It would be best if he could get both APCs — he had to get both of them. But the other was ten meters away.
No time.
As the APC’s fender smacked up against the truck’s cab, Jing Yo pressed the detonator.
Nothing happened.
Jing Yo’s fingers flew down to the screws. He checked the connections, retightening them. Then he cranked up the charge again. The truck was screeching on the pavement, pushed sideways toward the edge of the road.
Jing Yo pulled up on the plunger, tugged to make sure it was engaged all the way, then slammed his hand down.
The truck seemed to implode in a flash of light. A crack and deep rumble followed, the explosion so fierce that the wind first pushed and then sucked at Jing Yo’s body, trying to pull him into the vaporizing truck.
The explosions and gunfire throughout the battle had steadily eroded Jing Yo’s hearing, but this was so loud it clapped him into hushed silence.
Caught by surprise, the Vietnamese APCs were heavily damaged. The front of the first, which took most of the force, sheared back in a distorted crumple. The other lost its treads and stopped dead. Maybe a dozen infantrymen had come around the bend behind the two APCs; at least half were killed by the explosion.
Nothing moved for a moment, not even Jing Yo’s heart. Then there were flashes on the right side of their position — Sergeant Wu and the others had caught sight of a second Vietnamese force off the road, coming up from the rear.
Wu did not have a perfect angle, and a number of the Vietnamese soldiers were able to push past. They reached the streambed to Jing Yo’s left. His hearing returned with the stutter of a machine gun, which began firing down in the direction of the bridge from his right.
The tanks were either going to make it to them now, he thought, or they were going to die. It was as simple as that.
He pressed himself against the side of the streambed below the bridge, trying to think of a way to get the machine gun.
The gunfire was too heavy for him to move. Dirt replaced the asphalt taste in his mouth as he pushed closer to the earth. He could hear everything now, wails as well as explosions, the cries of disembodied souls fleeing lifeless bones and skin.
A grenade — Sergeant Wu’s last one — took out the machine gun. Jing Yo heard his men calling to him.
Now was his chance to retreat. He could run down the streambed, cross over, order everyone back.
But he had his orders.
Jing Yo looked around him for his rifle before remembering he’d left it in the truck. He pulled his pistol out, then scrambled up the side of the streambed, deciding he would die on the bridge.
The ground shook with a heavy thud, then another. A black geyser of dirt rose through the moonlight near the curve.
The tanks had arrived.
“Pull back! Pull back to the other side of the bridge!” yelled Jing Yo, his voice hoarse. “The tanks are here. Be careful not to fire at our own men.”
11
It made absolutely no sense for her to stay in the town, especially if she couldn’t provide any useful information. The only question was where to go.
Her best choice was Hanoi. Transportation out of the country would be much easier from there; she might even be able to arrange it herself. She would also be in a much better position to do something if Lucas needed her to.
There was an outside possibility that the scientists, if they weren’t already in Chinese custody, had made their way there as well. So Hanoi was the destination.
And there was no sense waiting.
“Let’s see this motorbike,” she told Tom.
“Two bikes,” he said, starting up the road.
“I don’t think my friend is going to be up to traveling tonight.”
“No. I go with you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes, yes. You need a guide.”
“I’m going pretty far.” She didn’t want to tell him where.
“More reason to come.” He stopped and turned to her. “You go to Hanoi, yes?”
“Hanoi?”
He laughed.
“I was thinking of Ho Chi Minh City,” she lied.
“Saigon. Better. But first go through Hanoi. I go all the way I am your guide.”
Mara started walking, unsure what else to say. Obviously, a guide would be valuable — but why was he volunteering? For excitement? Or because he was some sort of government agent?
Maybe the villagers hadn’t rallied to her because one of the older men recognized the airplane as belonging to an ancient enemy. Maybe this was a way to get her to Hanoi, and jail, with a minimum of hassle.
And yet, if that were the case, wouldn’t the uncle have pretended to help her?
The owner of the motorcycles seemed skeptical, which somehow reassured Mara. Tom convinced him to let them see the bikes, which were parked in a small shed behind his house. The hinges on the door had rusted into nothingness ages ago, and to open it the owner had to grasp the end and pick it up, pivoting it to the side as if it were still connected to the frame.
A two- or three-year-old Honda sat just beyond the threshold. Moonlight gleamed off the handlebars and glossy gas tank. The owner went to it and wheeled it from the shed.
“How much does he want?” Mara asked.
“It’s not that bike,” said Tom.
The bikes that were for sale — or might be — sat at the back of the shed. These were decidedly older, battered and dirty but not, as far as she could tell, rusted. They were Hondas, though not models she was familiar with from the States, or anywhere else for that matter.
“These work?” said Mara.
Not waiting for Tom to translate — her skepticism was evident — the owner seated himself on one of the bikes and kicked at the starter. It started on the second try, oily smoke pumping from the exhaust.
“It doesn’t have a light,” said Mara.
“That one does,” said Tom.
The owner left the bike running and went to the second. This one took several tries before it coughed to life. It stalled as soon as the owner tried revving the engine, and refused to start again.
“How much does he want for this one?” Mara asked, pointing at the one that bad run.
“It’s a package deal,” said Tom. “Two or none.”
“That’s not what he said, Tom.”
“Your Vietnamese is not very good.”
“I can ask him myself.”
She tried, but the owner either didn’t understand what she was saying, or was too busy fiddling with the
