Edge of War - [Red Dragon Rising 02]

by Larry Bond

  “You’re joking, right?” she said.

  “I wish. Apparently they have a dozen MiGs left and they want to make it easy for the Chinese to blow them all up,” said DeBiase, as sarcastic as ever. “We’ll get you out, don’t worry. Why don’t you go get something to eat? Get some rooms and relax for a while.”

  “You make it sound like we’re on vacation.”

  “You’re not?”

  ~ * ~

  2

  Washington, D.C.

  This was not the way they taught it in civics class.

  Then again, they didn’t teach civics anymore. They didn’t teach history, either. It was social studies, which was about as far from an accurate description as possible.

  President Greene leaned forward against the long table in the White House Cabinet Room, trying to contain his anger as Admiral Matthews lectured him on the dangers presented to aircraft carriers by aircraft. This was just the latest round of whining, protest, and foot-dragging from the service Chiefs, who were determined to resist Greene’s efforts to help the Vietnamese. Most of their resistance was passive-aggressive— find that in the social studies textbooks under separation of powers—but it was no less effective because of that. As far as Greene was concerned, it was a small step away from mutiny.

  A very small step.

  But the lecture was especially galling coming at five o’clock in the morning, an ungodly hour undoubtedly selected by the service Chiefs to keep him off guard. The bastards always fought at night.

  The president decided that it was time to put the admiral and his fellow members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in their place.

  “Apparently, Admiral, you’ve forgotten that I was not only in the Navy for over twenty years, but that I was an aviator and flew off of aircraft carriers. And protected them, I might add.”

  The admiral shut up. The generals around him looked—”chastised” wasn’t the word.

  “Peeved” was.

  Pampered jackasses.

  “Now listen to me,” said Greene. “You work for me. I understand the military damn well. I know pushback when I see it. I’m not going to stand for it.”

  Tommy Stills, the commander of the Air Force and a personal friend, started to protest. Greene put up his hand to indicate he shouldn’t interrupt.

  “I want U.S. ships close to the Vietnamese coast,” continued Greene. “I don’t give a crap about how the North Koreans are acting up, or how Russia’s alleged battle fleet needs to be looked after. Taiwan can rot in hell for the moment. I want ships close to the oil fields. Period. Now.”

  “Do you want us to run the blockade?” asked Admiral Matthews. “That’s the bottom line.”

  “I want us to ignore the blockade,” said Greene. “We had a submarine off Hai Phong. It was supporting a mission—why the hell was it ordered to leave?”

  “It had another mission.”

  “And that mission was more important?”

  The admiral took a second before answering. Undoubtedly he was thinking of Greene’s rank at retirement—captain—and found it galling to be questioned by him.

  When he finally did speak, Greene cut him off.

  “I thought it prudent to—”

  “You thought it prudent?” Greene was having difficulty controlling himself. Showing his temper was counterproductive to the Chiefs. Outbursts only built resentment, which encouraged more backstabbing, greater foot-dragging, and even less candor later on. Any display of temper would surely be reported to Greene’s enemies in Congress—now the Chiefs’ best allies—within minutes of the session’s end.

  But damn it, he was commander in chief.

  “Look, I’m not asking for a shooting war here,” said Greene, trying to dial back his emotions and change tactics. “I want us to act like a superpower. That’s what we are. We’re the only ones who can stand up to this bully. Admiral, I know you feel the same way. This is pure Navy doctrine.”

  Matthews nodded. Greene wasn’t really sure he did feel the same way. Matthews’s predecessor had been lambasted for acting too aggressively at several points during the Malaysian conflict. As the previous administration’s term wound down, he’d been dragged before not one but three different congressional committees and interrogated for his sins. The Army chief of staff, Renata Gold, had gone through the same process—one reason, Greene thought, that she hadn’t said a word the entire meeting.

  It was often said that generals always refought their last war. In this case, the war they were fighting was the one their predecessors had lost in Congress.

  But to be fair, Malaysia had been a real fiasco, with Greene’s predecessor caving disastrously toward the end of his term. The service Chiefs had no reason to see this any differently—there was no sense risking the lives of their people, or their careers, for a lost cause.

  “You realize that this is 1939 all over again,” said Greene. “Or maybe 1937. Same thing. Vietnam is Czechoslovakia.”

  “I don’t think anyone is suggesting we partition Vietnam,” said General Gold.

  “Good.” Greene didn’t know what else to say. He turned back toward Admiral Matthews. “Tell the Kitty Hawk to turn up the steam. And let’s have that destroyer—which one was it?”

  “USS McCampbell, sir. DDG-85.”

  “Get it near the oil fields below Saigon,” said Greene. “Posthaste.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  “Aye, aye, yourself,” said Greene, trying, though failing, to inject a lighter mood. “More coffee, anyone?”

  ~ * ~

  3

  Ho Chi Minh City

  Jing Yo’s decision to stop chasing his quarry for the time being was not a surrender, but a recognition of the simple fact that he had to bow to fate. He must accept things as they were, bend like the tree in winter under the weight of the snow.

  Nature made its own gesture, removing the rain that had made it difficult to drive and see. Jing Yo and Hyuen Bo stopped for a brief lunch, then set out again, moving at a good but not desperate pace. Considering the shelling an omen, he turned westward, reaching Route 14 in an hour. They passed several military convoys, but the soldiers took no notice of them, rushing north to meet the advancing Chinese army.

  Jing Yo was able to buy gas in Buon Ho; they bought some vegetables as well as a snack. They stopped once more in Dong Nar, a small town north of Cat Tien National Park. With their gauge near empty and their reserves gone, they found the town’s only gas station closed.

  Jing Yo drove down the quietest side street he could find. He found a row of cars parked behind some houses. He drove next to them, and within moments fuel was flowing down his tube to the scooter. But as he checked to see how close to full he was, a man came out from one of the houses and began shouting. Jing Yo yanked the tube out and whipped away, losing the scooter’s gas cap in the process.

  It was nearly six before they came within sight of Ho Chi Minh City. Jing Yo made his way to the Go Vap district on the northern side of the city.

  The area combined dense residential neighborhoods with farm fields close to the river. Jing Yo navigated toward a set of large fuel-storage tanks not far from the city university, crisscrossing through the traffic as he zigzagged toward them. Finally he turned down a dirt road that dead-ended at a field near the tanks. He turned down the lone intersection and drove to a large house that sat incongruously between small sweatshops and broken-down warehouses.

  A wide five-bay garage sat at the side of a large gravel parking area before the house. A gray panel van with a single round window sat in front of the last bay. Jing Yo parked his bike next to the van. He knew he was being watched, though there was no sign of a watchman.

  “You have to wait for me,” he told Hyuen Bo. “Just stay.”

  The house was nearly two hundred years old, built in a European style with a two-story portico in front. Two men stood behind the pillars at the front. They held guns—not the AK-47s common in the Vietnamese army and militia, but newer and deadlier German s
ubmachine guns.

  As Jing Yo came up the steps, a thin man in his forties opened the door and stood on the threshold. He wore a black pin-striped business suit, and looked more like a banker than a butler or doorman.

  He was neither. His name was Tong, and he was one of a rotating group of assistants used by the woman Jing Yo had come to see.

  “Can I help you?” asked Mr. Tong, using English.

  “My name is Jing Yo. I have come to speak to Ms. Hu.”

  Mr. Tong stepped back, letting Jing Yo in. Jing Yo had been here several times before, but if the man recognized him, he gave no hint of it.

  “Sit here, please.”

  Jing Yo remained standing. The building smelled of exotic spices, jasmine and vanilla mixing with star anise and an earthy pepper. The wooden inlay of a dragon peeked out from beneath two heavy rugs. The chairs Jing Yo had been bidden to use were more than a hundred years old, made in and imported from France, and covered with Chinese silk that looked brand new, though it was as old as the wood.

  Mr. Tong returned. “This way.”

  Jing Yo followed him through the central hall of the house, out onto a glass-enclosed patio, and from there into a garden at the back of the house. An older woman, known to Jing Yo only as Ms. Hu, sat at a small table near the center of the garden, sipping tea. Behind her, water bubbled in a large fountain. Statues lined the pebbled paths and grottoes in front of the trees, shrubs, and flowers that were arranged in the various beds: Here a Buddha sat under the tree after his rapture. There a Foo lion guarded the symbol of life.

  “We have been expecting you, Jing Yo,” said Ms. Hu.

  Jing Yo bowed his head. Ms. Hu was small, not quite five feet. She was thin, though not quite so thin as to seem fragile. Her skin was extremely white, almost bleached, and far smoother than normal for her age, which Jing Yo had been told was near sixty. She wore a long dress. While of modern design, it was cut in a way that suggested tradition.

  Hu in Chinese meant “fox,” and Ms. Hu had all of the mythological characteristics associated with one. Jing was not in a position to know her exact responsibilities and duties, but he gathered that the petite woman ran a sizable portion of the Chinese spy network in Ho Chi Minh City, and perhaps all of Vietnam.

  “They doubted you would make it by nightfall,” said Ms. Hu. “Did you have a difficult time?”

  “It was easier than you would imagine.”

  “Good.”

  “You have information for me?”

  “I have much information. Have some tea.”

  A butler stepped forward from the nearby shrubs, a cup in his hand. Jing Yo waited while he poured. The light scent of jasmine tickled his nose.

  “Thank you,” said Jing Yo before taking his cup.

  “The man you are after is on his way to Ho Chi Minh City. We believe he was trying to get to the airport, but the authorities closed it a few hours ago. Where he will go from there we don’t know. Not yet.”

  “I see.”

  “Most likely he will go to District One and stay in one of the hotels,” continued Ms. Hu. “I have several men in the area, searching. We have people throughout the city.”

  “Is he using his satellite phone?”

  “He has. But it is not as easy to track in the city. The Americans have not been so kind as to share all of their technology with us.”

  Ms. Hu took another sip of her tea. Her style was reminiscent of a cloistered medieval Chinese empress, concocting political plots behind the emperor’s back with understated finesse.

  “I’m grateful for your help,” said Jing Yo.

  “Do not take this as an insult, Jing Yo,” said Ms. Hu. “I admire your persistence. But it seems that you have not been your usual effective self. Not everyone is pleased with you.”

  Jing Yo lowered his head. It was a warning more than an admonition.

  “If our men are in position to kill him, they will do so,” continued Ms. Hu. “I mean no insult, but this is a matter of some importance. I have heard from the premier’s office directly.”

  “I appreciate your assistance,” said Jing Yo again.

  Ms. Hu nodded. “Why did they give you this mission?” she asked.

  “I did not ask the question.”

  “Sending you behind the lines on your own—does your commander not wish to see you return?”

  “I could have selected men to accompany me.”

  Ms. Hu took another sip of her tea. “You have someone with you,” she said. “A girl?”

  “She helped me get out of Hanoi. She has been very useful.”

  “She may prove to be a chain around your neck. You brought her here. That is not a good thing. Not for her.”

  “I vouch for her.”

  “I’m sure. Mr. Tong will give you an address where you can stay. Take the girl to the house and have her stay there. Mr. Tong has a phone for you as well. When we have information, you will be called.”

  “I intend to continue searching for him,” said Jing Yo.

  “Do as you wish. Just remember all that I have said.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Hu,” said Jing Yo, rising. “I will.”

  ~ * ~

  4

  Ho Chi Minh City

  Most of the large foreign hotels were located in or near District 1, the heart of the city adjacent to the Saigon River. DeBiase arranged for rooms at the Renoir Riverside Hotel, a well-appointed skyscraper on the riverfront. Mara spent the last of her money buying some luggage and a few shirts at a secondhand store, hoping to make the SEALs look less like soldiers and more like tourists when they checked in.

  “We don’t want to all check in together,” she told Kerfer as they cleaned up a bit in the back of small restaurant. “Why don’t you go in first, get a room, and make sure things look good.”

  “No shit.”

  “Don’t get pissy with me. I’m not the one who closed the airport.”

  “They should have evaced us out of Hanoi,” said Kerfer. “Nobody’s got any balls.”

  “Hey, the submarine belongs to the Navy, not us,” retorted Mara. “Where the hell was it?”

  “I would have swum for it, if was up to me,” said Kerfer.

  Back in the vehicles, they started hunting for a place to park. Mara wanted the truck and car near enough to the hotel so that they could retrieve them if they needed to, yet far enough away to avoid suspicion if the vehicles were discovered. By now, even Squeaky was getting cranky. As they circled through the crowded downtown area, he groused that the police had far better things to do than check for stolen registrations.

  “The plates show where the cars come from,” Mara said. “Let’s not screw this up by getting lazy.”

  “I’m not saying to get lazy.”

  Mara finally found a place to park in a lot at the back of a row of small stores. She pushed the truck against a chain-link fence, and had everyone get out on the other side. Kerfer did the same thing he-hind her.

  “We stay together until we get two blocks from the hotel,” said Kerfer. “Then Little Joe and I go ahead. We get our room, Joey comes down and gives the high sign. You, Josh, and the tyke go in, register. Then everyone else. Ones and twos. Sound good, lady?”

  “It’ll do.”

  “You with us, mad scientist?” Kerfer asked Josh.

  “Hanging in there.”

  ~ * ~

  At first, being out of the truck invigorated Josh. It felt good to move his legs. There was a gentle breeze, and the air, though damper than it had been up north, had a cool feel to it. But after a block, Josh felt his energy running down. His stomach and lower abdomen felt as if they were on fire. He struggled to keep up even with Mạ, who tugged at his hand as she walked.

  “It’s not too far,” said Mara, slowing her pace.

  “I’m okay,” he insisted.

  “We can sit up ahead and rest. There’s a bench there.”

  “Let’s just go to the hotel.”

  “We’re going to make sure it’
s safe first.” She put her hand to his forehead. “You’re not as hot as you were.”

  “Good. Your hand feels nice.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No. It hurts.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. When I eat. And everything.”

  “Here, let’s sit on this bench.”