Chapter Seventeen
“What the hell is up with this fire?” Steve stabbed his chopsticks into his breakfast rice, apparently just to poke holes in it rather than eat any.
Nobody, least of all Ripley, was going to argue with Steve’s sentiment. Especially since his tablet offered him the only view of what was happening this morning. After two full days containing the flanks, MHA and the Vietnamese forces had worked for four straight days attacking the fire’s head. It had grown, twisted, shifted, and burned afresh in unlikely—and worse, unpredictable—ways.
“Did Vietnam develop some kind of a smart forest fire?” Robin growled in exasperation.
“Maybe we just don’t understand how the plants burn here,” Mickey stared down at his morning tea.
“That’s not it,” Jeannie poked at her xoi nep than bla
