Edge of War - [Red Dragon Rising 02]

by Larry Bond

The crowd swelled at the end of the rope. Jing Yo walked through it, circling around to see if he had been followed. It was hard to tell in the terminal—there were so many people, and many places to hide or appear otherwise engaged. He pulled his bag with him, circling around a set of chairs, then edged back into the crowd.

  “I am Srisai,” he said to the man holding the small cardboard sign.

  The man jerked around, surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I missed you.”

  His accent was difficult to understand, but he took Jing Yo’s bag and led him out through the main doors.

  It would be easy for him to kill me when we reach the car, thought Jing Yo as they walked through the parking garage. He let himself fall a step behind, glancing left and right to make sure he wasn’t being watched.

  The trunk on a black Cadillac opened as they approached. Jing Yo’s stomach knotted in an instant.

  There is no way but the Way, he told himself. You must surrender to your fate.

  The driver touched another button on his key fob, and the car started.

  No way but the Way.

  “So, your hotel?” said the man, slapping the trunk down.

  “The Janus Ambassador,” said Jing Yo.

  “Nice place,” said the driver.

  Jing Yo opened the back door to the car and slipped inside. The driver seemed to remember belatedly that he was supposed to have done that, and rushed over to close it.

  “Long flight?” asked the driver as he pulled out of the parking spot. He was Hispanic, and spoke with an accent that was difficult for Jing Yo to understand.

  “Yes.”

  “Visit here on pleasure or business?”

  “I am a student,” said Jing Yo.

  “Ah. What do you study?”

  “Medicine.”

  “You are a doctor?”

  “A student.”

  “A good thing, to be a doctor.”

  The man began talking about a cousin or a nephew—Jing Yo had trouble understanding—-who wanted to be a doctor but was having difficulties with his undergraduate classes. The man seemed content to talk without any encouragement, and Jing Yo let him talk. He looked out the window at the early-morning traffic, taking in New York.

  It was his first visit, not just to the city, but to any part of the Americas.

  His first glimpses were less impressive than he had imagined. The airport was ancient, not even close to Beijing’s. The buildings along the highway were mostly small and dirty—again, he compared them to Beijing and found them wanting.

  There was one place where New York had an advantage. The thick brown fog that hung over the Chinese capital wasn’t present here. The sky this morning was about three-quarters filled with clouds, but they were bright white, inviting instead of threatening. And behind them was an azure blue that reminded him of a dress Hyuen Bo had worn the first time he saw her.

  Jing Yo held his breath, trying to push the memory away. He felt the pressure in his lungs, urging it to replace the sorrow. He pushed his chin to his chest, the pressure growing.

  Think only of the breath, welling up.

  Think only of the Way.

  Or revenge. Revenge was an easier thought.

  “We’ll take the tunnel,” said the driver.

  Jing Yo let go of the breath. His head tingled, blood resuming its normal flow.

  “The tunnel is okay?” asked the driver, a little concerned.

  “The way you think is the best.”

  “Your hotel is on the East Side, so we will do better getting out there,” said the driver. “We could go different ways. At this hour sometimes there isn’t much difference. The traffic can back up unexpectedly. Would you like some coffee?”

  The question caught Jing Yo by surprise. He was not sure, at first, what the words meant. Or rather, he knew the words, but wondered if there was another meaning.

  “Coffee?” said Jing Yo finally.

  “Breakfast. Would you like to stop for breakfast?”

  Was this a spur-of-the-moment question? Jing Yo wondered. Or was it part of a plan? The man was almost surely a hired driver, with no knowledge of anything. But. . .

  “Do you have a place?” Jing Yo asked, leaning forward against the front seat.

  The man waved his hand. “There are many places.”

  “I do not drink coffee,” said Jing Yo, not sure whether the man was actually trying to get him to a meeting place or was just being hospitable.

  “Tea, then?”

  “Can I get tea at the hotel?” asked Jing Yo.

  “Oh, I’m sure you can. We’ll just go there,” said the driver.

  They drove through an electronic toll booth at the entrance to the tunnel, a large sign proclaiming the toll in red lights: $50. Jing Yo stared at the words beneath the sign, trying to decipher them:

  toll doubled at high traffic times.

  “The toll is higher because of traffic?” Jing Yo said to the driver.

  The man laughed. “In a way. It’s always fifty except from one to three. They pass the law to double it, but then they change the hours. A racket. To raise money by Billionaire Mayor. Always rackets. Bogus.”

  The tunnel was narrow, with yellow lights and large, old-fashioned tiles that reminded Jing Yo of the shower room at his army training camp. The pavement was uneven, with jagged cracks running from side to side. Suddenly, the driver braked and blared his horn. A man had darted into the road. He ran in front of the car, something black under his arm.

  Jing Yo turned toward the door, ready, sure he was being ambushed. “Go!” he hissed in Chinese. “Don’t stop! Get us out of here.”

  The driver gave another blast of the horn, then hit the gas. “I don’t blame you for cursing,” he said when they were well past. “That jackass.”

  Jing Yo said nothing, still unsure of what had happened.

  “Risking his life for a muffler,” continued the driver. “And what will he get for it? Five hundred dollars, if that. If it was his muffler, it would be different. Weld it back on the car. But you can tell it wasn’t his muffler. Do you know what it cost my boss to replace the muffler on this? Two thousand dollars. That was just the muffler. Two years ago, ten times less . . .”

  The driver moved on to other complaints. Jing Yo sat silently, trying to recover. His heart was pounding.

  It would take him time to find his balance here, he thought. He might never find it.

  ~ * ~

  The driver took him to a small business-class hotel in midtown. The door was flanked by four bulky men in dark suits, hands held together at their belts. They eyed Jing Yo as he got out of the car, then went back to staring blankly into the distance. A doorman appeared and ushered him in.

  Jing Yo presented his passport to the desk clerk, who took it with a quizzical look, then entered the name into the computer for the reservation. Jing Yo was surprised when he handed it right back. In most Asian countries, the passport would have been held on to at least until the hotel had copied it, if not for the entire stay.

  “What I need is a credit card for additional charges,” said the clerk.

  Jing Yo gave him an American Express card.

  “This is your first stay with us,” said the clerk.

  “Yes.”

  This seemed to please the clerk, who began running down a list of the hotel’s amenities, including its gym and free Internet. Jing Yo had no use for either, but he listened politely, nodding occasionally. Finally, the clerk gave him his key card. Jing Yo picked up his bag.

  “I’ll have that sent right up,” said the clerk. “You don’t have to carry it.”

  “Carry?”

  “Your bag, sir. We’ll take care of that.”

  Jing Yo hesitated. There was nothing in the bag that would give him away—it had to be “clean” to get through customs, in case it was inspected—but as a matter of general principle, he didn’t want to lose control of his things, even temporarily.

  On the other hand, he didn’t w
ant to seem suspicious.

  “I think I will carry it,” he said finally. “For a shower.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the clerk.

  Jing Yo had no idea what that meant, though the man’s smile indicated he was releasing him. He went to the elevator, got in, and pressed his floor number, 6.

  The room was at the end of a twisting hall, across from a door to the back stairwell. It was a good size, with two king-sized beds and a small couch. Light flooded in from the windows.

  Jing Yo put his suitcase down on the bed closest to the door and began looking around. The Americans were clever, he knew; they could have mounted a bug anywhere and he would be unlikely to find it. But examining the furnishings helped him assimilate. He needed to know his environment.

  There were no bombs hidden here, at least. No messages from the intelligence service or its spies, either.

  Jing Yo flipped on the television and began trolling through the channels. He stopped on Fox News.

  There was a map of Vietnam on the screen. It showed what it claimed were the approximate lines of the war. Jing Yo looked at them and decided they must be wrong—they were no farther south than when he had left the battlefield in pursuit of the scientist several days before.

  A pair of experts were discussing the war. One was a historian, the other a general. The general declared that Vietnam would be forced to surrender within a few days.

  The historian disagreed. The government would last at least another month, and then a guerrilla war would follow.

  “I could see that,” said the general. “But unlike their war with us, they won’t have outside support from Russia. The insurgency will wither on the vine.”

  Jing Yo wasn’t sure what that meant, though both men seemed to agree that the war would end soon in China’s favor.

  “The Vietnamese should never have attacked China,” said the general. “It was a classic blunder of hubris. Their egos got the better of them.”

  Jing Yo flipped the television off.

  The West was populated by fools. While this benefited China, it nevertheless disgusted him.

  ~ * ~

  11

  Off the Vietnamese coast

  The spy Quach Van Dhut brought along for the Hainan mission was even smaller than he was. She was also a woman, and a very pretty one.

  Her name was Solt Thi Jan; her given name (the last) was short for Janice. The name as well as her exotic features revealed a mixed family background that included an American grandfather. Despite her ancestry, she seemed to speak little or no English, relying on Quach to translate when Zeus spoke to her. But Quach assured Zeus that she was a skilled operative who also had been on Hainan before. He had no trouble, he said, putting himself in her hands.

  As small as she was, Jan shouldered all of her own gear, which included a rubber pouch for her AK-47, which had a paratrooper-style folding stock. Zeus had no reason to object.

  They set out an hour before the sun went down, giving themselves a few extra minutes to avoid the approaching Chinese surveillance satellite, which crossed just before dusk. They paired up, each group leaving sixty seconds after the other. Poorly equipped, the Vietnamese marines had no radio communication among the boats; they used small flashlights to signal each other. It was, Zeus mused, an effective means of radio silence.

  Zeus and Christian borrowed wet suits to wear, along with small Mae West-style life vests, tac vests, and special bags for their gear. They also had civilian clothes for Hainan. The wet suits were the largest the Vietnamese had, but they were still tight, especially around the crotch; too much of this, Zeus thought, and he wouldn’t have to worry about birth control for a while.

  He had the helm in the lead craft, where he could use his GPS and act as a pathfinder for the others. Besides two marines, Solt was in the boat as well; her Chinese would be handy when they came to shore. Christian was in the third boat. Quach took the last craft, on the theory that he would have the easiest time if separated from the others.

  Unlike the infiltration boats American units used, these Zodiacs and their engines were not purpose built. Starting life as normal pleasure or work craft, they had undergone a few modest modifications—they were now black instead of the original gray, their motors had detachable mufflers, and they carried extra fuel. But otherwise the little craft were so sturdy that there was no need for extensive changes. The marines had a lot of practice with them, and even with the heavy load of debris each carried, they made good time across the open water.

  An hour after setting out, Zeus checked their location on his GPS unit and found they were almost ten miles farther than planned. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been an excellent start, but they were running ahead of the diversion. At least three Chinese ships were in the area east of them; if they kept going they were sure to sail right into them.

  Zeus gave the order to stop, then signaled for the other boats to draw close. The waters were choppy, with the wind kicking up, but the marines brought the boats together expertly.

  “We need to wait,” Zeus told the others, explaining what had happened. “We need to give the Chinese destroyers to the east time to grab the bait.”

  “I think waiting is a fool’s mission,” said Christian. “We’re as likely to be seen here as anywhere.”

  “The major is right,” said Quach. “To wait now tempts fate as much as going ahead.”

  Zeus checked his watch. The Vietnamese patrol boats were leaving with the satellite. By now they would be broadcasting their position with a series of “sloppy” radio messages sure to be intercepted. So the Chinese should already be on their way south.

  Or not. There was no guarantee that they would take the bait at all.

  “All right,” said Zeus. “Everybody have their knives?”

  The marines held them up. It was a not-too-subtle reminder that, to protect the mission, the Zodiacs and the weighted debris were to be scuttled to avoid capture.

  “Let’s move ahead.”

  ~ * ~

  Twenty minutes later, Zeus lifted binoculars to his eyes and strained to see into the distance. The night had darkened and the ocean smelled of rain. That was probably good, he reasoned; a storm would preoccupy the Chinese ships, making them much less likely to be on guard.

  “There!” said the marine across from Zeus. Zeus turned to the north. There was a low black shadow on the horizon. It was heading in their direction.

  A destroyer.

  They’d make it past, he calculated; so could the boat following them. But he couldn’t be sure about the others.

  He swung back to find the other boats.

  ~ * ~

  They sat on the ocean for a half hour, waiting for the Chinese vessel to pass south. The ship’s outline was barely visible, and only when the waves took the Zodiac to their highest crest.

  Quach sat in his boat next to Zeus, smoking the entire time. They’d killed the engines, and his smoke-laden breaths were louder than the slap of the waves against the rubber hulls.

  Zeus was tired. Even though his heart was pumping with adrenaline, he felt his eyes sliding closed. He had to lean over the side and throw water on his face.

  “Do you want a cigarette?” asked Quach. “It will help you keep awake.”

  “I’m okay.”

  They started out again a few minutes later. The monotonous drone of the engine and the slacking waves reinforced Zeus’s desire for sleep. He found himself wishing he’d taken up Quach’s offer of a cigarette— or better, had taken along a stash of the “go” pills doctors often prescribed for USSOCOM members on critical night missions.

  Within minutes they were passing through a small rain squall. The water struck the boat so hard that it shook. Within five minutes they were beyond it, the ocean considerably calmer, but the night just as black.

  The boats drew tighter together. An hour passed, boredom giving way to excitement as they neared land. Every apprehension Zeus had had about the mission began asserting i
tself; every possible argument against it echoed in his head.

  He stretched; he moved around in the boat as much as its small size and the weighted bags of cargo and gear allowed. He knew he’d be fine once he got to shore. Once he was actually doing something, all the doubts dropped away. It was like playing quarterback—get on the field and the butterflies stopped flapping their damn wings.

  “Major!” said the marine at the bow, pointing right.

  Zeus looked into the shadows.