that. There were explosives set to a bridge, and they didn't go off. Christian thought he could fix them. He went with the demo guy and I went after him.”

“What the hell does he know about demolitions? Jesus, Zeus! You should have stopped him.”

“I
did
run after him. In the storm, it was hard to tell what was going on.”

“Damn it, Murphy! I told you to stay away.”

Zeus felt his cheeks burning. Part of him realized that Perry was just unleashing his frustration, fairly or unfairly, on the object that happened to be closest at hand.

Unfairly.
Perry's attitude was one hundred and eighty degrees from where it had been only a few days before. He'd approved the mission to Hainan, which was even more suicidal than what he and Christian had just done.

“Go back to your quarters,” said Perry finally. “Don't come until you're called for.”

Zeus turned on his heel and left without a word.

*   *   *

Perry folded his arms
in front of his chest, angry with himself for losing control. He'd been unfair to Zeus.

But then everything about the situation was unfair. They shouldn't be here in the first place if the country wasn't going to support them.

Now he had to deal with Christian's death.

There was a knock on the door. One of Trung's colonels leaned his head inside.

“General, if you have time,” said the colonel, “General Trung would request to talk to you.”

Perry walked with him to Trung's office, his mind still fixed on the problem of Christian. It was the lying to the family that bothered him. He couldn't tell them what had happened because of where it had happened, so he'd have to make up a story. That was lying.

It dishonored everyone.

Trung was talking to General Tri, the commander in the northeast whom they'd been helping. Perry stopped just outside the doorway.

“General Perry,” said Trung in English. “We would be honored if you could join us.”

“General.” Perry nodded at Tri.

“We are very grateful, once more, for your help,” said Tri. “And for the sacrifices of your men.”

“Yes.”

“Were you successful in obtaining the weapons?” asked Trung.

“I've been told two planeloads of Russian AT-14s are en route,” said Perry. “There will be more.”

“We have only the missiles for the infantrymen?” said Tri. “Nothing for the tanks?”

“That's all so far.”

“As we are constituted,” said Trung, “the best strategy would be to use these weapons in the north immediately. In the west we still have time.”

“Agreed,” said Perry.

“If Major Murphy is agreeable, we would appreciate his tactical advice,” said Trung.

Perry stiffened.

“Major Murphy needs to rest,” said Perry.

Trung stared at him. Perry stared back.

“The Vietnamese people are grateful for your sacrifices,” said Trung finally. “As is General Tri.”

“Thank you.”

“We have no experience deploying that weapon,” continued Trung. “We would be grateful for assistance.”

Perry had been ordered to provide assistance—which meant that he should allow Murphy to help.

It was his duty.

“Once the major has rested, he can assist in developing a proper strategy,” said Perry. “I'm sure he'd be happy to do so.”

“Thank you, General. We are most grateful.”

“Yes,” said Perry. “I'm sure.”

8

Hanoi

Zeus needed someone to help him
deal with the Vietnamese so he could find Anna, but it was pretty clear to him that General Perry wasn't going to help. The only person he could think of who might was Ambassador Behrens. So instead of returning to the hotel, he went back to the embassy.

The rain had slackened to a light mist. That was bad, he thought; the more water, the better for the Vietnamese.

The Marine in the center hall told him the ambassador was out. He suggested he see Juliet Greig instead, and pointed Zeus toward her office.

Zeus sneezed as he went up the stairs. “That's all I need now, a cold,” he muttered.

Greig's office was a suite, with two outer offices and a larger inner one. When he didn't see her in any of the rooms, Zeus decided to stand near the hallway door and wait for her. He'd been standing a few moments when he realized he smelled coffee being brewed somewhere in the vicinity. He walked toward the end of the hallway, and found a room that served as a kind of kitchenette, with a counter and a small refrigerator and a microwave.

Greig was standing in front of a Mr. Coffee, watching as fresh coffee poured into the carafe.

“Real coffee,” said Zeus.

“Major Murphy.” Greig, surprised, gave him an exaggerated sideways glance, then took the pot from the holder and poured a cup. “Would you like some?”

“That'd be great.”

She reached up and opened the cabinet, taking down a cup. Stretched, her arm muscles showed strong definition.

“And how would you like it?” she asked.

“I'll just drink it black.”

“Good choice.” She handed him the cup she had already poured. “We don't have any milk. And the sugar supply is getting low.”

Zeus took the coffee and held it under his nose. The steam felt good on his sinuses.

“Smell good?” she asked, her tone slightly mocking.

“My nose is a little stuffed up. I think I'm getting a cold.”

“That's too bad. How's the storm?”

“It's, uh … wet.”

“I see.” She glanced down at the floor. He'd trailed rain onto the rug.

“It was worse before,” said Zeus.

She poured herself a cup, then took a sip.

“Are you here for a meeting?” she asked.

“I kinda have … there's a problem with one of the Vietnamese doctors who helped me. She's in trouble. I was wondering if the ambassador could help.”

“Let's discuss this in my office,” she told him.

*   *   *

For the ambassador to intercede
in a case of treason would be highly unusual, Greig told Zeus after he explained why he had come. There were all sorts of political nuances involved, and Behrens would almost certainly refuse to be involved on an official level.

Unofficially, Greig might be able to do something herself. She was the acting consul general, and as such, used to helping Americans deal with the Vietnamese authorities.

Still, she didn't hold out a lot of hope. Her body language—arms furled in front of her breasts, legs crossed in a tight wedge—emphasized the point. She sat at the edge of her desk, a few feet from him in the large inner office.

“The Vietnamese government is very hierarchical,” Greig told him. “They don't take very kindly to outside interference. They're very touchy.”

“I'm not trying to interfere. I just want to get her out. She's not a traitor.”

“They may see things very differently. The Chinese are massacring their people.”

“That doesn't give them the right to kill injured prisoners of war,” said Zeus. He started to get up from the overstuffed chair. “I'm sorry to waste your time.”

“Wait, wait. Relax, Major.” Greig put her hands on the desk behind her, as if bracing herself. “I didn't say I wouldn't try to help. I'm just putting things into their perspective, that's all. If you're going to help her, you're going to have to understand the system she lives in.”

“You don't sound very optimistic.”

“I'm trying to be realistic. I'll talk to some people in the government whom I know. That's where I'll start. But with the war, obviously, I don't know how much help they'll be.”

“I risked my life for them. One of my friends got killed.”

“Which friend?”

Zeus was surprised that Greig didn't know about Christian.

“Some of the Vietnamese I met,” he told her, deciding to backtrack. “They didn't make it.”

“Mmmm.” She didn't seem to believe him, but she didn't press. “Let me ask you a personal question, Zeus. What's the nature of your relationship with Dr. Anway?”

“There is no relationship.”

“None?”

“She helped me, that's all. And I … I saw what happened.”

“I'll do what I can, Major. But don't expect miracles.”

9

Forthright, Ohio

Josh kicked the clod of dirt,
watching it burst into a dozen small pieces as his toe launched it into the air.

His cousin had recently turned over the ground of what they called the house garden behind the barn, ready to plant some of the early vegetables. The small garden was separate from the actual farming operation. It was a full acre, elaborately laid out and carefully tended by hand. In a few months' time, it would be filled with tomatoes and cucumbers and melons, several different kinds of lettuce, and huge, long green beans that Josh remembered from his childhood as veritable swords.

The farm had been in the family for generations, through good and bad times. Mostly, they'd grown wheat and soybeans, though a good portion of the land supported dairy cows for a while, and forty acres had been devoted to corn, supposedly since the days of the Indians.

It was on the farm that Josh had first become interested in how things worked together, how different plants thrived under different conditions, and it was in the house garden that his interest was piqued. Some of the varieties they grew had been passed down for several generations. Among the prize vegetables was a particularly squat but juicy striped tomato that bore no resemblance to anything Josh had seen anywhere else.

Josh was not a farmer, for many reasons. But he did love to stand in the middle of a farm, close enough to the barn to feel its smell, or near to the machines, or out in the middle of fields that seemed to go on forever.

This was the American core, at least as he knew it. Ironically, while the rest of the world was sinking fast into depression, agriculture in America was booming. The climate pressures were helping.

Temporarily, and in select places; much of the southeast was facing a severe drought, which Josh knew would only get worse. It was a slow-motion disaster, which meant there was still some time to deal with it.

Ironically, that made people less likely to face the problem. As he'd seen in China.

Josh shook his head. The rest of the world was not his concern. War was not his problem. He was a scientist, and his job was science. The war would end. Science would not.

He kicked another clump of dirt.

Josh left the garden and walked up the little hill where they had gone sleigh-riding as a kid. He wondered if his cousins still did that.

His parents had died not far from here, in a massacre that the newspapers had compared to the much more famous
In Cold Blood
crimes. He could almost see where the house had been from the hill.

He could see it, actually, if he looked hard enough. But he didn't.

He could see it even more clearly if he closed his eyes and thought about that day. But that he never did.

Josh headed back for the house. It would be good to go back to work soon, but where exactly would he go? He was still on a stipend from the UN Climate Catch program. He had to talk to them, see what they wanted him to do.

He smelled the strong scent of coffee a good twenty paces from the back door. He went into the kitchen, where his cousin's wife, Debra, was just cleaning up.

“There you are, Josh. Fresh coffee's up.”

“Thanks.” He went to the cupboard and took out a large mug. When he was little, the farm had belonged to his grandfather. With the exception of the appliances and TV sets, very little had changed. The kitchen stove, a massive eight-burner, two-oven behemoth, was so old it had to be lit by hand.

“How long's your friend staying?” Debra asked.

“I, uh … I don't know. He's supposed to be protecting me.”

“There are a lot of crazies out there,” said Debra.

Josh wondered if she was worried about her kids. She didn't seem to be.

“I can talk to him and find out.”

“It's no bother,” she said cheerfully. “Jim might put him to work.”

“Might not be a bad idea.”

“I have some errands in town this morning. Want to come?”

“Nah, I'm just going to take it easy if that's okay.”

“That's good.” She smiled at him and disappeared to get her things.

The morning paper sat on the kitchen table. Josh folded it over and pushed it aside.

“Good morning,” said Tex, coming into the kitchen.

“Morning. There's coffee.”

“Thanks.” The marshal went over to it. “Sleep well?”

“Passably.”

The marshal filled his cup. He took three sugars.

“You leaving today?” Josh asked.

“Uh … I'm supposed to hang around for a few more days. We have a couple of more agents coming out.”

“More?”

“We usually work in shifts. Can't be too careful.”

“You really think it's necessary? I'm old news.”

Tex grimaced slightly, then sat down with his coffee.

“Deb's on her way out,” Josh told him. “If you're hungry, there's plenty of food.”