Shadows of War (24 page)

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Authors: Larry Bond

BOOK: Shadows of War
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“It's Mara,” she said as the line connected.
“This is Peter.”
“Hey, boss.”
“I'm glad you checked in. We have a developing situation. That science team—”
“Fleming?”
“Somebody else on the team. He's south of Lao Cai. You think you can get there?”
“Yeah. No problem. He's in the city?”
“No, he's in the jungle somewhere. We're working on getting a real fix—we can track his satellite phone, but only when he transmits. How long will it take you?”
“I have no idea. A day, maybe. I'll have to find better wheels.”
Lucas didn't answer for a moment. Then he asked where she was, surprise in his voice.
“That's a good question. I got kind of confused on these side streets—”
“You're in
Hanoi.”
“Right. Somewhere west of the center of town, but I don't—”
“What the hell are you doing there? Didn't I tell you to stay where you were?”
“No, you didn't.”
“Bullshit—”
“You told me you didn't know when you could get me out. I figured if I'd stayed there, I'd be behind Chinese lines.”
“Goddamn it.”
“I didn't know you were going to give me another assignment. You should have told me.”
“That's not the point, Mara.”
“Don't worry about it. I can get back. There are no checkpoints beyond Vinh Yen. Do these people realize they're at war?”
“You're two hundred friggin' kilometers from where MacArthur is.”
“Where is he exactly?”
“You're
not
going back.”
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, then how do you know he's two hundred friggin' kilometers away? Give me the location of the last transmission.”
“Get yourself to the embassy. Get out.”
“Like hell. If I go to the embassy, I'm burned for Southeast Asia. Right? The Vietnamese watch the place around the clock. That's the reason you didn't use them for this. Correct?”
“Get your ass to Hanoi.”
“I'm in Hanoi.”
“I want you out of the country, Mara. Come back to Bangkok.”
“Bullshit!”
Mara couldn't help herself. “This is what I'm trained to do, Peter—you want this guy? Fine. I'm here. I'm ready. You have a covert fucking mission, it's mine. You know I'm good. You know what I've done. You know this is for me.”
“You're supposed to do what you're told,” he said, his voice slightly more subdued.
“You did
not
tell me to stay put. And even if you had—which you didn't—if you had, it's up to the officer in the field to make the final call. Lucas—Peter—you always say you don't second-guess … . If I were a man, you would
not
be giving me crap over this, Peter. I know you wouldn't. You're treating me like your daughter. And I'm not. I'm a field agent. With experience. Good experience. This is my mission, these scientists.”
“I don't think of you as my daughter.”
“Then why are you giving me crap? Because of Malaysia?”
“You did fine in Malaysia.”
“So it's sex, huh?”
The words weren't coming out the way she wanted them to, but she was too mad to get them into the right order.
“This is what I was trained to do,” she repeated. “Don't screw me here, Peter.”
“Damn it, Mara, give me a break.”
She heard him expel a deep breath, almost a hoarse sigh, as if his whole body were involved in the act of thinking, of making a decision.
Men always claimed that they didn't think about an officer's gender before making a decision on a mission, but Mara and most other women knew that was a crock; it always entered into the equation, whether consciously or not. She was always fighting to overcome the prejudice. Every woman did.
“I'll be back in Nam Det by this time tomorrow,” she said. “I'll need a good location by then.”
“You're going to need help. The Chinese are all around him.”
“So get me help.”
Before Lucas could reply, the ground shook as if in an earthquake. The night flashed white, then red. Mara turned around on the bike and saw flames shooting up from the industrial area she'd driven through just before. Flames popped up in a row to the north. There were more explosions, and then antiaircraft guns and sirens began to sound.
“Mara?”
“I'll have to call you back,” she told Lucas.
“Mara!”
“Hanoi's on fire. It's being bombed. The whole goddamn city, from the looks of it.”
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.
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 Húmeda 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.
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 …
Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China
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.
Near Hanoi
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.

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