Mike Maden - Drone Command

“So your military was here waiting for the Chinese to arrive on top of that hill. A trap. They show up; you drop the hammer.” Just like Cao Bang , Pearce thought.

“Precisely.” Her bloodshot eyes stole another glance at her wounded brother. “My brother was in charge of coordinating the air strike.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. He just won’t win any dance contests.”

Pham smiled a little. “You’re a medical doctor, too?” All she knew was that Pearce was a very important person in the American government and a drone expert. Her superior in Hanoi instructed her to treat him with the utmost respect and mistakenly referred to him as Dr. Pearce.

“In a previous life, I had some combat medical training.” He pulled his mic closer so she could hear him better. “Tell him when he wakes up that he did a good job.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Pearce shook his head. “He won’t believe it, though. He lost his men. But tell him anyway. Tell him I said so.”

The Chinese had been warring against the Vietnamese for more than two millennia, but for the most part, the Vietnamese people, through sheer determination and force of arms, had maintained a relative cultural independence from the Han warlords on the other side of the rugged border. But like Japan, Vietnam had island disputes of its own with the PRC, especially over the Spratly and Paracel Islands in the South China Sea and for much the same reasons as the Japanese: oil, gas, and national sovereignty.

Pearce had his own run-in with the Chinese a few years ago in the Sahara. Hunted two of them down. Exacted a brutal payback for killing Mike Early and Mossa, the Tuareg chieftain who had helped him find himself again.

“When we return to Hanoi, I would like you to be my guest at the academy. We now produce six of our own drone systems. I would very much like your comment on them.” She was clearly proud of her country’s achievement. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he knew their indigenous drones still relied on imported engines and propellers.

“I wish I could.”

“Another secret mission for your government?”

Pearce smiled. Wouldn’t answer.

“First time in Vietnam?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must come back. It is not like this all the time. It is a beautiful country with friendly people.”

That’s what his dad had said, too, in rare moments of reflection. “I definitely want to come back.”

“Please do. And please call me. My brother and I would be honored to show you our nation at its best.”

“I just might take you up on that.”

“Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime? Anything at all?”

Actually, there was. He explained the situation. Gave her the names.

“It won’t be easy. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

Pham pulled off her headset and leaned her head back against the seat and closed her weary eyes. She fell asleep instantly.

Pearce stared into the night, lost in a thousand memories.

He smelled lilacs in her hair.

Troy held his sister tightly, breathed in the cloying smell of the cheap shampoo. Marichelle’s favorite. She was two years older than Troy and almost as tall. Best friends.

Troy let go. “Call me when you get there.”

“Soon as we get to Grandma’s. I’ll call every Sunday, I promise.” Marichelle was teary eyed and snotty. Dark hair and eyes like their dad.

Troy nodded. “Be careful out there, okay? Any guy messes with you, I’m gonna kill him.”

She shook her head. “You can’t protect me if you’re not there, tough guy.”

Her words stung. They were supposed to.

Thirteen-year-old Troy Pearce was just under six feet tall and a hundred and forty pounds, mostly sinew, with a rebellious lick of jet-black hair falling over his clear blue eyes. The sturdy rough-hewn cabin behind him was small but tidy. His grandfather’s, on his dad’s side. Troy had never met him. His dad said if you knew the cabin, you knew him.

Marichelle started to say something, but stopped. She wanted to beg Troy to come with them again, but it was no use. They had already fought about it last night.

He had to stay. Dad needed him.

She had to go. Mom couldn’t take it anymore.

And that was that.

Troy glanced over at his mom leaning against a faded yellow Datsun two-door squatting in the dirt driveway. No hubcaps. A long way to California in a beater car like that. His mother was dark and pretty, with his same blue eyes, but tired. Her arms were crossed, a natural pose. She’d been on defense a long time.

He caught her eye. She smiled. More tears. She wiped her face with her hand and fell into the car.

He remembered her promise. “We’ll come back when he sobers up,” she said.

Troy knew she meant it. Didn’t mean much, though. His dad had his demons.

The Datsun fired up.

“I gotta go,” Marichelle said.

“Send me a picture of your surfboard when you get one.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, sniffling. “Take care of Dad, okay?”

“I will.”

“Take care of yourself, too.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He smiled. “I’ll make another one, too.”

“What?”

“I ain’t ever having kids, I swear.”

Marichelle laughed, wiping her eyes. “Me neither.” She kissed him on the cheek one last time, then scampered to the Datsun. “Bye.”

Troy watched the yellow car disappear through the trees in a cloud of dust, heading for the distant highway. His heart sank.

He headed for the cabin, his feet heavy as lead. Pushed his way through the door. Saw his dad passed out at the kitchen table, his forehead perched in a plate of spaghetti, an empty bottle of Jack by his elbow. Another crumpled foreclosure notice on the floor.

“Didn’t even say good-bye, asshole,” Troy whispered, as he lifted up his dad’s head and gently set it on the table. He snagged up the empty bottle and tossed it in the trash.

The hell of it was, he’d always wanted to go to California.

The teenage VPA private tapped the jeep’s horn to clear his way through a knot of Chinese tourists crossing the busy street. Pearce rode up front with him, but the kid didn’t speak any English and Pearce couldn’t parley in his tongue, either. The Soviet-era UAZ jeep they rode in from the base brought back memories of Cella.

The first time he saw her was in the reticle of his night-vision scope as her UAZ slewed up a snowy hill in the middle of a blizzard in the Afghan mountains. He wondered how she was doing and where she was. He walked away from her once in order to serve his country in the Global War on Terrorism. It was a miracle he found her again out there in the Sahara all those years later. Strange that he would also rediscover his calling to serve his nation in the same desert with her. He loved Cella, but he loved his country, too, and he was a warrior. He wanted both. It broke his heart that she refused to follow him. She had to be true to herself, she said.

So did he.

It was nearly midnight in Hanoi, and Pearce was exhausted after a long damn day that had nearly gotten him killed. The VPA medics on the helicopter had checked him for wounds and injuries, but there were none save for the purpling bruise on his hip about the size of his fist. Sore as hell, but nothing broken. A hot steaming shower and room service was all the doctoring he would need, along with twelve hours of dreamless sleep.