Shock of War

passed to the north, leaving humid, heavy air and a light wind in its wake.

The aircraft pirouetted around and the rear ramp slowly lowered. The pilots clearly weren’t being paid by the hour.

Zeus turned to Major Chau. “Have two of the crates carried into the hangar so I can check the Weapons,” he told him. “Pick them from the middle. In the meantime, load everything into the Ilyushin as fast as you can. These guys are going to want to get out of here real quick.”

Zeus gestured toward the propeller-driven cargo plane sitting in the drizzle a few yards from the hangar. The Ilyushin IL-14 was a Thai commercial cargo carrier that had had the misfortune of landing in Hanoi just a few hours before the war began. Grounded during the first air raid, it had been commandeered by the Vietnamese military; it was about to be used on its first mission, delivering the antitank missiles to General Tri’s men.

Watching from the hangar, Zeus saw a tall, athletic figure dressed entirely in black amble down the ramp. It was too dark to get a good view of who it was, yet the figure was familiar.

“Ah for Christ’s sake, it is a small goddamn world,” said the man, his voice loud enough to carry over the whine of the engines and the howl of the wind. “Let’s see — you are Major Murphy. No relation to the infamous maker of the universal law governing how often shit rolls down in my face.”

Zeus held out his hand to Ric Kerfer, the SEAL officer he’d met helping Josh MacArthur escape from Vietnam some days earlier.

“You got the money?” Kerfer sneered, looking at the hand.

“Money? I thought it was all paid for.”

“It is, Major. I’m janking your chain. What the hell are you still doing in this shithole of a country, huh?”

“My duty.”

Kerfer laughed. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”

“Is everything here?” Zeus asked.

“How the hell do I know? You think they tell me?” Kerfer walked into the hangar. The large expanse was lit by dim red lights. “Yeah, yeah — it’s all here. Ninety-six AT-14Es. All with HEAT warheads. Bang-bang. What are you thinking of doing with these?”

“Blowing up some APCs,” said Zeus.

“You know you gotta get pretty close.” Kerfer’s voice was suddenly all business. That was the way he was, Zeus knew — a cynical, screw-the-world type until things got serious. Then he was the one man you wanted watching your back. “Even with a personnel carrier. You’re not going after tanks?”

“Not if we can help it.”

“That’s good. Because these things ain’t as powerful as they claim. They’ll go through some tanks. Chinese X99s?” Kerfer shrugged. “Fifty-fifty.”

“I know they work,” Zeus told him.

“You’ve used them before?”

“Once.”

Kerfer scoffed.

“And you’ve shot them a lot?” retorted Zeus.

“More than you. Shit. Once.”

Kerfer looked at the Vietnamese soldiers carrying in the two boxes for Zeus to examine. They were men in their fifties and sixties, and they strained mightily to get them inside.

“These aren’t the guys using them, I hope,” said Kerfer.

“No. We’re taking them east.”

He gestured toward the plane. Kerfer looked over.

“Fuckin’ plane is older than you. Older than me,” said Kerfer. “What the hell is it? A DC-3?”

“No. It’s Russian.”

“Fuckin’ Russians. They’re makin’ a mint on this war.” He looked at Zeus. “Tell you what, Major. Why don’t you tell me what the plan is, and I’ll shoot holes in it for you. Before the Chinese do.”

* * *

Actually, Kerfer was surprised at the plan, because while not necessarily the most innovative in the world, it wasn’t half bad for a blanket hugger. Leaving the tanks alone made some sense, and not just because he personally doubted the effectiveness of the Russian weapons. The Chinese would be expecting the attack there, and would undoubtedly be better prepared than the infantry supposedly running to its rescue.

But there were two big problems with Zeus’s strategy. First of all, getting the teams into place to use the weapons wasn’t exactly a gimme — the forces were currently southwest of the Chinese troops; Zeus wanted them northeast.

More important, the Vietnamese soldiers hadn’t been trained to use the weapons.

“The ragheads used these weapons against M1s in Iraq,” Kerfer explained. “They worked at night, mostly, and they had night goggles, the whole deal. Supposedly, they trained for years. What I heard is that most of the weapons were fired by Russian mercenaries who knew what they were doing. Which we ain’t got.”

“I don’t think these weapons are hard to handle at all,” said Zeus. He hadn’t heard that mercenaries were involved, and doubted it. “They’re point and shoot.”

“They’re point, shoot, and shit,” said Kerfer. “You have to sit there and keep your sight on the target. The missile follows a laser. So you have to keep beaming the bad guy. Even when they shoot at you. You need a clear sight, straight line to the target. You need balls to use it right.”

“They got them. I’ve seen them work basically suicide attacks without flinching.”

“Hmmmph.”

“Listen, it’s their best shot,” said Zeus. “I agree with you against the tanks. But I think they can take on the APCs. The armor’s a lot lighter.”

He walked over to the pile of crates. They were made of wood, and had Russian lettering on them.

“Says ‘kitchen utensils,’ “ said Kerfer. For once he wasn’t joking.

“You check them out?”

“You think the ‘S’ in SEALs stands for stupid? Of course I looked at them. They’re all there.”

Zeus wanted to see anyway. He went over to the side of the hangar to look for a crowbar. By the time he came back, Kerfer had already pried open the crate using a combat knife. The missiles were packed into large cases that looked like oversized suitcases made of aluminum and plastic. Kerfer laid one on the floor.

“Go to it.” He gestured.

Zeus snapped open the case. He’d never actually assembled one of the weapons — the only time he had used one was during a weapons familiarity training course, and they had already been put together and mounted. Fortunately, they were made to be assembled quickly and easily in the field. The mechanism consisted of a tripod mount, a large box that had the sights and laser beam mechanisms, and the missile tube itself. The device was aimed by peering through a large optical sight tube attached to the lower tripod area.

“Careful,” said Kerfer. “That launch tube comes with a missile in it.”

“It’s safed.”

“Oh, yeah, I’d trust that shit. This is a Russian weapon, remember? Always remember, Amerikanski,” he added, using a hackneyed Russian accent. “We win cold war.”

“I think the Vietnamese can handle them,” said Zeus.

“Maybe.”

“If you got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

“Yeah.” Kerfer frowned. “My idea is to bug the hell out of here.”

The Vietnamese soldiers brought over the last crate. There were a total of ninety-six missiles, with an even dozen launchers. It was far less than Zeus had hoped for.

“What you need is a training session with your guys, then set them out on their own,” said Kerfer. “But you got less than a hundred missiles. So you really can’t afford to lose any.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not thinking of shooting them yourself?”

“I might.”

Kerfer frowned.

“You want to help me?” asked Zeus.