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Authors: Larry Bond

BOOK: Shadows of War
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Washington, D.C.
Zeus Murphy's head felt as if it were
going to spin itself right off his shoulders. So much had happened—
was happening
—in the past few hours that his brain couldn't process anything anymore.
But here he was, standing in the national security adviser's smaller-than-he'd-expected office in the White House West Wing, telling him
and the president's chief of staff, Dickson Theodore, how and why China was tearing through western Vietnam.
“If I were running the operation”—it was important to keep adding a disclaimer to make it clear that he wasn't clairvoyant—“I'd sweep in under Hanoi, cut the north off, then go for the south. Once I'm into the middle of the country, I have highways, I have infrastructure—I'll have an easy time of it. It won't really matter how I got there. I don't want to bother with Hanoi if I don't have to. That's where their defenses are. If I had come down the east coast, where everyone expected—say Route 1—I'd have much better roads, but I'd also have to deal with half the Vietnamese army. Out here, my main problem is traffic control.”
“I wouldn't make light of that,” said the national security adviser, Walter Jackson. “Logistics are the key to any battle.”
Murphy fought to keep a smile from forming on his lips. It was always amusing when civilians tried to talk about military theory with a few chestnuts they'd picked up from PowerPoint lectures. The problem was they couldn't quite get those chestnuts into the proper context.
“If the Chinese were battling us, or even the Russians,” he told Jackson, “then they'd have to be worried—very worried. But they're not fighting us. They're fighting Vietnam. It has a small and largely unprepared army. There's a lot of margin for error.”
“Whose error? The Chinese? Or ours?” came a voice behind him.
Murphy turned, then immediately jumped to his feet.
“Mr. President.”
“At ease, Major.” Greene looked at Jackson and Theodore. “I wanted to hear this for myself. Where's Ms. Mai?”
“She's down the hall on the phone with the Pentagon,” said Jackson. “She heard all this already. That's why she brought him back with her.”
The president leaned back against the wall and folded his arms in front of his chest. He looked like a college professor quizzing a young freshman.
And Murphy felt like that freshman, and not a particularly cocky one, as he continued explaining what he thought the Chinese had in mind—a lightning strike to sweep around the Vietnamese capital, then a second phase to the attack to take the rest of the country.
“I could see them going through Laos. Or landing somewhere in the south. Maybe both.”
He pointed to the map on Jackson's desk, jabbing his finger at the yellow amoeba in the center that represented Hanoi.
“In three or four days, maybe even less, they can be down in Quang Tri Province. From there, the country is effectively cut in half. Then they can take their time. My guess is that they save Hanoi for last. All of the Vietnamese troops are concentrated up here, on their border at the northeast. The Vietnamese might be able to pull them down to Hanoi, but never to Saigon. Excuse me, Ho Chi Minh City.”
“Saigon is fine,” said Greene. “Even the Vietnamese call it that among themselves.”
“The south is what they really want,” said Zeus. “Because of the agriculture and the oil off the coast. But they have to take Hanoi eventually. They could even offer a deal. Your lives for tribute. Something like that.”
“How do you stop them?” asked the president.
“I'm not sure you can,” admitted Zeus. “I haven't seen the intelligence, Mr. President.”
Zeus did have a few ideas, starting with immediately destroying the road network in and around Quang Tri Province—including Highway 28 in Laos. Shifting forces south immediately by aircraft and ship, rather than waiting for an attack that would never come, might also help.
The president nodded as he spoke.
“All of this might only slow them down,” said Zeus. “But, uh, from our point of view, that's probably the best we could hope for. You know, kind of a diplomatic opening?”
“Slow them down.” Greene pushed himself off the wall and bent over the map. “How long can they hold out without help?”
“I wouldn't want to guess.”
“How long did they hold out in the simulation you ran?” asked Jackson.
“Well, we, uh, we won that. So I guess you'd say they held out forever.”
The others exchanged glances. President Greene looked as if he was trying to suppress a smile.
He looked shorter in person than he did on TV, and thinner, but only a little less intense.
“Usually, any side opposing China loses,” added Zeus. “It's, uh, I guess the odds are pretty much against you.”
“Major, how did you happen to pick Vietnam to war-game for?” asked Greene.
“It's kind of a long story, sir, but basically I was told that was the force I was to play for. So I followed orders.”
“You think you could win if you were the Chinese?”
“Oh, that's not a problem, sir. I can always figure something out.”
“Good.” Greene turned to his chief of staff. “Get him on the task force, get him out there. It's all right—I'll call the chief of staff myself. I'm sure she'll see it my way.”
Zeus knew his future had just been decided for him—dramatically decided. He started to stammer a thank-you.
“It wasn't my idea,” the president told him. “I agree with it, but the head of the task force asked for you personally.”
“Uh, who—”
“Harland Perry,” said Greene. “I believe you already know the general. He's an old friend of mine. I think you'll get along with him pretty well.”
Beijing
For all his education,
the French ambassador had never taken the time to learn Chinese. They had to conduct the interview in French. Cho Lai, rising from the red couch where he had received him, looked at him now in contempt.
“What you say is certainly important,” said the Chinese premier. “But Vietnam has been the aggressor, and we must defend our territory. It would be the same if a part of France were attacked. You would not react lightly—or you would find yourself in the situation you were in when the German tanks came in 1940.”
“This is not 1940,” said the ambassador quietly.
“Very true. And we will not allow it to become a replay of that time. We are not enemies,” added Cho Lai, softening his tone. “The Chinese
are very large investors in France. Just last week, we were awarded two new seats on the board of Groupe Caisse d'Epargne. I received a framed cycling shirt as a souvenir.
Très bien, eh
?”
Groupe Caisse d'Epargne was one of the largest banking groups in France. China had been “awarded” the seats in exchange for not pulling out its deposits—a move that would not only have sent the firm into bankruptcy, but undoubtedly crashed the French economy.
“Of course,” said the ambassador. “But aggression—”
“This is not aggression. I've shown you proof.” Cho Lai waved his hand, and returned to the couch. “A resolution in the Security Council condemning China would not be helpful to our interests. Or to yours, in the long run.”
The ambassador hesitated, but then said the words Cho Lai had been waiting to hear.
“We would veto any resolution condemning our good friend China,” said the ambassador. “So long as the situation is as you say.”
Clearly, he was following his government's wishes, not his own—but that was of no consequence.
“Then there is no problem for any of us,” said Cho Lai. “This entire matter will pass in a week or two. The Vietnamese will come to their senses, and everything will be finished.
Fine.
Let me call for tea.”
Western Vietnam
With Lai Châu taken,
the Chinese army began concentrating on its next major target farther south, the Na San airbase. Trucks and tanks raced nonstop down Route 107 to Route 6 in broad daylight, moving into position. Temporary forward airbases—little more than landing pads bulldozed from farm fields—were constructed to help support the assault.
Na San had played a critical role in Vietnam's liberation from the French. Attacked by Giap during the campaign that led to the Battle of Dien Bien Phu, it was ultimately held by the French after considerable bloodshed. But the French misinterpreted their victory there, and made
the grave mistake of using the Na San victory as a model for their defense of Dien Bien Phu. It was an error on par with the Germans' decision to take and then hold Stalingrad, with similar results.
Jing Yo had considered the Na San and Dien Bien Phu battles carefully. His unit's job—much more critical than at Lai Châu—was to seize the control tower at the Na San airport, and use it to direct the large assault group into the base. The defenses ringing the airport, while not extensive, would now be on high alert. Jing Yo had to bypass them, sneak into the tower, then hold on while all hell broke lose.
The easiest way to do this would have been to get onto the airport grounds before the invasion was launched; the team would have then had an easy time overcoming the guards and getting into the tower. And indeed this had been the original plan. But the assignment of the other tasks had made this impossible, and so Jing Yo had adapted.
Shortly after the battle for Lai Châu ended, a small helicopter skimmed in over the tree-lined streets, heading for a spot on the road just north of the bridge Jing Yo and his men had managed to hold. The helicopter was a warhorse from another era—a Bell Huey UH-1, the same type that the American army had used to great effect farther south some fifty years before.
This particular chopper had not seen action in the Vietnam-American war, and until roughly six months earlier it had been rusting forgotten in a boneyard in the Philippines. The men who had renovated it had found its Lycoming engine dilapidated beyond repair, and had replaced the power plant with a Harbin design nearly twice as powerful, though it had a considerable distance to go before it could prove itself as dependable as the venerable Lycoming. They had also chipped away all of the rust, replaced the rodent-chewed wires with new ones, and given the pilots an avionics system that would have seemed like something out of
Star Trek
to the helicopter's early crews.
Most important, they had dressed the helicopter in the dull gray camouflaged tones favored by the transport division of the Vietnamese air force, topping the image off with a yellow star in a red circle and bar field used by the Vietnamese air force. The helicopter looked exactly like the two old Hueys still used by the Vietnamese air force in the area to the south.
After picking up Jing Yo and his squad, the helicopter flew south to the Ta Sua Nature Preserve, settling down in an isolated clearing several kilometers from the nearest road. The idea was that Jing Yo and his
men would get some rest while the main assault elements got closer to the objective.
But sleep didn't come easy to the young lieutenant. The attack on the scientists' camp and the ferocious battle at Lai Châu had unsettled his internal balance. He knew from experience that he could restore it only through meditation, and so, after urging his men to rest, he walked a short distance up a nearby hill and began to meditate. Legs folded, he began to breathe slowly and deeply, pushing up from his diaphragm. His mind hesitated, still filled with distractions. Jing Yo concentrated on the muscles in his stomach, pushing his mind into the tendons as he had been taught at age sixteen. Then he lifted his hands to the sides of his body, moving them upward in a circular motion.
Ego was a stubborn master. His mind remained distracted. Images of the battle passed back and forth in his head. The sensations of doubt, of weakness, of dishonor, drifted through his consciousness.
He and his men had done well; their objectives had been met. Yet the ego would not be satisfied. The ego wished perfection, wanted glory and accolades so overwhelming that no mortal man could hope to enjoy them.
Ego had always been his problem, from the very moment the monks took him in. “Stubbornness,” his first mentor called it.
Stubbornness.
But the universe was around him, and so long as he could breathe, he could find balance. So long as he could feel the muscles in his chest expand and contract, the toxins infecting his mind would drift back into the void.
Jing Yo lost track of time.
That was the first sign. He felt the warm breeze tickling his tongue; that was the second.
And then there were no signs, no thoughts, only breathing, and finally, balance.
The wind blew lightly through the trees to the east, rustling through the branches like whispers drifting down a hallway. Jing Yo let the wind push into his lungs, its energy rekindling his.
Gradually, he became aware of another presence nearby, watching him through the long blades of grass on the slope from the wooded area. The rising sun made it hard for him to see, the sharp rays blurring and glaring as they struck the green slope.
It was black, dark, moving toward him slowly.
Striped orange. A tiger.
Jing Yo could feel each shift of the animal's weight against the ground, the slow dance toward him.
Jing Yo rose from where he was sitting. He had faced the tiger many times in his training. It was the spirit of his fears—the enemy within.
As a young trainee, Jing Yo had been exhorted to face the tiger as the dragon—to assume the power of water, endlessly mutable, energy ready to be channeled at a moment's notice.
The tiger saw him and stopped.
“What are my fears today?” Jing Yo said to it. “Failure. Disgrace. Ego fears—fears of the temporary. I am of the eternal. I am the dragon. You are only a creature of the earthly moment.”
The animal moved its head, warning him to retreat. But that was just a tactic—show the slightest weakness, give even an inch to fear, and it would overwhelm you.
Jing Yo spread his fingers and pulled back his arms. His muscles flexed, then stiffened, ready for the attack.
Confronting the tiger did not guarantee victory. But it was nonetheless the necessary course.
“Ha-ah!” said Jing Yo, moving his right foot forward as he brought his arms up into attack position.
The tiger growled. Its shoulders pushed back, gathering strength for a pounce.
“Ha-
ah
!” said Jing Yo again.
The tiger growled, lower this time, then leaned to its left. In an instant, all of its weight shifted—and it slunk backward through the grass, retreating.
Fear could be controlled; that was the lesson today. It was a lesson he had learned many years before, and had relearned many times since. It was a lesson he would learn many times in the years to come.
A voice shook Jing Yo from his meditation.
“Incredible—you scared the damn tiger away!”
Jing Yo turned to find Sergeant Wu squatting on the ground, a few feet away. Wu rose slowly, trembling.
“I thought one of us—I thought one of us was going to be its breakfast,” said Wu. “You stared him down. I can't believe it.”
“Why are you without your weapon?”
“I came looking for you,” said the sergeant. “Colonel Sun wants to talk to you.”
“Check on the sentries,” said Jing Yo, walking backup the hill. “Make sure they are aware there is a tiger in the jungle.”
“Of course.”
One of the helicopter's crewmen was waiting with the chopper's secure radio. Jing Yo took the handset and held it to his ear.
“What are you doing, Lieutenant?” snapped Colonel Sun. “Sleeping?”
“Meditating.”
“Do your meditation later. The attack time is moved up. The tower must be taken within the hour.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Don't fail in this, Lieutenant.”
You are a fearful man, thought Jing Yo as he handed the handset back.
 
 
The men were groggy
but did not complain when Jing Yo woke them. They donned their fake Vietnamese uniforms and filed toward the helicopter at a deliberate pace; no one ran, and no one lagged behind. They were veterans now, Jing Yo thought; they were just beginning to understand who they were.
It took three battles to test a man. His action in the first could not be counted for anything. War was too confusing to be sorted into categories the first time it was experienced; keeping your balance amid the blows was impossible until you understood where those blows might come from, let alone how much they hurt.
The second battle was almost always a reaction to the first. A man who had frozen might do the opposite, making a grave mistake. A person who had acted like a hero might be filled with the dread he had ignored during his first battle and be overwhelmed. There was no predicting.
So the third battle was the real test. By the third battle, the sound of gunfire, the rumble of the earth as a bomb went off—neither of these things was new. The soldier had survived two encounters, as a hero or a coward, or more likely as something in between. Stripped of his illusions, a man would face himself.
Jing Yo's third battle had come long ago. So had Wu's—a good sergeant, competent and loyal, in his way, Jing Yo decided. For most of the rest of the squad, this would be only the second.
Much room for error.
“We are being queried by their air traffic controller,” said the pilot five minutes after they were airborne.
“Very good.” Jing Yo turned to his men. “Be ready.”
They were quiet. He couldn't read their faces in the shadow-laced interior, but he didn't have to; he knew their expressions would mix fear, anticipation, and even joy. He gripped the hand strap on the metal framework between the cockpit and crew compartment and began breathing slowly, pushing his ribs against the armored vest, easing it outward and then pulling it inward. The pit of his stomach was empty.
“They've accepted us,” said the pilot. “Three minutes to the airport.”
Jing Yo looked over and caught Sergeant Wu's eye. He nodded.
“Prepare!” yelled the sergeant.
The commandos rose as one from the benches. Weapons were readied, belts cinched.
Jing Yo saw the airport runway through the window as they began to bank into a landing pattern. A pair of MiGs—probably inoperable, according to the premission briefing—were parked in a tarmac apron area at the far end. A civilian aircraft was on the opposite taxiway, waiting to take off.
There was a helicopter nearby. And a second one.
Were they being sucked into a trap?
Two helicopters? There was generally only one—it was a bit of deception they were counting on.
Did the Vietnamese know they were imposters?
Jing Yo twisted around and leaned into the space between the two pilots.
“There are two helicopters at the airport,” he said. “Did they ask questions?”
“No,” said the copilot. He was a Vietnamese language specialist, chosen specifically because he sounded like a native.
Or had he been chosen because he was someone's nephew? In China, one could never be absolutely sure, and Jing Yo's Vietnamese wasn't sufficient for him to judge the man's abilities.
“Lieutenant, we are almost over the runway,” said the pilot.
“Proceed as planned,” said Jing Yo. He reached into his pocket for his earplugs, slipping them into his ears as he joined his men.
The helicopter skimmed forward, exactly as it would do if landing on an ordinary flight. It then began to veer to the left, toward the designated parking area near the civilian terminal. At the last second, the pilot
flexed his control, jolting the chopper upward. They flew another three hundred meters, hopping over the terminal building, past the security gate, and right next to the small parking area flanking the tower.
When they'd rehearsed the landing, the lot had always been filled with cars. Today it was empty. That allowed the helicopter pilot to put down closer to the tower than planned, shaving precious seconds off the timetable. But as he hit the pavement, Jing Yo realized the lack of cars might mean there were no workers—it might really be the trap he feared.
Too late.
“Go! Go! Go!” shouted Sergeant Wu.
One team raced for the building; a second, headed by Wu, ran to the auxiliary shack next door, taking out the phone lines that connected the base with the outside world. When that was accomplished, the second team would split up, half providing security at the base of the tower and the other half circling around the far side of the runway, aiming to take out two antiaircraft guns there.

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