One man, walking on his own. Dressed in smarter clothes than the average North Vietnamese peasant or factory worker. He thought about the smarter buildings he’d seen, and yes, this guy would live around here somewhere. He imagined him in a neat little bungalow, with a pretty wife and two children waiting at home for him. Too bad, if things didn’t pan out, he could wind up dead. As could a lot of other men with pretty wives and children, like the prisoners they were trying to get to safety.

  He waited for his moment, checking the street on both ends. It was perfect. Empty. Just the one guy walking toward him, slim, good-looking, confident. A manager of some sort or maybe a local Party boss. He walked past and Heller struck. Stepped out into the street, grabbed his shirt, clamped a hand around his mouth, and dragged him back behind the wall. The guy struggled to break free, so he punched him hard.

  “Pal, if you understand English, I’d calm down. Otherwise, it’ll get a whole lot more painful.”

  He heard the muffled reply. “I understand English.”

  He moved his hand a fraction. “Here’s the deal. I need you to help me. It won’t take long, and when we’re done, you can go home.”

  Even as he said it, he wondered if he was being a hypocrite. The moment they released him, this guy would call in the cavalry, or the Communist equivalent, whatever that was. Bring them down around their heads. Letting him go may not be an option. He made his way back and pushed the guy into the building. He looked around, scared shitless by the mass of ragged, feral-looking round-eyes. Like they were demons that’d ascended from beneath the earth to tear out his soul. If they’d started on him, they were likely to tear out something more physical than his soul. Like his heart, but as long as he was scared, he’d be more likely to cooperate. Although Heller cautioned himself to be ready for him to feed them a pack of lies. He looked that kind of a guy, slick and sharp, too clever for his own good. And too oily for his own good.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lin Van Tran.”

  “What do you do in these parts?”

  He hesitated, looked oily, couldn’t meet his eyes. The next words he said were going to be a lie, and Heller eased out the bayonet. There was enough light from the surrounding fires to reflect off the shiny steel blade and also reveal the parts that were less than shiny. The parts covered in other men’s blood.

  “I… can’t say.”

  “Too bad, you’re no good to me. I’ll grab somebody else off the street. Good night, Mister, it’s been good knowing you.”

  “No! I work in the docks. I am the harbormaster.”

  He looked at the others, and a few smiles had appeared. The chances of getting away were still tiny, but this guy was a rare find. The Viet stared at his captors.

  “I know who you are! The militia and the police are hunting for you, and when they find you, they’ll execute every one of you. They already have your friends.”

  “Who?”

  “The other soldiers, they caught them yesterday, hiding near the shore. Five men, and they’ve put them into the cells while they await transfer to the ship.”

  “The ship! You mean the Russian ship?”

  He looked wary. “I cannot say.”

  A moment later, and a close encounter with the sharpened bayonet that left a trickle of blood running down his hitherto pristine white shirt, he changed his mind.

  “Yes, the Russian ship. It docked in the harbor yesterday, expecting to take on prisoners for transfer to the Soviet Union.” He glared at Anderson’s men. “I assume that would be you, but you escaped. They decided to send the soldiers along with the two we captured yesterday, an ARVN officer and a civilian. For you, there will be no journey to the Soviet Union. As I said, they will execute you all.”

  “Tell me about the ARVN officer and the civilian.”

  Once again, the oily look reappeared. He was lying, no question. “They caught them, that is all I know.”

  This guy knew who they were, and Heller knew, but he wanted confirmation. “You know who they are, so tell me. Now! Before I cut off your balls.”

  A different look appeared on his face. Guilt, pure guilt, as if he’d done something he was ashamed of, something he’d regret for a long, long time. “Major Dao, and his sister Nguyen Anh Vien.”

  “You! You’re the guy she went looking for to help. What did you do, call the cops? Ministry of State Security?”

  At the mention of the MSS, his shoulders sagged, and his eyes closed momentarily. His reply was almost inaudible, “Yes.”

  Motherfucker.

  “Where are they now?”

  “They put them on the ship with the others.”

  “To take them to the Soviet Union?”

  “Yes.”

  They got the rest of it out of him without too much trouble. After the ship docked, they rushed the prisoners on board to hand them over to the Russians. Tran told them it was less than they’d agreed, but Moscow had accepted the substitution of such a high-level captive as Nguyen Anh Vien. He gave them the name of the ship, the SS Godunov, a vessel of three thousand tons. It plied to and from its home port of Vladivostok and Haiphong, carrying mainly shipments of weapons for Hanoi and collecting exports of sugarcane, maize, and rubber to make up for shortages inside the Soviet Union.

  Heller had made up his mind before anybody spoke.

  “We have to get them back. There’s no way we can allow them to wind up in the Serbsky Institute.” He looked at Ripley. “We’ll sneak aboard the ship and get them off. Colonel, it’s up to you to choose a trawler, something large enough to carry all of us. We’ll get them off, head out to sea, and try to meet up with one of our ships.”

  Tran had overheard, and he was already shaking his head. “Impossible. I already told you, smaller vessels are under heavy guard, monitored at all hours of day and night. You wouldn’t get near it, and even if you did manage to get past the guards, they’d stop you before you made it out of the harbor.”

  They made him explain the layout of the area where fishing boats docked, as well as the number of guards on duty at any time, and where they’d position them. The floor was covered in a thick layer of brick dust, enabling him to draw a diagram. He was right, a fishing boat was out of the question.

  Ripley murmured, “It’d be easier to take the ship than steal one of those boats.”

  “What did you say?”

  “It sounds crazy, but I said it looks like it’d be easier to steal the ship than a fishing boat.”

  “Steal the ship. Ripley, you’re a genius.”

  Kowalski shook his head. “There’s no way we’d get away with it. Steal a fucking ship! Forget it. Impossible.”

  “Captain, I guess you haven’t met Recon before. That’s what they pay us for. To do the impossible.”

  Chapter Eleven

  They had less than two hours before dawn broke. Despite their doubts, none came up with a better idea, and they climbed back aboard the truck. This time, with Tran in the passenger seat. Just in case he got any ideas about being a hero, Heller crouched in the footwell with the barrel of his automatic pushed into the Viet’s groin. Like most men, he had definite ideas about holding onto his manhood, especially when he told him if he tried anything, he’d end up singing soprano in the Hanoi Ladies Choir.

  Having the harbormaster riding in the cab got them past the checkpoints like a charm. In any case, the bombing had ended, so men and women were scrambling to clear up the mess. Put out the fires and clear the streets of rubble. Each time they were stopped, Tran showed his pass, and the guards waved them through. They arrived on the dock next to the Godunov, a rust-streaked freighter with the name of the ship painted on the side in Cyrillic letters. The vessel was almost in darkness, with just a watchman at the top of the boarding stair. Tran explained the vessel wasn’t scheduled to leave until midday.

  Heller unwound himself from his cramped position and pushed the Viet out of the cab. He pushed him up the stair, and he stayed behind Tran as they stepped on board. The watchman, a North Vietnamese soldier, complete with pith helmet, was wide awake. Impossible to be anything else in the wake of the bombing. He gave the harbormaster a small bow of greeting and smiled. The smile slipped when Heller stepped out from behind him and vanished when the American’s fist crashed into his face, knocking him to the deck. To make sure, he slammed the butt of his pistol on his head.

  The blow left him unconscious. Heller looked around, and there was no sign they’d been spotted. No sign of anybody else, and Tran confirmed the bridge would be unmanned, and the crew wouldn’t start work until dawn. He waved to the watching men in the truck, and less than a minute later they came pouring up the boarding stair and onto the ship.

  He assigned Ripley to put on the pith helmet and replace the watchman. At least while it was dark, he wouldn’t be spotted as a round-eye. The rest of them spread out through the ship to secure the crew and locate the prisoners. Heller went to the bridge with Colonel Anderson and Tran firmly in tow. He told them the Captain’s cabin was behind the bridge, adjacent to the radio room. Priority targets, the last thing they needed was for some fanatical Communist to get ideas about calling for help or attempting to persuade his crew to resist.

  They climbed the ladder to the bridge, opened the door, and stepped inside. Like Tran had promised, it was deserted. He pointed to the door at the rear. “Captain Troshov sleeps in there.”

  He nodded. “Colonel, stay here with him and keep an eye on things. I’ll deal with him.”

  He pushed open the door into a gloomy cabin and found he was staring into the muzzle of a gun.

  “Who are you?” The growl came from a huge, heavily bearded man with lank, dark, tousled hair, “I heard you talking. What is an American doing on my ship?”

  “I…uh…” He frantically tried to work out how to handle this, and he couldn’t think of a single way out of it, “I was just looking around,” he said lamely.

  The big bushy eyebrows shot up. “An American soldier in Haiphong? What are you, an escaped prisoner?”

  Whatever he said was going nowhere, but as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized the hand holding the gun wasn’t as steady as it could’ve been. Simultaneously, he recognized the strong odor of booze. Probably vodka. The guy was sleeping it off from the night before, and he couldn’t hold the gun steady. Couldn’t hold himself steady, and every few seconds the muzzle waved a few inches from side to side. He waited for the right moment. Saw the Russian put out a hand to steady himself on the side of the chart table, and he went for him. Knocked the barrel aside and closed with him. The Russian didn’t stand a chance in his befuddled state, and he twisted the gun from his hand, though not before he’d managed to squeeze the trigger. The shot was loud but there was nothing he could do about it, so he reversed the gun and stuck it in his face.

  “Captain, the next time try something stupid I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap. Believe me, I never miss. How many crew do you have on board?”

  He saw the familiar look in his eyes. Working out how much to give away and how much to conceal. “I’m not sure. About…”

  “Comrade, you’d better be sure.” He put the muzzle of the gun against the kneecap, “I’ll give you three seconds, then I shoot.”

  “No, no! There are sixteen crewmembers on board, including the engineer, the navigator, and the radioman.”

  “They’re all below?”

  “Yes, yes, in their cabins.” His eyes bored into Heller’s, “Whatever you’re thinking, you won’t get away with taking over my ship. The North Vietnamese will stop you.”

  “They can try. How long before you’re ready to put to sea? Do the engines thing use coal or diesel fuel?”

  “Diesel. We filled the tanks yesterday, ready to…” He’d said more than he wanted to and stopped.

  “Okay, go out on the bridge. We need to get this tub moving.”

  He pushed him out to where Anderson still waited with Tran. “This guy’s the skipper. He’s going to get us out of here.”

  “Never!” the Russian snarled, as if re-entering the bridge from where he commanded the ship had given him a new determination, “I don’t care what you do to me, I will not help you escape.”

  In a fit of anger and madness, he leaped for a locker fixed to the wall at the rear of the bridge. Pulled it open, and Heller got a brief glimpse of a rifle clipped inside. An AK-47, to deal with a possible mutiny should any crewmembers get weird ideas about abandoning the Communist paradise for a better life elsewhere. He didn’t have any choice. He was already pulling it off the clips that held it inside the locker, and Heller had no doubt it would be loaded and ready to fire. He squeezed the trigger, put a bullet into the Russian's chest, and he fell to the deck, blood pouring from the mortal wound to his heart.

  “My crew… they won’t help you… they’re good Communists. They’ll refuse to cooperate…”

  He went to say something more, but his mouth dropped open and more blood spilled out onto the deck. At that moment, the bridge door opened, and Kowalski entered on the run, his gun held ready to fire the moment he identified a target.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” He looked at the body, “Got it. Anymore?”

  “Not yet. How’re things going below?”

  He smiled. “Better than you’d believe. The crew are mostly Ukrainians, and to a man, they’re more than happy at the idea of getting away. Said they’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “Not good Communists?”

  He chuckled. “Not so you’d notice. The one exception is the engineer, the guy that keeps the engine running. He doesn’t look quite so happy, but I’ve assigned a couple of our guys to keep an eye on him.”

  “What about the prisoners? Any sign of them?”

  “Nope, not so far, but we’re still searching. What’s the deal now? How soon before we can leave?”

  He looked at Tran. “How does this work?”

  “You’ll never get away with it.”

  “Maybe not, but we’re gonna give it our best shot. Can we leave before dawn?”

  “No. Ships do not sail during the hours of darkness, because of the bombing.”

  “Okay, so we sail at dawn. I guess we’ll need permission to depart, but you’re the harbormaster, so that’d be your call. Captain Kowalski, make sure the engineer has everything ready, and you can tell the crew that we leave as soon it gets light.”

  There was a weird look in Tran’s eyes like he knew something they didn’t. Something they hadn’t thought of. Something that was going to trip them up at the last moment. He was tempted to ask, but he suspected he wouldn’t get the full truth.

  What is it? What haven’t we thought of?

  He’d warn them to keep their eyes and ears open. That was all he could do. In the meantime, he left Anderson on the bridge with Tran and went to join the search for the prisoners. Like most vessels, the ship was a gigantic maze, with nooks and crannies everywhere. Pipes everywhere, lots of them. Hatches leading into dark places, crawl spaces beneath deck plates, and that didn’t allow for the vast engine room, as big as a small ballroom. Probably the ship had been designed during the days of steam, but the Soviets, anxious never to waste anything, had fitted a diesel engine instead.

  The engineer, dressed in a grimy wifebeater T-shirt over his pronounced paunch, shorts displaying pale, spindly legs, and greasy canvas sneakers that’d once been white, was seated on a chair. His sullen look suggested he was none too happy about the change of ownership. Two of the aircrew, both armed with Makarovs, watched him carefully. Although the muzzles weren’t pointed at him, they weren’t pointed far away.

  “Does he speak English?” he asked the nearest man. A Marine first lieutenant, his faded name tab identified him as Hawkins.

  “He says he doesn’t, but I’m not sure I believe him.”

  “Do any of the ship’s crew know how the engine operates?”

  He grimaced. “I already thought of that, so I asked around. The answer is a big maybe.”

  They needed cooperation if they were going to get the ship moving, and that meant the engineer. He went back to him and tried a friendly smile. In return, he got an unfriendly scowl.

  “You’re the engineer?”

  “Da.” Okay, so he didn’t want to demean himself by speaking English even though he understood the language.

  “We need your help.”

  “Nyet.”

  A flat no, this wasn’t going well. He considered threatening him but dismissed the idea. The guy had the technical expertise to get the ship moving through the water, but he’d also have the technical expertise to stop it moving. A simple move, like pressing a button or pulling a lever could bring the engine shuddering to a stop, and they’d be dead in the water. North Vietnamese patrol boats that frequented the Gulf of Tonkin would come sniffing around, next stop a grim POW cage and put up against a blood-spattered and bullet-pocked wall.

  He tried a different tactic. “What’s your name?”

  He replied with a growl. “Anatoly Malenkov.”

  “Anatoly, I know this is hard, but we need your help. You know we’re in a fix, and we have to get out of here.” He hurried on before the guy could respond with another flat no, “Do you have family back in Russia? Wife, kids?”

  “Son. Wife left.”

  I don’t blame her.

  “Tell me about your son, how old is he?”

  Another growl. “Not your business.”

  He nodded, keeping the smile fixed on his face. Racking his brains for something he could use to persuade him to cooperate. A lever to apply pressure. “I guess he’ll be following in your footsteps, ship’s engineer. I’ll bet you have him lined up for an engineering degree at a good university. It’s a pity he’ll never go.”