This time, the shot went home, and he gave him a suspicious look. “Not go? What you know I don’t know?”

  “Well, think about it. We’ll get this ship out to sea somehow, and we’ll be broadcasting on clear, calling to every United States Navy ship within a fifty-kilometer radius, requesting immediate help. They’ll send everything they have. Aircraft, destroyers, and supported by the USS Forrestal. I’ll make sure we include your name and tell them you deserve a medal for helping us to escape from Haiphong. The thing is, I’ll bet Moscow won’t be inclined to assist your son’s career, not when they know his father turned traitor.”

  He jumped to his feet and looked like he was about to throw a punch, but they were watching carefully, and they pushed him back down onto the chair.

  “Not traitor! Big lie!”

  “Yeah, I know that, and you know that, but they’ll think differently. Too bad, we’ll find some other way to manage the engine.”

  He looked ready to tear out Heller’s guts, even if he wasn’t in any physical shape to tear out anybody’s guts. “I help, but you not say anything on radio.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Two crewmen were standing nearby, both Ukrainians, Yakiv, and a tough-looking female, Maria. He made sure they’d keep an eye on Malenkov, and to get the engine started for departure at dawn. He left them to keep an eye on him and climbed back up the ladder to return to the bridge. He didn’t get there. As he walked past a hose reel bolted to the side of the companionway, he heard a muffled, scraping noise. It came from behind the reel, yet when he examined it, there was no way he could move it. There had to be something there. Maybe it was rats. He’d heard most ships swarmed with rats below decks. It didn’t sound much like rats, but to check it out, he’d need to get to the other side of that steel wall.

  He went to the end of the passage, found nothing, and walked back. Still nothing. He was trying to work out how to access the other side when he chanced to look down, and he saw it. The outline of a hatch set in the floor. Probably it gave access to the bilges, but maybe not. They still hadn’t found the prisoners, Cruz’s men, together with Vien and Dao, and this was as good a place to look as any. He tried to open the hatch, but it was solid. He returned to the engine room and got the female Ukrainian, Maria, to help. Told her about the hatch, and she nodded. Went to a nearby toolbox and extracted a tool, some kind of a socket wrench. As they walked back, she explained they kept it secure so if the ship took on water, it wouldn’t be possible to open it by accident.

  They reached the hatch, and she inserted the tool into a recess at one end. Turned it and swung the hatch open. All he saw inside was darkness. No lights, no way of seeing if anybody was down there. Maria told him she’d returned to the engine room and picked up a flashlight. While she was gone, he heard the noise again, a scraping noise, and what sounded like a muffled groan. She returned, and they descended a narrow ladder into the dark space. They found them immediately. Their wrists were manacled, and the manacles fastened to ring bolts set into a steel girder just above the bilge. They were all there, Cruz’s people and the two Viets. All gagged, so they couldn’t cry out. But they were alive. The girl disappeared to fetch bolt cutters to free them, and while he waited, he removed their gags.

  Vien was sobbing with relief. “I thought we were finished. They said they’d transport us to Russia, to the psychiatric clinic in Moscow. Thank God you’ve come.”

  “You did well,” Cruz grunted, “How did you find us?”

  “We got lucky, is all.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Haiphong Harbor.”

  His eyes widened in dismay. “Fuck!”

  * * *

  Commissar General Tran Khiem read through the message from Hanoi. It made for grim reading. The escape of the prisoners had been a bitter blow, and members of the Politburo had expressed their displeasure. The capture of the two South Vietnamese VIPs, along with a handful of American soldiers was scant compensation for the deal made with Moscow. Although they’d be useful, they wouldn’t be able to give them the information they so desperately wanted. Data about American technological advances with weapons systems, anti-missile systems, and other advanced electronics carried aboard American aircraft which they craved. As a result, they’d substantially reduced the offer on the table, and North Vietnam would receive less than half the weapons initially agreed on.

  Unless… he could put things right. How could so many round-eyes disappear so close to the city of Haiphong? The attacks on the anti-aircraft batteries along the shore south of the city were another blow to Communist prestige, although thankfully this time he’d managed to find yet another scapegoat to take responsibility for the disaster. Yet he was still in a precarious situation and needed to find something, a way to put things right. Had to find the prisoners. But where were they?

  He was still trying to work it out when the idea came to him. The American soldiers imprisoned on the Godunov could know. Must know. They could have contacts inside Haiphong, men and women who would help them escape. Opponents of the regime who may have assisted them in attacking the air defense batteries. The idea was so obvious he cursed for not thinking of it before. He’d go to the ship and interrogate the Americans one by one. If a man didn’t give him the answer he needed, he’d kill him and move on to the next. Sooner or later, he’d have what he wanted. He’d have it all, and his position would once again be secure.

  He shouted for his driver to fetch his vehicle, and minutes later, he was driving through the bombed-out streets, heading for the docks. Working out how to handle the questioning. How many men to kill to persuade one of them to talk, and the more he considered it, the more he knew he’d arrived at the correct strategy. He’d prize open these Americans like cans of sardines. When he’d done with them, the Soviets were welcome to them. He only wished he could visit the clinic in Moscow and watch their descent into mindless stupor, their brains emptied of everything they’d ever known. He chuckled to himself.

  By the time they’ve finished, they won’t recognize their own mothers.

  They pulled up on the dock, and he climbed out of the vehicle. The moment he saw the SS Godunov, he knew something was wrong. It was almost dawn, and it looked like they were readying the ship to sail. He knew the departure had been set for midday, and as far as he knew, nothing had changed. He went to an internal telephone fastened to a post, picked up the handset, and connected directly to the harbormaster’s office.

  “I’m standing next to the SS Godunov, destination Vladivostok, due to sail at midday. What has changed?”

  “Nothing’s changed, Comrade General. The ship will sail as planned and on time.”

  “You stupid fool!” he snarled, “The ship is preparing to leave harbor right now. Are you telling me you know nothing about this?”

  “Nothing, Comrade General. As I said, departure is scheduled for midday, and nobody has contacted this office to notify us of any change.”

  Inwardly he raged. The Russians must’ve put forward the departure time for some unknown reason. He should’ve been informed.

  “Put the harbormaster on the line. I demand to speak to him now!”

  A pause. “He is not here. He was expected to arrive a half-hour ago, but for some reason, he’s missing.”

  “Damn!” He slammed down the phone.

  What is the matter with these fools? Don’t they know anything?

  He looked up at the ship. Men were preparing to raise the boarding stair, and some impulse made him run forward and leap onto the bottom step before they could stop him.

  “Out of the way, this is security business!” He ran up the steps, and some impulse made him draw his pistol. He reached the deck, where a watchman in an army pith helmet stared down at him. Khiem went to brush past him, but something was wrong. Like the ship’s crew, he was a round-eye, a Westerner. So why was he wearing a People’s Army helmet?

  Light shone from the overhead security lights after they’d switched them back on when the bombing raid ended. Enough for him to notice something else, something different about the uniform, an American uniform. He hesitated for a second, in case this was a Soviet crewmember who happened to have picked up the uniform somewhere, maybe bought it from a prison camp guard who’d stolen it from a prisoner. Unlikely.

  He brought up the automatic. “Who are you? Identify yourself!”

  The reply was a shock, like a bucket of ice-cold water tossed over him. “Fuck you, pal.”

  Not Russian. English, an American. He squeezed the trigger, but the man was fast. He dodged away, and the bullet whined away into the night. He started to sprint back down the stair, but they were already winching it up, ready to depart. He flattened himself halfway down and lay in the shadows as the stair rose until it was level with the deck. He was trapped, too late to return to the dock, and he couldn’t board the ship now it had been taken over by the enemy.

  They couldn’t get away with it. All he had to do was wait. Remain in hiding until the People’s Navy stopped the vessel and boarded it. He could feel vibrations through the whole from the engine. They were about to leave. Despite his precarious position, he smiled in satisfaction. They wouldn’t get far, probably wouldn’t even make it out of port. He remained still, his thoughts filled with images of the torment he’d inflict on these people who’d had the temerity to enter North Vietnam. They were about to learn they’d made a huge mistake. The biggest mistake of their lives. And the last.

  * * *

  They brought them to the bridge and into the Captain’s cabin, after he’d removed the body and tossed it over the seaward side of the vessel. There wasn’t time to clean up the skipper’s blood, but after what they’d been through, they didn’t seem to notice. They were in a bad way, except for McGuigan, who seemed indestructible. For once, Reggie Lynch was silent. Cruz was physically shaking. Not just the ill-treatment, but he’d be missing his fix. Akulov was as taciturn and silent as ever. Collins was also quiet, as was Dao.

  Vien was the opposite, spewing out a torrent of words, about how she’d make sure they bombed North Vietnam back into the Stone Age. He didn’t remind her the B-52s had been trying to do just that for several years, yet they were still putting up a fight. The bridge phone rang, a call from the engine room. He heard the voice of Maria, the Ukrainian.

  “We’re ready to leave. The engine is running smoothly, so all you need do is move the indicator to ‘slow ahead,’ give the order to cast off, and we can leave.”

  “I’ll do that now.”

  He put the phone down, walked outside, and several crewmembers were waiting for him. He cupped his hands, so they’d hear. “Cast off!”

  They pulled in the ropes from the bollards, and the ship moved a fraction, carried by a gentle tide. He returned to the bridge, and they were staring at him.

  “You’re the skipper,” Anderson grunted, “Don’t we need somebody to steer this thing?”

  He looked at the ship's wheel mounted on a pedestal in the center of the bridge. Unattended, and already it was swinging around as the rudder met the currents.

  “Shit! I need somebody who knows what they’re doing.” He looked at Tran. “You must know about ships. Can you steer this thing?”

  “Well, yes, I have a ship master’s ticket. It’s essential in my job. But I…”

  “Tran, we don’t have time for this, and I’ve just about had a gut full of your bullshit. Steer the fucking thing, or I’ll put a bullet in you and toss you over the side to feed the sharks.”

  He inclined his head in acceptance, took the wheel, and rang the engine room telegraph to indicate ‘slow ahead.’ The engine note changed, he turned the wheel a fraction, and the vessel slowly moved away from the dock. Too slowly.

  “Can’t we go any faster?”

  He gave him an incredulous look. “This ship weighs several thousand tons, and it has a single engine, which is normal for a cargo vessel. Even when it builds up to full speed it won’t make more than around ten knots. Not that it makes any difference, we won’t even clear the harbor.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you haven’t obtained clearances. No vessel, civilian or naval, is allowed to depart without proper clearance. They’ll stop you before you reach the entrance.”

  “How long before we reach open sea?”

  “We have about two kilometers to sail, ten minutes, perhaps more.”

  “Keep going and get this thing moving faster.”

  “Harbor regulations state vessels may not travel faster than four knots before they reach the sea.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about harbor regulations. Pedal to the metal, get this thing moving faster.”

  He shrugged and moved the engine room telegraph to ‘full ahead.’ The engine note deepened, and the ship picked up speed. He watched the land slide by on either side, willing the cumbersome vessel to go faster. The bridge was crowded, they were all there. Ripley, Colonel Anderson, and Captain Kowalski. The others had emerged from the Captain’s cabin. Cruz stood at the rear, and when he looked at him, he couldn’t meet his gaze. He knew they all expected him to pull the magic rabbit out of the hat, to do something to get them away from this place.

  He didn’t have any magic rabbits. All he had was a gun in his hand and another tucked into his belt. A ship under his feet and everything that entailed. Including…

  “The radio! We can use it to call our people. Who knows how to work a radio?”

  Kowalski nodded. “I should’ve thought of it. I was a radio ham back home. Give me a minute, I’ll take a look.”

  The radio room was situated at the rear of the bridge, adjacent to the Captain’s cabin. It didn’t have a door, just a heavy canvas curtain to screen the doorway. He swept the curtain aside and went inside. They saw him seat himself behind the transmitter, pull on a set of headphones, and search for the switch to turn it on. Not easy with everything labeled in Cyrillic, but after a few minutes he found what he needed.

  He began tapping the Morse key to send a message. Every man knew the North Vietnamese would be monitoring everything, but they didn’t have a choice. Their chances of getting away weren’t good, and they were going to need a whole lot of help. Like the military might possessed by the United States Navy, in the shape of the U.S.S. Forrestal cruising the South China Sea. Right now, they needed more than anything assistance from the vast array of fighter-bombers carried on the Forrestal’s deck.

  There was still no sign the enemy knew what was going on, but it couldn’t last. All they could hope was the Communists would be hesitant about attacking a ship that belonged to the Soviet Union, their greatest ally and supplier of military hardware.

  He walked into the tiny radio room and tapped Kowalski on the shoulder. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m still trying, but so far, they don’t want to reply.”

  “Are you sure they’re receiving your message?”

  He looked at him. “Sergeant, I’m transmitting in clear, using guard channel. Everyone within range can hear it, and if the stratospheric conditions are right, they might even pick it up in parts of the United States. They can hear.”

  “Why don’t they reply?”

  “Why do you think? This is North Vietnam, and we’re sending from a Soviet vessel. They smell a trap.”

  “Is there anything you can do to persuade them we’re who we are?”

  He sighed. “I can’t think of a thing. None of us served on the Forrestal, so there’s no reason for them to know who we are.”

  “We started this mission from the Forrestal. Tell them we’re aboard. Tell them… we have it all. We’re ready to give the signal.”

  “That’s it? We have it all?”

  “The signal? What is it?”

  “Green smoke. Shit! I don’t have the grenades. Somehow, we have to make green smoke. Send the message, I’ll find something.”

  He ran to the ladders that descended into the engine room and found the Ukrainian woman, Maria. “I need to make green smoke. Can you fix something?”

  “I don’t think so, I…” Her puzzled expression changed to a smile, “Wait, I may be able to do something. Green smoke, yes, give me a few minutes and I’ll bring them up.”

  When she arrived on the bridge, she was carrying two flares. One blue, and one yellow. He shook his head. “That won’t cut it, it has to be green.”

  “Yes, I know. These are the colors of the Ukraine flag, blue and yellow. On New Year’s Eve we let off these flares to celebrate our nation’s history, and until now, the Soviets haven’t realized. Combined, these two colors make green. Tell me when you want them.”

  “Not yet.” He shouted to Kowalski. “Send the message, green smoke.”

  He nodded and began tapping it out. This time, he got a reply, a series of questions. It took a long time for the full message to arrive, and every minute that passed was a minute they were getting closer to where the river opened up to the sea. Where the North Vietnamese People’s Navy would be waiting for them. They wanted to know everything, the names and service numbers of Cruz’s Team, and personal details that the enemy couldn’t know.

  Kowalski transmitted the answers as fast as he could, the tapping of the Morse key as rapid as a Browning M2. When he was done, he looked up in triumph. “They believe we’re on the level. They’re sending over aircraft to escort us out.”

  “How long?”

  “Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. They’re getting them ready to launch right now.”

  Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. They may not have that long, and at the moment he had that thought, everything started to fall apart.

  Tran shouted, “There’s a patrol boat in the river, signaling us to stop.”

  He moved his hand toward the engine room telegraph, and Heller snatched it away.

  “Keep going. Don’t stop for anything.” Ten minutes later, glanced up at the sky. It was empty, “Where the fuck are they?”