Edge of War - [Red Dragon Rising 02]

by Larry Bond

  It was land.

  He pulled his GPS out, surprised that they were so close already.

  Then he realized it wasn’t land; it was a small ship, cutting north with no running lights.

  “Gas!” yelled Zeus. “Give it the gas!”

  The marine nailed the throttle. The ship just missed them. Its wake nearly threw the small Zodiac under the water.

  Their second boat wasn’t as lucky. As the ship cleared, Zeus heard a scream behind them.

  “Turn us around, turn us around!” he yelled, anxiously scanning the waves.

  ~ * ~

  12

  Washington, D.C.

  Once a week, President Greene and his wife spent an hour having coffee together in the morning. It was a ritual they had begun decades earlier, when their schedules were easier to manage, but the practice was sacrosanct as far as the first lady was concerned; she insisted that her husband make the time.

  If matters had been left completely to him, of course, he might never have made it. But the first lady knew a thing or two about politics— Greene’s appointments secretary and the chief of staff not only knew how important the time was to her, but also realized there would be hell to pay if the president missed the coffee.

  Greene did, however, occasionally bring work to the sessions, which were held in the residence. He also pretended to be surprised by interruptions that he had arranged, knowing that his wife would not object if they at least seemed spontaneous.

  “I really think we should invite Brin and the children to spend the holiday at the White House,” said his wife after they sat down in the dining room. “It would be so nice to have the little ones around.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Greene, glancing toward the door. As if on cue—and actually it was—Turner Cole appeared. “Oh look, Martha, here’s Turner. Come on in, Turner. Grab some coffee.”

  His wife rolled her eyes at the interruption, then proceeded to welcome Cole graciously, as Greene knew she would. Ms. Greene’s real name was Sally; Martha, a reference to the very first first lady, was a joke between them.

  “Coffee, Turner?” asked the president.

  “I’m a little caffeined out, Mr. President.”

  “Already? It’s barely nine o’clock.”

  “Don’t give the poor man the jitters, George,” said Ms. Greene. “You should try the mini cannolis, Turner. They’re very good.”

  “Turner, I’m glad you came. It’s a good coincidence,” said the president. It wasn’t a coincidence at all, of course—Greene had made it clear that Cole was to be sent over as soon as he arrived. “Here’s something you should hear, Sal. We have this little girl, an orphan girl from Vietnam. The cutest thing. Her name is Mạ. Right, Turner?”

  “There’s a down tone on the vowel, Mr. President. Maa.”

  “Yes,” said Greene. Actually, it was Turner who had the accent a little off, but the president didn’t feel like giving the aide a language lesson. “Now the horrible thing is, Sal, her family was assassinated by the Chinese.”

  “My God.”

  “How is she, Turner?”

  “She’s very good, Mr. President. She, uh, she misses Mr. MacArthur.”

  “Well she’ll see him soon enough. She’s going with me to New York Friday, Sal.”

  “She’s not going to that dreadful dinner, is she?”

  “No, she’s testifying before the UN. She’ll make a great case.”

  “Testifying?”

  “Just saying what happened to her family.”

  Ms. Greene frowned.

  “What’s wrong, Sal?”

  “How old is this little girl?”

  “Teri’s age—six or seven.”

  “We believe six, sir,” said Cole.

  “You’re going to have her speak before the UN?” said Ms. Greene.

  “Why not?”

  The first lady shook her head.

  “She has held up remarkably well, Ms. Greene,” said Cole.

  “I’m sure she has. On the surface,” said the first lady.

  “We’re having a psychologist look her over,” said Greene.

  “They’re with her now,” said Cole.

  “You’d better be gentle with her, George,” said Ms. Greene.

  “She’s not going to break.”

  “She’s still a child. Would you want Teri to speak before the UN?”

  “She’d have them eating out of the palm of her hand. God, she’d be fantastic.”

  “A week after her parents were killed?”

  Greene frowned. His wife was smart, but sometimes she didn’t bring the proper perspective to things.

  “These are good,” said Cole, reaching for another cannoli.

  “She’s going to get the best care possible,” said Greene. “Believe me.”

  “I’m sure,” said his wife. She looked over at Cole. “Try some milk with that,” she told him. “You look a little tired, Turner. I hope my husband isn’t working you too hard.”

  ~ * ~

  13

  Off the Vietnamese coast

  The ship that had struck the Zodiac continued speeding northward, most likely unaware that it had hit anything. Zeus stood in the rubber-sided raft, trying desperately to see if there were any remains of the boat. Meanwhile, Christian’s two boats came up from the west and started searching as well. They moved in small, concentric circles, the marines grimly looking for their comrades.

  “What happened?” asked Quach as his boat drew near the others.

  “There was a ship without its lights running north. It struck the other Zodiac.”

  “A smuggler,” said Quach. “Avoiding the port taxes. Or something else.”

  “I heard someone call out,” said Zeus.

  “We can’t wait to look.”

  “We’ll take another look around, then catch up to you,” said Zeus.

  “We don’t have the GPS,” said Quach. “You have to lead.”

  Quach was right. Zeus was sure the marines and the girl were still here somewhere, but the timetable was tight, and waiting jeopardized the mission.

  “Where are you?” he yelled. “Where are you?”

  “We have to go, Major,” said Quach.

  “Hey, Zeus, he’s right,” yelled Christian from his boat.

  “Cut the engines for sixty seconds,” Zeus commanded. “Quiet everything down. And then we’ll go.”

  One by one, the engines shut off.

  “Where are you?” yelled Zeus. “Where are you?”

  “Dây,” said a weak voice in the distance. Here.

  “Where?”

  If there was an answer, he couldn’t hear it.

  They restarted the engine and turned the boat toward the north. Even though it was on its lowest setting, the motor drowned everything out. He took the binoculars and scanned the water, but it was next to impossible to see anything. Finally he went to the bow and leaned out across the water with the flashlight, shining it across.

  He saw a head, two heads, in the distance.

  “There!” he yelled. “There!”

  The Zodiac slipped toward them slowly. The heads rose on a wave, cresting above them, then disappeared.

  Zeus cursed. He grabbed the marine on his right and put the flashlight in his hand. Then he went over the side, looking for the men he’d just seen.

  It was darker and far colder in the water than he’d realized. He came up quickly, empty-handed. He swam forward, then to his right, then back. The salt water stung his eyes, making it even harder to see.

  If it weren’t for the flashlight, he wouldn’t have known where the boat was. He realized he had to give up, and swam back to the Zodiac, clinging against the side.

  Quach pulled nearby. “Major, your dedication is admirable. But we must go.”

  Wordlessly, Zeus pushed himself into the boat. Clearing the salt water from his eyes, he opened his bag and took out the GPS, regaining his bearings.

  “This way,” he told the marines.r />
  They started back to the east. The air felt as if it had turned cold, close to freezing.

  “Commander! There!” shouted the marine with the flashlight.

  Zeus struggled to focus his eyes. All he could see was a black blur, with a dim yellowish white light moving back and forth across it.

  The marine leaned over the side. Zeus crawled over the bag of debris in the middle of the raft and reached his hands out, blindly helping as the Vietnamese soldier pulled something into the boat. It was long and dark, and for a moment Zeus thought it was a giant fish.

  It was the female intelligence agent, Solt Thi Jan. They laid her out across the large body bags containing the debris. Zeus thought she was dead, but when his fingers touched her face, it felt warm. His training kicked in, and he began following first-aid procedures buried somewhere deep in his consciousness. He bent and started giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Within three breaths he felt resistance; she started to vomit. He managed to get her up and over the side of the raft for most of it.

  “Back on course,” he told the marines. He pointed east, then realized he wasn’t sure that it was east and had to hunt around for the GPS to make sure his instincts had been correct.

  ~ * ~

  14

  New York City

  Josh woke in the middle of the bed, the covers off, his body naked. He had no idea where he was or how he’d got there.

  He was cold. Very cold.

  And he had to sneeze.

  He pushed himself out of the bed. The curtains were drawn, but light was peeking through the sides.

  He was in a New York hotel. Mara was in the next room.

  The bathroom was near the door, to the right.

  Up, up, up!

  Just as he reached the bathroom, he sneezed. The sound echoed against the marble floor and walls.

  He couldn’t find the light. Finally he got the switch that turned on the overhead heat lamp. There was just enough dim light for him to see the box of tissues.

  The sneezes ripped through his nose.

  “Goddamn,” he cursed. “I’m not in the jungle anymore. Stop, already.”

  But his sinuses wouldn’t give in. Sneezing like a maniac, he reached into the shower, turned on the hot water, and let the room steam up, soothing his nasal passages. He buried his face in a towel.

  A soft beep began to sound, quickly growing louder. Josh looked around for the source before realizing it was coming from the shower faucet. The water flow slowed, gradually falling to a trickle.

  There was a cardboard placard on the sink counter.

  Dear guest:

  Please conserve energy. Be sparing with the hot water. Due to NYC and state regulations, we have placed limiters on our hot water. Showers will cut off after three minutes’ use. The device prevents the water from being turned back on for twenty minutes.

  Josh turned the faucets off, then went and got dressed. His stomach and bladder felt better, but he’d lost track now of when he’d taken his last pill. Better to take an extra one, he decided, and so he took one, then checked the time. It was just after one.

  He decided he’d go get some lunch. He opened the door and was surprised to see a man sitting across the way on a chair, a newspaper on his lap.

  “Hey,” said the man.

  “You talking to me?” Josh asked.

  “Saying hello,” said the man. He wore a plaid flannel shirt under a zip-up sweatshirt, along with a pair of black corduroys and Nikes.

  “Who are you?”

  “Michael Broome.” He reached into his pocket and took out an ID. He flipped it open and closed quickly. “I’m with the marshals.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “You’ve been sleeping late,” Broome said. “Right out when I got here. It’s after one. You know that?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m just hanging to make sure everything is copacetic. Okay? Figured I’d let you have your privacy.”

  “I guess.” Josh closed the door behind him.

  “Where you going?” asked the marshal.

  “Get some food.”

  “Great,” said Broome.

  Josh looked down the hall, trying to get his bearings. The elevator was to his left. He started for it. Broome followed.

  “You coming with me?” Josh asked.

  “That’s the general idea.”

  Josh shifted back and forth, waiting for the elevator. Broome stood only a few inches away, too close for Josh to feel comfortable. The marshal smelled of whatever he’d had for lunch—some sort of Mexican food, Josh guessed.

  An elevator chime announced that the car was arriving. The gondola was empty. Josh stepped in, Broome right at his side.

  “Give me a foot, okay,” Josh said as the door closed, stepping away.

  “Claustrophobic?”

  “Something like that.”

  “My cousin’s got that bad. You lock him in a closet, he’ll sign over all his bank accounts just to get out.”

  Josh figured Mara would still be sleeping, but he was surprised to see her sitting in the lobby, arms folded, watching a plasma television mounted in the wall beside the main desk.

  “Hey, sleeping beauty,” she said, rising as he walked over. “Where are you going?”

  “Get something to eat. Wanna come?”

  “I’d rather you stayed in the hotel.”

  She looked at Broome. He shrugged.

  “I don’t think it’s a big deal,” said the marshal.

  “Come with us,” said Josh.

  “I have to meet this guy Jablonski.” She made a face. “We’ll catch up. What restaurant are you going to?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “There’s a Mexican place around the corner,” said Broome. “Decent takeout.”

  “I want something light,” said Josh.

  “You can get a quesadilla.”

  “Not Mexican light.”

  “Call me and tell me where you are,” she said. “Broome has the number. Right?”

  “Memorized.”

  ~ * ~

  What amazed Mara was the distance between the reality she had seen in Vietnam and what the commentators on television claimed.

  It wasn’t just that they didn’t know all the facts, or that they misinterpreted them. That was to be expected. It was that they were so sure they were right, so passionate about their misinformation.

  Vietnam had been the aggressor in a pointless border dispute and was now getting its rightful comeuppance. China’s actions so far had been modest and restrained.

  It was almost as if the people talking had been paid by China to give its side of the conflict. Or drugged and reprogrammed.

  And these were people who should know better: a retired Army general who’d served in Southeast Asia, a retired ambassador to the Philippines, a former CIA analyst.

  As she thought about it, Mara realized that the titles didn’t confer any real authority or knowledge about the subject area, let alone the present conditions, though the television show implied they did. Still, given their experience, the speakers should have known to be more circumspect in their views.

  Why was China getting such a free pass in the media? Since when had it come to be viewed as a benign, or at least semibenign, foreign power?

  Maybe because it was America’s largest debt holder. Maybe because nearly everything Americans bought had been made or assembled there.

  Mara thought it had to be more than that. CNN switched to an audience-participation program, with a congressman taking questions. He was there to talk not about the world situation, but about a proposal to cut taxes to bring the country out of the recession. One after another, the people talked about the terrible economy. They seemed depressed, beaten down, and more than anything else, scared.

  One woman rose and said that her husband had been out of work for eighteen months. She was working full-time at a department store in the local mall, but because of inflation they didn’t have enou
gh money to pay all their bills. Their house was in foreclosure.