Shock of War (32 page)

The only problem was that the lead elements of the Chinese advance were only a few miles north of it.

“It's better if it floods behind them,” said Zeus. “We let the lead elements get beyond it, then cut them off.”

The battle materialized in his mind as he looked at the map. He pictured the area he had seen the other day from the plane—long fields of rice, which would be easily washed over.

“We keep them close to the coast,” said Zeus. “We mine the roads to the west, and ambush the forces that reinforce the spearhead. At some point with the rains, they start to bog down. We attack them during the storm.”

“The major has never experienced a typhoon,” said one of Trung's generals dryly, using English.

*   *   *

Besides the ferocity of the weather,
the strategy to slow the Chinese advance along the coast faced numerous obstacles, not least of which was the disorganization of the Vietnamese forces. The armored brigade that had approached from Route 4B was now engaged outside Tien Yen. Entered into combat piecemeal as Zeus had feared, the T-55 and T-54 tanks had been outgunned by a handful of Chinese main battle tanks and infantry manning the outer defenses. To the east, the battered remnants of General Tri's infantry division had failed to reorganize themselves. Some were fighting on the city's outskirts. A few had gone south along Highway 18. Still others were in Ha Duong and the other small port villages nearby.

General Tri had offered his resignation, but Trung had refused it. There was no sense in changing commanders in midbattle, especially given that he had no suitable replacement.

The Vietnamese asked if Zeus could help formulate the defense plan. Perry, who said little during the session, agreed.

When the meeting ended, Trung asked if Zeus could come with him to his office for a moment.

“I apologize again for the other day,” Trung told Zeus. “You will not be treated as you were. Your advice will be followed.”

“Okay.”

“You look more rested,” added Trung, his tone lighter. It was almost fatherly.

“I got a little sleep.”

“Sleep is an important ally.”

“I'll help with the plans, General,” said Zeus. “But I have to say that the situation is not a very positive one. Your forces are very much outnumbered.”

“We have always done much with little,” said Trung. “It is our way.”

30

Washington, D.C.

The hot water came full force out
of the showerhead, a fire hose compared to what Mara had been used to in Asia. She turned her back to the flow, letting it pound into her skin, soaking her muscles in warmth. She bent slightly, letting the water massage her lower back and then her thighs and calves. It splashed against her side and then her breasts; she arched backward and let it hit her stomach, the front of her legs.

God, it felt good. But she had to get to work. She was already late.

The only shampoo in the apartment was a supermarket special, a rip-off of a boutique brand that Mara had never heard of. It glopped into her hand like granulated maple syrup. Glancing at it dubiously, she ran it through her hair cautiously, not entirely trusting that it wouldn't leave her bald.

Her hair felt short—short and thin. Long hair was a pain in the field, but if she was going to be in the States for a while, then she was going to let it grow past the shoulder length she had it at now.

In the States for a while.
Send that idea away,
she told herself. She was getting the hell out of here as soon as possible.

Dressed, she checked her phone.

Still no call from Josh.

Downstairs, she hunted through the kitchen cabinets for coffee. She found two choices: Maxwell House and New England. Neither particularly appealed to her, but she needed caffeine.

She had to use a paper towel for a filter. Mara flipped the TV on while she waited for the coffee to brew. The cable news anchors were talking about the latest charges from China that the American CIA had helped Vietnam stage the photos and incident. Josh MacArthur, said a reporter on a remote in front of the capitol, had gone into hiding.

Draw your own conclusions.

Mara flipped the television off.

*   *   *

Grease was waiting for Mara
when she came in. He took her downstairs and explained that the Vietnamese needed Russian weapons, that the conduit was to be the same as she had used in Malaysia, and things had to move as quickly as possible.

“And it's been authorized on the highest level,” Grease added.

“Peter signed off?” said Mara, meaning Peter Lucas.

“Much higher than that,” said Grease. “Make it as long an arm's length as you can.”

*   *   *

The key to the arrangement
was a man named Sergei, whom Mara knew and loathed from her days in Malaysia. Sergei traveled extensively, and Mara never really knew where he might be. She had only met him twice, both times in Paris. The last had been in an after-hours sex club, an experience imprinted on neurons she'd never use again.

She left Langley and bought a cell phone specifically for the purpose of contacting him, using an agency-supplied ID and credit card. She found a coffee shop and placed the call. Not surprisingly, she remembered the number by heart.

An answering machine picked up on the second ring.

“Leave a message,” said a mechanical voice.

“This is Turpentine.” Mara winced at the ridiculous code name he'd picked for her when they'd started. “There are some new arrangements. I need to work quickly. Call this number.”

She hung up. Sergei's system would have this number, so there was no need to leave it.

He called back ten minutes later, before she'd even finished her coffee.

“This is Mara.”

“You have a Washington number. Is that to be trusted?”

“I doubt it's to be trusted,” Mara said. “But if you mean, am I in D.C., the answer is yes.”

“Then for lunch, Union Station. There is a bar there. I like the fries.”

Sergei hung up before she could ask what time to be there. With nothing better to do, she headed into the city.

*   *   *

Mara killed time in the bookstore
and some of the other tiny shops before going over to the restaurant, which opened at eleven. She nursed a light beer for forty-five minutes before ordering a second. She was halfway through that one when Sergei showed up.

“The beautiful but volatile Miss Turpentine,” said Sergei, far too loudly as he pulled a chair away from the table to sit down.

Intentionally or not, Sergei projected the image of a Russian fat cat, complete with the macho assumption that every woman he met was cast instantly under his spell. This might actually have been true when he was younger—there was a certain twinkle in his eyes, and his face was not unpleasant to look at. But he was past fifty now, and not aging particularly well, with a full paunch and a rather odd balding pattern on the top of his head. The leather jacket he wore looked almost comical. But at least he didn't smell of cologne.

“So, it is a pleasure to be working with you again, Turpentine,” he said brightly as the waiter approached. “Such a pleasure.”

The restaurant was located in the center of the station, which didn't bother Mara as much as Sergei's booming voice. She'd taken a table off to the side, with no one else around. Still, a modicum of discretion was in order.

But discretion wasn't Sergei's style.

“I will have a vodka gimlet,” he told the waiter. “You will use Standard.”

The waiter nodded.

Sergei looked at Mara. “You are wondering why Standard? It is the best.”

“I was wondering if your voice had a lower volume,” said Mara.

“But if I am too quiet, your microphones can't hear me.”

“I'm not miked.”

Sergei smiled and gave a little knowing laugh. Mara caught a glimpse of a nondescript, middle-aged man taking a seat not too far away.

One of his bodyguards, she guessed.

“So. You have wishes, yes?” asked Sergei.

“Yes.”

Mara saw the waiter heading toward their table. They ordered—she asked for a Caesar salad with grilled tuna, Sergei a burger with cheese and bacon, along with a double order of fries.

“And, I will take beer,” said Sergei. “You have this Boston Ale.”

“Pint or glass?” asked the waiter.

“The pint.”

“It's not ‘this,'” said Mara when the waiter left.

“This?”

“You said, ‘this Boston Ale.' You don't know the adjective … just say, ‘Boston Ale.'”

Sergei smiled. “Ah, Turpentine. It is always an education to be working with you. Now you will correct my grammar. When will you allow me to teach you Russian?”

“We need antitank weapons,” she said softly. “Big enough to take out main battle tanks.”

“Hmmmm. Very expensive.”

“I understand. We need Kornets.”

“I could get, perhaps, the Konkurs,” he said, referring to a Russian wire-guided missile that could penetrate about 800 mm of armor—not enough to deal with the Chinese tanks the Vietnamese would be facing.

“Kornet or nothing.”

“Miss Turpentine, so crass today. Vietnam was not agreed with you.”

The waiter appeared with their orders. Mara asked for another beer.

“You know, it is not always easy to find what you wish,” said Sergei offhandedly. “Have you considered the Sheksna? Very nice.”

Mara made a face.

“You would refer to it as AT-12. This good weapon.”

“Sergei. Really. Just get what we need. Okay?”

“So we work on your request. What else?”

Mara worked down the list. Sergei was relatively agreeable, even when it came to spare parts for the Vietnamese MiGs.

The price, of course, was ridiculous. But Mara agreed, as long as delivery could be arranged within hours.

Sergei, much to her surprise, agreed.

“Some things already on way to Manila,” he told her. “From there, your problem.”

This
had
been approved at the highest levels, Mara realized. The Russians clearly wanted the Vietnamese to give the Chinese a bloody nose.

Good for business? She wondered what else was involved in the deal.

“We'll confirm through the usual channels,” she said, getting up.

“What? You don't stay for lunch?”

“I have to put things in motion,” she said. “Leave a good tip.”

31

The Gulf of Tonkin

They played cat and mouse
with the Chinese cruiser for several more hours, the night growing darker and the weather growing stormier as they went. The merchant ships were almost in Vietnamese waters now—which was fine with Silas; he could board them more easily there.

What wasn't fine was that they were still a good two hours away—that would put them in Hai Phong before he could get there.

Though given the intensity of the storm, maybe not.

The cruiser was faster than the
McLane,
but it was clear that her captain was not willing to actually risk a collision. The first encounter had been the closest; since then, the captain had taken a few feints, but hadn't presented an outright threat.

He might have been more willing to risk his frigate escort, but the smaller ship couldn't keep up her speed. She fell farther and farther behind in the heavy seas.

“She's turning off!” yelled one of the extra lookouts Silas had posted. “Turning to port.”

The synthetic radar plot confirmed it. The Chinese captain was giving up, battening down to cope with the storm. Now was their chance.

A strong wind echoed through the ship. The gust pushed the
McLane
down against the water. A white cloud of ocean rose, enveloping her from bow to amidships.

The typhoon was faster than them all.

“Captain, should we come about and face into the wind?” asked helm.

“Belay that,” said Silas, as if it had been an order rather than a question. “Steady on course.”

The ship rose from the fantail and crashed forward. The wind howled over the deck, the hush of a ghost clawing at the bridge's glass.

“Steady!” repeated Silas. “We've got to intercept them.”

A hard roll sent him to the deck.

“Steady!” he repeated, climbing back to his feet. “Keep me steady!”

32

CIA headquarters, Virginia

Peter Lucas was surprised
that Mara had made the arrangements so quickly, even though he tried not to show it. He pressed his lips together and nodded solemnly as she filled him in on the details.

“How do I get to Manila?” she asked.

“Manila?”

“The first shipment should be there in a few hours. I should be there already.”

“You're not going.”

“What?”

“We'll find someone else to take care of this.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, you're now world famous. Your videos on YouTube are up to a million hits apiece. Give it a rest, Mara,” he added with a bit of an edge. “You're going to have to accept that you're in a new phase of your career.”

Mara had half-convinced herself that Peter would let her go. In fact, more than half-convinced: she felt honestly disappointed, and angry.

“I don't see, after everything that's happened, why I can't get a break,” she told him. “I think I'm owed a break.”

“You're not thinking rationally. Come on.” He picked up his empty soda can, twirling it between his fingers. “I want you to look over the material that's coming in from Vietnam. I want to figure out who the mole is.”

“What's Grease doing?”

“Grease has different priorities,” Lucas answered. “I want you to look at everything. I need a second set of eyes to go through it. You're the best we've got. Really.”