Larry Bond’s Red Dragon Rising: Blood of War

by Larry Bond

  Perry stared at the screen.

  “The subpoena will be quashed. But I am wondering who told them that you were in Hanoi,” added Greene.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Congress isn’t reaching out to you?” said Greene, putting a sarcastic twist on his words.

  “You know I wouldn’t speak to those assholes. I told Kelly at Asia Command, and Jamie at the Pentagon what I thought. They asked. Obviously it spread. But I’m not talking to Congress. Either party. Why would I do that?”

  Jamie Ramada—the undersecretary of defense and a holdover from the last administration. Clearly the source of the leak, thought Greene.

  Damn.

  “Harland, I respect your opinion,” said Greene. “You know I do. I don’t have a replacement yet, so I’d like you to stay in contact with the area, but at the same time not subject yourself to danger. So I’d like you to move yourself temporarily to the Philippines, and prepare a report for me. The rest of your staff can stay—you’re too valuable to lose.”

  “Now listen—”

  “Excuse me, General?”

  Greene put a little snap in his voice. Perry reacted with a touch more humility—but only a touch.

  “Mr. President, I don’t want to be in a position where I’m being used as a political football.”

  “You’re not,” snapped Greene. “I want you out of Vietnam, and I want to read your report. I fully expect that I will disagree with it—but that’s all the more reason for me to have it. After that, if Congress subpoenas you, we’ll play it by ear.”

  “But the agency operation. Or operations—”

  “Those aren’t your concern,” said Greene. He was still calculating how best to handle this. He might even let Perry talk to Congress. Having the general state frankly that he was opposed to the president’s policies was not necessarily a bad thing; it was all in the spin.

  And the timing. He needed a little more time—to take care of the missiles, and the Vietnamese weapon, whatever it was.

  Greene considered telling Perry about it, but he didn’t want to tip off the Vietnamese—not until he destroyed the damn thing.

  Which he had to do. Let them use it, and the Chinese would never stop the war. And who could blame them?

  “I don’t think further operations are a good idea,” said Perry.

  “Noted. How long before you’re safely in the Philippines?”

  “Well—”

  “The ambassador is scheduled to leave in two hours,” said Greene, glancing at the clock on the wall that showed Hanoi time. “She’s leaving her consul and a handful of Marines. Get on the plane with her.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

  Greene reached to snap off the communications, then thought of something else he wanted to say.

  “Harland?”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “I realize this has been difficult for you. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, Chet.”

  22

  Da Nang, Vietnam

  Ric Kerfer paced along the concrete pier, one eye cast over his shoulder at the hulking luxury liner to his right. The ship had been attacked on the first and second days of the war, and was now a blackened wreck. Water lay a foot over its deck, the result of several holes in its hull. But for all the damage, the large windows in the solarium overlooking the stern remained intact; moonlight glinted off them, a curious sparkle in a night otherwise filled with ghosts and foreboding.

  Kerfer caught the sound of a motorboat and walked down to the end of the pier, lowering himself to his haunches. He held his MP4 over his knee, ready. The gun was a private label version assembled for him by a retired SEAL; the trigger pull was extremely light, just under a pound—if he put his finger through the ring he meant to fire.

  A small runabout cut through the black shadows beyond the stern of the wrecked liner. Kerfer breathed slowly, catching a whiff of exhaust on the breeze. The small craft cut its engine and coasted toward the end of the pier. It never really stopped—a figure leapt from the side onto the cement and it circled away.

  “Hey,” said Kerfer.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Praying?”

  “Screw you.” Kerfer rose. “I almost shot your ass. What if it wasn’t me?”

  “I knew it was you.”

  Roth Setco walked toward Kerfer. Barely average height, he was wearing a bulky black sweatshirt over pair of dark green fatigues. He had no visible weapon, though Kerfer knew from experience Setco would be packing at least two pistols and a combat knife. The moon caught his face—it seemed gaunt, more a collection of bones than flesh.

  “How you doin’?” Kerfer asked.

  “Shitty. You?”

  “Can’t complain, really.”

  “I had to take three frickin’ boats up from Thailand. Fast, but pieces of crap. You got a helicopter?”

  “There’s a Huey waiting for us at the airport.”

  “Huey?”

  “All I could get.”

  “Fuckin’ Vietnamese deserve to be run over.”

  Well, this is a great start, Kerfer thought to himself.

  The helicopter smelled of fuel and hydraulic fluid, but it flew well enough, and within fifteen minutes they were hovering over the forward deck of a small cargo carrier.

  A landing pad had been hastily erected on the bow of the ship. A pair of chem lights had been placed cattycorner on the platform; they were the pilot’s only guides, aside from his landing beacon. Kerfer, standing in the rear of the small aircraft, saw the target and decided he’d do better not watching.

  The pilot circled twice, then shifted the helo nervously back and forth before putting it down with a rather hard bang.

  “He ain’t doin’ shit for us, that’s number one,” said Setco, pulling open the door.

  Kerfer followed Setco onto the deck. The CIA paramilitary officer walked aft toward the superstructure, clearly familiar with the ship. They passed two deckhands who had pistols strapped to their legs in drop holsters; the barrel of a machine gun poked out beneath a tarpaulin not far from the ladder leading up to the bridge.

  Inside, Setco took a quick right and descended the sharply angled steps so fast that Kerfer nearly lost sight of him in the dim light. Though a Navy officer, Kerfer had spent precious little time on a ship, especially over the last few years, and he had trouble adjusting to the slight but very real roll of the boat as he went down. He felt his feet going out from under him and caught himself just in time, pushing hard on his right hand.

  “Son of a bitch,” he growled to himself. “Damn good thing I made it through BUD/S. This would be my freakin’ life.”

  Setco had entered a compartment just to the right of the ladder. Kerfer followed inside and found himself on a catwalk above some machinery. It took a moment but then he realized he was supposed to follow along the suspended walkway to a portal that led into a passage so narrow his shoulders nearly touched both sides. He went down two steps and turned right into a large room that looked like a cross between an airplane hangar and an electronics lab.

  Three long black benches were set up in the middle of the space, each stocked with computers, video screens, and other electronics gear. The bulkhead on his right as he came in was covered with maps. On the other side, a pair of old couches with their legs sawed off sat on the deck. There were two coolers near them, and some cubbies for gear.

  Three men stood near the maps, congratulating Setco on his safe arrival. It was the most animated Kerfer had ever seen Setco, or anyone around him, for that matter.

  Two of the men were Asian; the other looked vaguely Spanish—Filipino, Kerfer guessed. He stood and waited, watching Setco as he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt back.

  They’d spent most of the time in the dark, and Kerfer hadn’t had much of a look at the CIA officer. Now he was shocked at what he saw. Not only was Setco thin and pale, his lips were quivering. He couldn’t be more than forty—Kerfer guessed he was actually somewhat young
er—yet he looked like an old man ready for a nursing home.

  Or the grave.

  Kerfer had first met Setco two years before, after a mission the CIA officer was running in Myanmar—Burma to most of the West—had cratered. Kerfer and half a company of SEALs had been choppered into the jungle to get him out. The planned rendezvous turned into a search, with Kerfer personally deciding to disobey orders to return; he found Setco some twenty-four hours later, walking on a trail in the direction of the meeting place. The para smiled and waved, as if he’d known the SEALs would be there all the time.

  Kerfer had never been given details of Setco’s operation—it was strictly need-to-know. The scuttlebutt was that he had been involved in a plan to assassinate a terrorist who was in Bago for a meeting with a Chinese military attaché. Given the complications that followed the rendezvous—they had been chased through the jungle for several days by troops armed with Chinese weapons—it seemed apparent that the Chinese had somehow gotten wind of the op and reacted.

  They had worked together twice more since, and trained on another mission as well. Each time Setco seemed to have grown darker and quieter, as if he were dissolving into the evil wraith of a science fiction horror tale.

  “This is Tony, Zig, Squirt,” said Setco, pointing. The names seemed randomly chosen, as if Setco said whatever popped into his head.

  The mood instantly changed. Kerfer stuck out his hand to shake. Instead, each man locked eyes with him a moment in turn, nodded ever so subtly, then glanced back at Setco.

  A wave of anxiety pressed up from Kerfer’s belly, a physical thing—he always had reservations about running a mission without SEALs, but now he was getting absolutely bad feelings. The men looked more like drug runners than spec warfare operators, even to Kerfer, who wasn’t exactly a poster specimen himself.

  The one thing about being a SEAL—you always knew you could trust the other people on your team. Granted, even SEALs had their limits, but at least if you were working with fellow SEALs you knew they had gone through a pretty rigorous vetting process.

  These guys …

  Setco started talking in Korean. The others nodded. Kerfer waited a few moments, expecting him to explain what he was saying. Setco pointed at the map and continued to speak, ignoring him. Finally, Kerfer asked what he was saying.

  Setco put up his hand. Kerfer barely managed to stifle his anger at being so casually brushed off. Finally he reached over and took hold of Setco’s upper arm.

  Or would have, had Setco not jerked away, spinning into a ready position as if he were going to be attacked.

  “I don’t speak Korean,” said Kerfer.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Don’t ignore me.”

  “I’m explaining what we’re doing.”

  Kerfer raised his hands, trying to signal that he meant no harm. Setco lowered his arms.

  “How do you know what we’re doing?” Kerfer asked. “I haven’t told you.”

  “I have the target. I have all the data. We can take it easy. We’ve done this dozens of times.”

  “Excuse me—you’ve landed halfway into China? Blown up an army group headquarters?”

  Setco frowned, then resumed talking to the others.

  Kerfer watched the other men. They looked at the CIA officer like angels at the rapture.

  I’ve stepped into an insane asylum, Kerfer thought to himself.

  Finally, Setco turned to Kerfer. “So how do we get there?” he asked.

  “I’m working on that,” said Kerfer. “I have an airplane. I need a base in China. Once we’re sure of that, we’re good to go.”

  “Why do we need another base?”

  “Plane can’t carry enough fuel to get to Kunming and get back.”

  “We don’t need the round trip.”

  “I do.” Kerfer guessed that Setco meant they could refuel there, but he wanted a margin of error in case that didn’t work out.

  “You have a pilot?” Setco asked.

  “Yes,” said Kerfer. “We need to be ready by tomorrow night. I want to hit the place as soon as it’s dark.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  “Five guys aren’t going to be enough.” Kerfer was counting both himself and Setco.

  “I have more coming.”

  Setco went over to the nearby bench and woke up the computer. The others sifted over behind him as he brought up satellite imagery to show Kunming. There was an aircraft on the runway. The detail was so good that Kerfer could see scratches in the paint around the cowling.

  “I’ve been here,” said Setco.

  “To Kunming?”

  “Couple of times. There’s a military academy there.”

  Kerfer waited for him to explain, but Setco didn’t. Instead he examined the roads around the airport, then the highway south. He knew exactly where the base was, finding it without Kerfer’s help.

  “They have a missile complex on the same base,” said Setco.

  “Problem?”

  “Nah. Makes it easier. If they get worried, they’ll think the attack’s heading there. You remember Malaysia, Ric?”

  “I remember it very well.”

  Setco smiled at him, and went back to looking at the map.

  23

  Ohio

  The address belonged to a farm. It was small by local standards, just over two hundred acres, but to Jin Yo it seemed immense. He drove by it twice after finding the address, the second time turning the rental car around in the driveway that led to the barn. The house was set back on a hill, out of sight. There was a tractor, green and shiny, sitting at the edge of the field near the barn as if it were waiting to be used. A few dozen cows bumped up against each other in a penned corral area on the other side of the barn.

  Jing Yo drove back to the motel. Now that he had located the farm where the scientist lived, there were a number of items he needed to purchase.

  One was a rifle. From what he had seen of the farm, the easiest way to deal with the scientist was to stalk him on the property. There were woods, wide open fields, and a clear yard in the back. If he got the right equipment, he could do it easily.

  Jing Yo didn’t know that much about American stores, and it took him a few tries before he found a place that sold any. It was a large department store not far from the interstate. Though he had been practicing his English he still felt unsure of it, and so remained silent as he looked at the guns from behind the counter. All he needed was a decent hunting rifle, but there were so many choices, it was impossible to tell which to buy.

  “Can I help ya, young fella?”

  Jing Yo looked up at the clerk, an older man with a large belly and a bald head.

  “I need, want…”

  “Hunting rifle?” asked the man.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you hunting?”

  A man, thought Jing Yo, though he was careful not to say that. But he wasn’t really sure what they would hunt here. Cows?

  “Deer hunting?” said the clerk.

  “Deer, yes.”

  “You’re a deer hunter?”

  “No,” said Jing Yo, sensing that would be the wrong answer—he clearly wasn’t a hunter, and it was no use pretending that he was. “For a good friend. He helped me. I was a resident of China. Now this country.”

  “Ah.”

  “He likes to hunt deer.”

  “So it’s a present?”

  “To thank him. His wife said he does not have one. They sold.”

  The man nodded knowingly. “Thirty-odd-six? Three-oh-eight?”

  Jing Yo recognized the American calibers. The .308 Win was essentially the same as a 7.62 NATO round, very similar in size to the cartridge used in an AK-47.

  “Three-oh-eight,” said Jing Yo.

  “And how much did you want to spend?” asked the clerk.

  Jing Yo had no idea what to say. He had plenty of money—he could use cash or the credit card—but he wasn’t sure what the price range was for a good weapon.<
br />
  “He is a good friend,” he told the clerk. “So. A good gun. For fair price.”

  The clerk took down a Kimber. It felt light in Jing Yo’s hands, not insubstantial, but slightly off. He asked to try another. The clerk gave him a few different weapons, then handed him a Remington. While only a little heavier than the Kimber, it immediately felt more substantial.

  The clerk, meanwhile, had been watching the way he handled the gun and inspected the action.

  “You hunt yourself?” asked the clerk.

  “No.”

  “You know guns.”

  “Oh. I was in the army. When I came to America. To gain my citizenship.”

  The man nodded. “You’ll need a scope.”

  “Of course.”

  “Listen, friend.” The clerk leaned across the counter and spoke in a whisper. “I’m going to do you and your buddy a favor. There’s a gun shop down the highway a bit. If you bought a Remington Seven there, he’ll set it up for you real nice. Make sure everything was in proper working order. He’d give you a good deal, too. Prices are about the same, but you’ll know exactly what you’re getting. He can fix it up real nice for you—give it a custom trigger, take care of any little thing.”

  “Where would I find this place?”

  “Here’s the address,” said the man, pulling over a pad. “Just hand him this piece of paper and he’ll take good care of you. I’d suggest a Nightforce scope or something in that league. We don’t sell that here, but he’ll give you a good deal.”

  Jing Yo took the paper and thanked the man. America was certainly an incredible place.

  24

  Gulf of Tonkin, South China Sea

  Commander Silas raised the binoculars and trained them on the silhouette at the edge of the horizon. It was a bare bump in the distance, visible mostly because its sharp lines contrasted with the round curves of the sea around it.

  The ship was the Wen Jiabao, a Chinese cruiser refurbished from the Russian hulk once known as the missile cruiser Moskva. Wen Jiabo was not quite the pride of the Chinese navy—that honor would undoubtedly go to one of the two aircraft carriers up near the coast—but she was one of the country’s top warships, both in sheer size and armament.