Mara took the eerie quiet as an ominous sign. From what Lucas had said, the Chinese had launched an all- out invasion. Yet there was no sign of a response. The military and police checkpoints Mara expected were nowhere to be seen. Vietnam seemed to be sleeping through its incoming devastation.
Small farms dotted the jungle on both sides of the highway as she continued south. The global climate changes that had altered Vietnam’s rainfall patterns had encouraged more farming. This was especially evident in the central highlands and the south, where large swaths of jungle were being reclaimed and smaller plots were being consolidated to accommodate modern farming techniques. In the north, while the ground was just as fertile, the rugged hillside made development more difficult. It might be years before most of the uncultivated land was plowed under for farming.
Mara remembered the fields of her own childhood, paved over rather than plowed up as suburban sprawl marched inexorably across the American landscape. Now it was going back the other way — her uncle, who lived in a distant Philadelphia suburb, had just sold his tract house to a European agribusiness that planned to turn the development into a cornfield.
Roughly twenty minutes south of Tan Yen, tall shadows loomed on Mara’s left. For a moment she thought she saw a missile launcher in the black space beyond the road. There were two, five, but no activity around them.
Then she realized she was looking at a strip mine operation, an open pit where bauxite was extracted. She had mistaken the harmless machinery for something much more lethal. They were getting close to Tuyen Quang, a city about seventy-five kilometers north of Hanoi, nestled in the valley between the Con Voi and Tam Dao mountains.
It was also the place where they had arranged to stop and refuel their bikes. Houses began to appear close to the road, in ones and twos at first, then in clumps, then in solid rows. Mara found it harder and harder to keep up with Tom; her bike was slightly less powerful than his, but more important, the shadows and her fatigue ate at her confidence, and she couldn’t force herself to drive any faster. Finally she lost sight of his dim red taillight, the road taking a twist before entering town.
This would have been the perfect spot for a military or police sentry, but there was none. Mara slowed, mentally rehearsing the words she would use if she was stopped. But the main street was as deserted as those of the small villages farther north. It was only as she was leaving town — with Tom’s brake light finally ahead in the distance — that she saw an army transport. It was parked on a side street. The tailgate was up, but she could see someone moving near it as she passed.
Tom stopped at the side of the road about a kilometer outside of the city limits. He’d already filled his tank and thrown away his gas can when she drove up.
“You turtle,” he laughed. “Me hare.”
“Don’t forget the turtle wins in the end,” said Mara.
When she got off the bike, she realized that the rusted top corner of the can had sprung a leak. It was minuscule, but enough gas had spit out to wet the back of her shirt. She squeezed the liquid from her shirt and pants, but the odor seemed to get stronger.
The Clear River bent close to the highway; she could see it as she emptied the gas can into her tank. Some of the smaller tributaries near the road were dry, but there was still a sizable pond a dozen meters from the road. Mara went down to it, stripped off her shoes, and waded in, dunking herself in a vain attempt to rinse the smell away.
“You crazy lady?” asked Tom as she climbed back up to the bike.
“I felt like taking a bath.”
“Hanoi two hours,” he said, kicking his bike to life. “Less if you drive fast like me.”
“Wait!” yelled Mara.
She wanted to go over again how they would deal with anyone who stopped them, emphasizing her status as a journalist, but Tom had already launched his bike. She went to hers, got it going — the kicks got easier with practice — and set off after him.
Route 2 crossed the river near Viet Triv. Fish farms had been built in the delta formed by the river and its tributaries; the pennants that marked the underwater fences fluttered in the moonlight as they passed. The land flattened, with large communal farms gradually giving way to a real city — Vinh Yen, the provincial capital and the headquarters for an infantry division.
The army base lay on the northern side of the city, away from the highway and most of the civilian population. Lulled by her earlier experiences, Mara was surprised to find the road ahead blocked by a pair of jeeplike vehicles. Two soldiers, one with a rifle slung over his shoulder, the other with a set of traffic flags, stood in front of the trucks.
Tom was nowhere in sight. Mara had her passport with her, and a credible cover story, but with only a second or two to make up her mind, she followed the instincts that told her not to stop if she could possibly help it. Hunkering down near the handlebars, she squeezed the throttle and shot by the soldiers.
Her burst of speed made it much harder for her to keep her balance as she ran across a series of bumps a few meters beyond the trucks. The bike vibrated worse than a bronco on a cold Texas night. Easing off the throttle, she saw an army truck up ahead — another checkpoint.
If she was going to avoid one, she was going to avoid them all. Spotting a street to the right, Mara turned down it, nearly ditching the bike as the pavement changed from macadam to dirt.
Mara tucked left with the road, found another intersection, and turned back to the right, following the general direction south and hoping Highway 2 would appear soon. But the road took her into a maze of low-slung apartment buildings, new housing for government workers lucky enough to win selection in the bureaucratic lottery — or more likely, perceptive enough to find the right person to bribe. She went left, then right, then left again, finally running out of roadway and crossing a field rutted by trucks. Seeing what she thought was the road to her left, Mara started to lean and accelerate, only to find herself flying headfirst over the handlebars.
The ground came up too fast for her to react, let alone think. She smashed her nose hard, felt her left shoulder crash and give way. Her body twirled hard left as she slid another six feet.
“Shit, that hurt,” said Mara, pushing her hands under her chest and lifting herself up.
Her cheeks had been scraped so badly they felt like they were on fire; her nose felt soft, full of blood. She pushed the dirt away from her eyes, then spun quickly, sure she was about to be grabbed by the soldiers. But there was no one there, only the bike, groaning as it circled in the dust, its rear wheel still engaged and propelling it in a crazy arc.
Mara grabbed the handlebars and pushed it upright, trying to mount as she did. But the throttle had jammed, and the wheel was moving too fast for her. She fell back on her butt, just barely managing to throw the Honda off to the other side as she went down.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” she told herself, willing her body to get itself back on its feet. She grabbed the bike and killed the engine. Back upright, it took only a kick to get it restarted, but the transmission had gotten stuck in fourth gear, and as soon as the clutch engaged, it stalled. She pushed forward to a little hill, started moving downhill, then restarted the engine. The bike jerked and bucked as she let go of the clutch, but didn’t stall; she worked the controls and unjammed whatever had tied it up.
Her nose was bleeding. Blood trickled down, a few drops at a time, to the left corner of her mouth. Her cheeks burned where she’d scraped them, and hurt more with the wind as she rode. She didn’t dare try to peek in the mirror to see what her face looked like.
It took Mara nearly a half hour of zigging and zagging to find Route 2. There was no sign of Tom on the road; if he’d made it through the checkpoints, he could easily be halfway to Hanoi by now.
Mara drove in dull numbness for the next hour and a half, her mind in a state of semishock. It was far from the most dire situation she’d ever faced — not even in the top three — but still, her body needed to recover from the pounding.
When she spotted the glow of lights from Noi Bai Airport in the distance, Mara examined her options again. The best might be simply to go there, grab a plane — any plane — and get the hell out.
She was too bloody for that; she needed new clothes and a bath.
A long, long bath, in a tub filled with Epsom salts.
And then?
She’d be needed here. She couldn’t bug out when there was work to be done.
