Edge of War rdr-2

by Larry Bond

  Jing Yo had seen the photographs of the scientist from the UN Web sites, but he wasn’t sure whom Josh MacArthur was with. Soldiers had helped rescue him from behind the lines, but how many was impossible to say.

  A half dozen, he thought, had been involved in the firefight when the scientist managed to escape. Jing Yo assumed they would be with him now.

  The bodyguards would not stop him from achieving his mission. On the contrary, if they were with him they would make the scientist easier to spot — most foreigners stood several inches taller than Vietnamese, and a cluster of them would stand out from the others.

  Jing Yo walked all the way north to the ferry station without spotting anyone who might be his subject. He turned back, wending his way closer to the clusters of people this time.

  If MacArthur was calling from this area, it was likely that he was staying in one of the nearby hotels. A number lined the block, and there were more scattered behind them. Jing Yo decided he would check out each of them after one more pass between the jetty and the ferry terminal.

  The difficulty of his mission gnawed at him. He tried to clear his mind, to focus on the task at hand.

  Instead, he thought of Hyuen Bo.

  It had been a mistake to bring her with him to see Ms. Hu.

  She might be in danger — she was in danger. Ms. Hu had made that clear enough.

  This might be a ruse to get him away from the apartment. It had to be.

  Just as the idea occurred to him, he saw a pair of figures climbing off the nearby rocks. They were tall, foreign. One was putting away a phone.

  He was too far away to see, but immediately he assumed it was Josh MacArthur.

  * * *

  “What do we do Josh asked Mara as they started up from the riverbank.

  “We get some sleep,” she said. “Our flight should be here first thing in the morning. How are you feeling?”

  “Well, I kinda gotta pee.”

  “Kinda gotta?” She laughed.

  “Yeah. I’m just — my stomach and my sides are sore, but I feel better than I was.”

  Mara threw her hand up, catching Josh in the chest.

  “Hold on,” she told him.

  * * *

  Jing Yo realized one of the people was a woman.

  That couldn’t be right.

  He was three or four meters away. The shadows made it hard to see faces.

  The pistol was in his belt, beneath his shirt.

  Two people? Just two? A man and a woman?

  His instinct was clearly wrong.

  And yet, it felt right.

  Desire, tricking him.

  Jing Yo saw them stop. He stopped himself, then decided he would walk as close to them as possible. But as he took his first step, someone bumped into him from the back, shoving him to the ground.

  “Hey!” shouted the man in English, very loudly. “Watch where you’re going! What are you doing?”

  Jing Yo rolled over. The man was an American, smelly and obnoxious.

  “My wallet!” yelled the man. “Help! My wallet!”

  His instinct must have been right — this could only be a member of the scientist’s security team, posing as a tourist.

  Jing Yo looked to the right — the man and the woman had fled.

  “Sorry, sorry,” said Jing Yo, holding up his hands as he got up. He spoke in English as well. “Sorry, mister. Sorry, sorry.”

  He backed away as the man continued to shout.

  * * *

  Mara steered Josh out of the park as Little Joe continued to shout behind them.

  “What’s going on?” asked Josh.

  “Keep moving.”

  Squeaky was near the street. “We’re clear,” he said over the team radio. “Spook?”

  “Yeah, we’re good,” answered Mara. “You see us?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stevens is on your left.”

  “All right, I see him. I’m hiding the radio,” she added, sticking it down under her collar. “We’re going to the hotel. You see anyone else?”

  “Negative. Get inside. We’re watching.”

  They went in a back entrance to the hotel, trotting up fifteen flights of stairs because Mara didn’t want to risk the elevator. By the time they reached their floor, Josh looked pale.

  Kerfer met them at the room. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mara.

  Kerfer got the pad and gave it to her.

  Little Joe thought the guy was following us, she wrote.

  One guy? wrote Kerfer.

  Maybe there were more.

  You see him?

  No, but Little Joe bumped into him. He’ll have a description.

  We shouldn’t stay here, wrote Kerfer.

  I agree.

  Wow, no argument?

  “Give me a break, Navy,” said Mara.

  She went to the bathroom and ran some water on her face. Mara doubted the man was anything but a random stranger who’d had the misfortune of walking a little too close to them, but there was no point in dropping their guard now. He could easily be a spy. Saigon was full of them.

  Back in the suite room, Mara took one of her paper maps of Vietnam and sat in a chair. They could retrieve the cars and drive to the Cambodian border. Embassy staff in Cambodia could help them get to Phnom Penh; from there they could fly to Thailand and then back home.

  “Whatcha doing with the map?” asked Kerfer.

  Mara shook her head. She didn’t want to say anything, in case the room was bugged.

  “There’s a club on the roof.” Kerfer motioned that they could talk up there. “Want some air?”

  “Sure.” Mara looked at Josh, who was lying on the bed. “You want to come?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to leave Mạ.”

  “We’ll take her,” said Kerfer. He went over and picked the little girl up in his arms.

  Josh got off the bed slowly. They went up in two elevators.

  “Easier to protect you if we’re all together,” Kerfer explained as they reached the club.

  Technically, the club was closed. But about a dozen guests were there, milling around tables that were lit by small candles in dark-colored vases. Mara led the way to a glass door she’d seen earlier. The door opened onto a narrow terrace overlooking the riverfront.

  “Nice night,” said Kerfer.

  “It’s a beaut.” Mara walked toward the edge of the large patio. A pair of lovers stared into the southern distance on the opposite end of the roof terrace. Otherwise, the Americans and Mạ were the only ones here.

  “So what are you thinking?” Kerfer asked.

  “Maybe we should just get the hell out of here,” she told him. “Drive over the border. We can probably get there in a couple of hours.”

  “You don’t think there’s going to be all sorts of refugees lining up?” asked Kerfer. “It’ll be nuts. Especially now that they closed the airport.”

  “I don’t think so. It doesn’t look like they’re taking the war too seriously here. They’re ignoring it.”

  “Can you get gas?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Bangkok can find some.”

  Little Joe, Squeaky, and Stevens came up to the terrace with an armful of food and beer. They’d walked around half the town to make sure they weren’t followed, buying supplies before returning.

  “Don’t go too crazy with the beer,” said Kerfer, grabbing a pair out of the bag. “We may be moving out tonight.”

  “Who was the guy in the park?” Mara asked.

  “Just some slant-eye local,” said Little Joe. “But he was kind of close. I didn’t like it.”

  “You just wanted to hit somebody,” said Squeaky.

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t call him a slant-eye,” said Mara.

  Kerfer smirked.

  “So we leaving, skip, or what?” Stevens asked.

  “Me and the spook are working that out,” said Kerfer. “Why don’t you guys go get a little rest? Be ready to
leave in an hour.”

  “Fuck, an hour,” said Stevens. “Ain’t worth taking a nap.”

  “Go get some rest. We’ll wake you up if we have to. Take Josh and Junior down, too.” Kerfer turned to Josh. “Okay? You get some sleep. We’ll wake you up if we’re moving.”

  “All right,” said Josh.

  “What was so funny?” Mara asked when they had left.

  “Which?”

  “Slant-eye.”

  “Ah, give it a rest, spook.”

  Mara saw a dark line growing at the edge of the sky behind him. She stared at it for a moment, not comprehending what she was seeing. It was as if the sky had a fold in it, and the fold was moving, arcing. It dropped sharply below the building.

  Kerfer turned around to see what she was staring at.

  The city flashed white where the black line had fallen. The sound of the blast came a moment later. The hotel shook with the force.

  “Shit,” he said. “More of them, there.”

  The missiles were all aimed at the airport. Three more exploded in rapid succession. A massive orange and red flame erupted in the distance.

  Mara heard the sound of jets in the distance. They were following up the missile raid with bombs. Antiaircraft batteries began to fire. There were large flares in the distance — missile launches, Mara guessed. Sirens began to wail.

  “Gonna be a lot harder for these people to ignore the war now,” said Kerfer.

  8

  CIA Headquarters, Virginia

  Peter Lucas hated being at Loony Corners, his nickname for CIA headquarters. It was his impression that no matter what else was going on in the world, the top priority for everyone in the building was internal politics.

  With the exception of the people on the top floor, who were concerned with administration politics as well.

  But having been summoned from the field, Lucas did his best to play his role as grizzled field agent, recalled to reinforce whatever opinions were current for the day.

  Lucas walked down the glass-lined hallway toward the Starbucks on the first floor. There was free coffee upstairs where he was working, but he preferred the harsher brew Starbucks served.

  That and he wanted the walk from the stifling surroundings.

  “How’s it going?” Ken Combs asked as he got on line.

  “Not bad,” Lucas told Combs, surprised to see him at headquarters. “How about yourself?”

  “I could tell stories. But they won’t get me anywhere.”

  Lucas knew a few of the stories Combs could tell. They had both been in Baghdad when a conflict with the FBI cost two Americans their lives. Combs had blamed himself for following procedure and notifying the FBI of the situation. Of course, if he hadn’t done that, he would have been fired — and the Americans would probably still have been killed.

  “Back for a while?” Lucas asked.

  “Back for a bit. Yourself?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Maybe we should have a beer sometime.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Lucas bought his coffee, then went back to his desk to prepare a briefing paper for the agency chief, Peter Frost. Lucas liked Frost, largely because he was an unlikely choice for the job: Frost had been a field officer, then rose through the ranks to become the deputy director of operations — the head of covert activity — before retiring. A personal friend of the president, he had been appointed DCI — director, central intelligence — as soon as Greene came into office. While it was certainly a political appointment, Frost was the first director in quite a while to have such an extensive operational pedigree.

  On the other hand, Frost had served in Asia two decades before, covering a lot of the ground Lucas did now. Frost’s experiences colored his perceptions, and he tended to micromanage based on things that were dead and buried years ago.

  Lucas was worried about Mara. Getting her out of Ho Chi Minh City had looked like a no-brainer just twelve hours before. Now the reports said the country’s situation was deteriorating rapidly. The airport had just been bombed, and the border up near Cambodia was a mess. Vietnamese troops had reportedly been shooting at people trying to flee over the border. Cambodian border guards had done the same.

  Lucas returned to the small cubicle he’d been given to prepare his report. With his coffee cooling, he reviewed the military updates from the past hour. When he did, he realized that the destroyer McCampbell was steaming on a direct line for Ho Chi Minh City. It was still far off — but almost close enough, he thought, to send a helicopter to pick Mara and company up.

  With a little work, some prompting and arm-twisting.

  Lucas jumped up and started for the Secure Communications Room. The phone on his desk rang as he turned back for his coffee.

  It was undoubtedly one of Frost’s assistants, asking when the briefing was going to be ready.

  “Soon,” said Lucas, grabbing the coffee and rushing to the hall.

  10

  Ho Chi Minh City

  Jing Yo sipped his cup of tea pensively, staring across the plain of darkness before him. The flashes of bombs and secondary explosions turned the night into a cityscape of white staccato. The light seemed to be attacking from below, cracking through the surface. The gunboat on the river behind him began firing its weapons. The bullets were undoubtedly useless, but Jing Yo understood the impulse, the need to respond in some way, to show that you were not merely a victim.

  It was another manifestation of ego, an empty gesture born from the temporary world, not the permanent Way. And yet, at this moment he felt closer to the men firing those guns than to the commander who had sent him here.

  The monks would nod sagaciously at that.

  Jing Yo thought of Hyuen Bo. The apartment he had left her in was southwest of where he was sitting, to his left. The attacks were to the north, concentrating on the airport and military facilities nearby.

  The ground rumbled with a trio of salvos. A great red glow erupted in the distance. Jing Yo turned his gaze toward it, losing himself in meditation as if staring at the flame of a candle. Conscious thought floated away. His mind became a cloud, easing toward a hilltop, filtering into the trees, assimilating everything.

  He would have his target. He was somewhere nearby.

  The satellite phone rang. Jing Yo reached for it mechanically.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Did you find him?” asked Mr. Tong, speaking Chinese.

  “He was in the park at the river, with a woman and at least two other Americans,” said Jing Yo. “I lost him. But he remains nearby. I can sense it.”

  “Where are you?” asked Mr. Tong.

  “I am across from the Renoir Hotel.”

  “You should be in a shelter.”

  Jing Yo didn’t answer.

  “Go to the basement of a building, and stay there until the attack ends,” said Mr. Tong.

  Again, Jing Yo didn’t answer.

  “Our people will help you find him,” said Mr. Tong, whose voice rose with his anxiety. “It is dangerous at the moment. Not just because of the attack. If the soldiers see you outside, they’ll think you’re crazy. They could lock you up as an insane person. You should not be outside.”

  “As you wish,” said Jing Yo, ending the call.

  * * *

  Hyuen Bo was still sitting on the floor of the apartment when he returned. She’d left the door unlocked.

  Jing Yo sat next to her. By now the bombing had stopped. The stars and moon gave enough light for him to see the smooth curve of her cheek as it glided toward her mouth. Her skin was that of a doll, unblemished, its pale hue glowing.

  “I saw my mother,” she said. “She came to me with her hand outstretched. She needed food.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I had nothing for her.”

  “You’re with me now.”

  He put his arm around her. Hyuen Bo’s body folded into his, becoming another arm and leg. Their lungs filled in a tight rhythm, his breathing h
ers.

  The ground shook. More missiles were striking the city. This time the explosions were closer. Jing Yo guessed that the government buildings were being attacked. They were barely a mile away. The walls seemed to heave with the loud claps of the explosives as they ignited. A baby cried somewhere nearby.

  Hyuen Bo’s body trembled against his. Gently, he pushed her to the floor and they began to make love.

  11

  Aboard USS McCampbell

  “Message for you, sir.”

  Commander Silas grunted into the phone, then hung it up. Some things about being in the Navy never changed — no matter when it was you went to bed, someone was bound to wake you up.

  In this case, it was Washington.

  Or actually, suburban Maryland. When Silas keyed up the secure e-mail system, he found a message requesting that he contact the CIA officer supervising Southeast Asia on a secure line as soon as possible.

  Which got his attention. A few minutes later, he found himself talking to Peter Lucas.

  “We have people in Ho Chi Minh we need to get out,” said Lucas. “They were coming out by plane but it looks like the airport may be closed down permanently. Could you pick them up?”

  “I’ll have to check the Saigon port facilities,” said Silas. “But it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “How long will it take?” Lucas asked finally.

  Silas did a mental calculation. “Less than twenty-four hours, more than eighteen,” he said finally. “We may be able to shave — ”

  “That may be too long. I want to get them out of there by daybreak.”

  “Daybreak?”

  “Saigon’s been bombed. The Chinese navy is moving down the coast. The sooner we can get them out of there, the better.”

  “We have a pair of Seahawks,” said Silas. “I may be able to get close enough to the coast to have them there early in the morning. Not quite dawn. But by noon.”

  “That’ll have to do. I’ll find a landing strip and call you back.”

  12

  Ho Chi Minh City