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the edge of panic. “How many more?”
    “We cannot be sure. Intelligence tells us that each B-52 coming from Guam carries sixty-six bombs, and we counted six B-52s.” He ran the numbers for Dinh, again disgusted that the colonel didn’t know what they dealt with in the forward operating area. “That means the Americans dropped 396 five-hundred pound bombs for a total of 198,000 pounds, almost 90,000 kilos, of explosives. Normally, three percent of the bombs fail to detonate, or twelve bombs.” On cue, two more explosions echoed over the valley. “That was number eleven and twelve,” he explained. “Our teams will continue to search, but we must get back to work, salvage what we can, and prepare for tonight.” He fixed Dinh with a steady look. “The war does not stop for B-52s.”
    Silently, they made their way into the valley, following the small stakes with strips of green cloth wrapped around the top. The carpet-bombing had turned the thick jungle into a massive green trash heap. A nearby explosion deafened them and Dinh fell to the ground, screaming incoherently. He slowly calmed. “You said that was all!”
    Tran squatted beside the prostrate colonel. He suppressed a smile. “I said we cannot be sure and our clearance teams are still searching.”
    Dinh came to his knees and Tran offered him a hand. Dinh shook his head and struggled to his feet unassisted. “I must survey your losses.” He pulled himself to his full five-feet two-inches and fixed Tran with a hard look. “There will be consequences for your dereliction.”
    Tran’s face was impassive. “Perhaps the colonel can show us how to avoid the bombs.”
    “The directives are very clear,” Dinh explained, his voice patronizing. “It is called ‘dispersal’. Do not concentrate the material in your care. Even a child understands that.”
    “Ah, yes,” Tran replied. “Even a child.” He spun around and headed down the marked path, into the devastation. Dinh scrambled to follow. It was the bravest thing the colonel ever did. Tran paused by an old bomb crater that had been dug out and encircled by a reinforced berm of logs and sandbags. Inside, a stack of crates and sacks of rice were neatly stacked. “Only a direct hit can destroy a cache like this,” Tran explained. “The directives only ordered us to disperse our stores and equipment, not how to protect them.” They followed the path, assessing the damage. Tran calculated that one out of every six storage areas had taken a direct hit. It could have been worse, much worse. They finally reached the far side of the valley and scrambled up a low ridge and into a large bunker dug into the side of the hill. “Our command post,” Tran said.
    Kim-Ly was waiting and handed Dinh a folded note. “A confidential message from General Dong.” General Dong Sy Nguyen was the commander of Group 559 and responsible for the Ho Chi Minh trail. She waited for Dinh to sign that he had received the message. She handed Tran a clipboard. “The first damage estimate,” she said, loud enough for Dinh to hear. “We estimate eighteen percent destroyed or damaged. They missed the petroleum dump.”
    “Casualties?” Tran asked.
    “Two members of the clearance team were killed when a bomb they were defusing detonated prematurely.”
    “And your operational status?” Dinh demanded.
    Kim-Ly thought for a moment. “Our teams need six more hours to fully sweep the area and be fully operational.”
    “Unacceptable,” Dinh growled. He was answered by another explosion.
    Tran spoke in a low voice, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Perhaps the colonel will personally train our clearance teams how to be more efficient?”
    Every man and woman in the command post caught the insult and Dinh knew it would spread like a wild fire, racing up the trail by word-of-mouth and reaching Hanoi within days. But thanks to the message in his hand, he had another card to play. “Your disrespect is duly noted. But that is