Shock of War

Zeus realized the implications immediately.

“We can use it to stop the Chinese advance in the east,” he said. “As long as we can keep them near the coast. Once they get west, they’ll be free.”

Trung nodded. The situation was somewhat more complicated than that, not least of all because the typhoon would affect the Vietnamese as well as the Chinese. Still, it was an extremely fortunate development, one that could be capitalized on. The generals had been examining topographical maps in the area of the Chinese advance. The area in the vicinity of Dam Tron would be flooded early during the storm.

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 Nara 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.