Edge of War rdr-2

by Larry Bond

  They were silent for a moment.

  “And then I will be free,” he added, though the words sounded false, even to him.

  18

  Ho Chi Minh City

  Josh and Stevens waited with Mạ in a low clump of brush just south of the ferry station as the others ran across the road. The soldiers at the end of the block made no move to stop them.

  “We’re all here,” said Kerfer, trotting over. They’d sustained a few cuts and bruises among them, but no serious injuries. “All right, next problem: Stevens, how we getting across?”

  “The ferry will have lifeboats,” said Josh. “We can take them.”

  “Smart,” said Kerfer, starting toward the building. “Must be why you’re a scientist.”

  Josh picked up Mạ and followed as the team ran to the ferry house. Two of the vessels were tied up inside. The building and ships were deserted. There were two rafts tied to the side of the vessel above the main deck.

  “Why don’t we just grab the whole ferry?” said Kerfer as Stevens and Little Joe climbed up to release the rafts. “We can sail it downriver.”

  “Do you think we can get past the gunboat?” asked Mara.

  “Why not? They’re not going to stop us if we look like we know what we’re doing.”

  “There’s probably an order against using the river,” said Mara.

  “You just convinced two policemen you were protecting a prince,” said Kerfer. “You don’t think you can talk your way around a bunch of sailors?”

  “Can you get the engines started?” Mara asked.

  “Piece of cake.”

  * * *

  As Kerfer had predicted, the gunboat didn’t bother with them, apparently assuming that a craft as large and official as a ferry would not be moving without orders. Josh made a makeshift bed for Mạ in the passenger cabin. Mara joined Kerfer and Little Joe on the bridge as they guided the ferry into the river channel and moved southward. Kerfer took the wheel himself, smiling broadly as he steered downriver. There was enough light to make out the shoreline and the larger vessels along the way, but Kerfer posted his men as lookouts at the bow to watch for small boats or obstructions.

  The ferry wasn’t particularly fast — eight knots looked like their top speed, even with the engines at full — but it was stable and big. If they had to get off it quickly, they could sail toward shore and swim for it.

  Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Mara turned on the radio, listening for transmissions. There was a cacophony of military traffic, but none of it seemed to be coming from the river, and it didn’t appear that any was directed at them.

  The sat phone rang — DeBiase, looking for an update.

  The transmissions — that must be how the Chinese were tracking them.

  Mara turned the radio off without answering.

  A mile beyond the patrol boat they passed another naval ship that had been hit by a missile and was burning. A dozen smaller boats moved around it, some taking survivors to shore, others trying to put out the fire. An array of barges sat farther on, tied up in front of warehouses and wharfs filled with goods. Mara guessed that they would be the targets of the next wave of Chinese missiles.

  A pair of junks and several small craft were tied together at the edge of the channel. Some had small lamps hung beneath the tentlike canvas sheltering the families and goods aboard. Others were completely dark. But there were people on all of them, watching silently as the ferry chugged along, one of the few craft moving on the river.

  The river bent northward, then twisted back south toward Phu My Bridge.

  “Missile boat, port side,” yelled Little Joe as they sailed toward the mouth to the Nha Be River.

  The Vietnamese naval craft was protecting an oil refinery and storage area on the Nha Be. They stayed clear, heading southward, just barely clearing some rocks at the sharp corner of the peninsula.

  The ferry’s radio came to life with a challenge.

  Mara picked up the microphone.

  “This is Sai Gon Ferry Two,” she said. “We have been ordered to report to Dong Hoa to take soldiers to reinforce the city.”

  “We will speak to the captain,” said the voice on the radio.

  “I am the captain,” said Mara.

  “What is your name?”

  “Speak to the general who sent me it you have questions,” said Mara. “Call central command.”

  “What command?”

  “Division command. I am not one to question orders,” she added. “If you think you can override a general, then do as you please.”

  She snapped off the microphone and looked at Kerfer.

  “Sounded bitchy to me.” Kerfer nodded. “They following us?”

  She went across and stepped out onto the narrow deck that ran along the port side.

  “They’re not moving,” she told him.

  “Good.”

  The Vietnamese ship didn’t have to follow to blow them up; a salvo of missiles would send them to the bottom in seconds. Mara climbed up the ladder that ran up topside to benches used by passengers on clear days. The river smelled like rotting fish, and she was sure that if she looked closely at the water, she would see plenty of beady eyes like those she’d seen in the storehouse- the Saigon River was legendary for its swimming rats.

  The missile boat was lost in shadows behind them, its ominous tubes and the gun at the bow blurring into the mass of blackness.

  “How long before we get to Vung Tau?” asked Josh, coming up from below.

  “A couple of hours,” said Mara.

  “What happens there?”

  “We find the airport, helicopter comes to rescue us. You anxious to get home?”

  “I wouldn’t mind it.”

  “Your parents are probably worried.”

  “My parents…” Josh’s voice trailed off. “My parents died when I was little. They, uh… It was a bizarre thing. Like a serial killer. Like In Cold Blood.”

  “Oh.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say. Finally, Josh filled the awkward silence.

  “I was raised by my uncle and his family. They’re farmers.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. They seem to be doing pretty well with the climate change. That’s The irony of it. Some places make out. Of course, who knows — a couple of years, their farm may be a desert.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. It’s funny: change the amount of rainfall just a few inches, one way or another — the effect can be tremendous. There are so many things in play. Look at Vietnam. This country is suddenly the most arable land in Asia. Those fields we’re passing — they were swamps two or three years ago. Now they’re industrial rice farms.”

  “I’m not sure I’d eat the rice,” said Mara, thinking of the sewage smell in the river.

  “You probably already have.”

  “Looks like something’s following us,” said Little Joe, who was standing a few feet away, looking toward the stern. “One of those little mama-san boats.”

  Mara walked aft. Little Joe gave her his night goggles, but Mara couldn’t quite make out what he was talking about. She increased the magnification to max but still couldn’t see anything that approximated a boat.

  “How fast can those little boats go?”

  “Mama-san boats? Eh, if they got a motor, couple of knots. Twelve tops.”

  “What’s a mama-san boat?” asked Josh.

  “Little craft they use to get around with. Sometimes people live in them and stuff,” said Little Joe. “Smaller than a junk. Narrow. Longer than a skiff. Mostly they push ‘em around with these long poles. But a lot of ‘em have engines.”

  Mara went back to the bridge. Kerfer had already heard from Little Joe over the radio.

  “Probably nothing,” he said.

  “You don’t really think that, do you?” asked Mara.

  Kerfer smiled, and turned his attention back to the river.

  19

  Nha Be River, south of H
o Chi Minh City

  The ferry’s size made it easy to see, even in the dim light of the river, but the small motor on the side of the boat Jing Yo had stolen couldn’t drive them fast. They fell behind steadily, little by little, until at last Jing Yo couldn’t see them at all.

  Where would they go?

  Perhaps a safe house somewhere farther south. Or perhaps out to a boat waiting in the mouth of the river, at Soi Rap.

  He had to think like his enemy if he was going to succeed. Jing Yo lowered his head, concentrating.

  They were smart, and there were several of them. Half dozen at least.

  Clever people. Worthy enemies, not the vulnerable prey he had assumed earlier.

  His mistake. One he kept repeating.

  The ferry would have been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Planning to take it would have been too difficult — too many contingencies. It had been an opportunity that presented itself.

  And what did that tell him?

  That they had a destination somewhere south. That it was far enough away to risk taking a large boat.

  “We are coming close to shore!”

  Jing Yo slid his hand on the tiller, taking them back toward the middle of the channel.

  “I’m sorry,” he told Hyuen Bo.

  She leaned back over the bow, keeping lookout.

  Most likely, the scientist had come to Ho Chi Minh City to meet an airplane. When the airport had been bombed, he had changed his plans.

  The most logical thing to do would be to find another airport.

  “Is there an airport south of here?” he asked Hyuen Bo.

  “Vung Tau?” she suggested tentatively. “It’s small.”

  Vung Tau was on a small peninsula that jutted out from Ganh Rai Bay. Some years before, it had been a tourist area, but the discovery of oil offshore had altered its complexion. Large platforms lined the shallow waters near the shore, extending well into the ocean. The airstrip at Bai Sau was not a large one — it didn’t appear on many maps — but it would be big enough to accommodate a propeller-driven aircraft or a helicopter.

  It was a destination at least. He would follow down the river, and if he didn’t see the ferry, he would head in that direction.

  20

  Aboard USS McCampbell

  “Cruiser is increasing speed, skipper. New speed is fifteen knots.”

  Commander Silas glanced around the ship’s combat information center. Not one head was turned toward him; every sailor in the compartment was working his or her gear.

  Absolutely as it should be.

  “Their distance?” Silas asked.

  “Fifty-two miles,” said his executive officer. “On that heading, they should be within sight in two hours. If they keep their speed up.”

  “I’ll be on the bridge,” said Silas, making his voice firm and sharp, if not a little curt.

  He could feel the adrenaline starting to build. They were in the open water, and there was no reason for the two Chinese ships — besides the cruiser, there was a smaller frigate about a quarter mile to the northeast — to challenge them, much less fire on them. But Silas sensed they would. He knew it the way he knew how to walk.

  So maybe the old ways weren’t completely dead.

  His orders from fleet were to avoid conflict and to remain in international waters. Those were his only orders — the request to pick up the CIA officer had not been passed on through official channels.

  Which could be interpreted in many different ways, unless you were an old Navy hand, in which case there was only one way to see it: the admirals didn’t want to get caught with the splatter if things went wrong.

  21

  Hanoi

  Quach Van Dhut took a long drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke out in a cloud that engulfed his head. “Eight Zodiac boats is the entire inventory,” he told Zeus. “You are lucky that they are all here.”

  “Eight?” Zeus couldn’t believe it. “The Vietnamese navy has only eight rigid-hulled boats?”

  “They are marine boats,” said Quach. “The navy has none.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Quach turned to the colonel whose unit had been assigned to supply the manpower for the mission and said something to him in Vietnamese. Quach, a short, thin man in his early fifties, was a member of the intelligence service, and unlike the others, was dressed in civilian clothes. He hadn’t given his title, but he clearly had status — Zeus had noticed how even the senior officers straightened when he walked by.

  But status wasn’t what they needed at the moment. Zeus, tired — he’d been working on this all night, and it was now nearly dawn — rubbed his forehead and looked back at the map. It was roughly 120 miles across the Gulf of Bac Bo to Hainan; while the water was generally calm, that was a long way to go in the small open boats. They weren’t the largest models, either — barely seventeen feet long, the tiny craft were designed for seven men and were intended as utility boats, the sort of little runabouts that might be used off cabin cruisers or maybe to host a diving party. The debris that Zeus needed to bring — the entire reason for the mission — would add considerable weight; even divided up among the eight boats, there’d only be room for two or at most three people aboard each.

  “The colonel assures me there are no other boats,” Quach told Zeus. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  Zeus glanced around the conference table. The colonel had brought three aides to the meeting; besides them, there was an officer from the general staff and another member of the intelligence service. The room stank of tea and cigarette smoke. Ordinarily, Zeus didn’t like tobacco of any kind, especially the stale remains of cigarettes. But right now he was glad for the stimulant.

  “They have done exercises like this before,” said Quach. “And I have been put ashore from one of the craft. I believe they will work.”

  “I guess they’ll have to.”

  The inflatables weren’t the only limitation. The marines didn’t have night glasses, short-range radios, or GPS systems. Zeus had a satcom he could use to get intelligence from the data that was being sent to Vietnam’s army headquarters, but he’d have to use it sparingly, on the assumption that the Chinese would be able to detect, though not decrypt, the signal. Just knowing someone was in the middle of the gulf might increase the alert status on Hainan; everything depended on things remaining calm there.

  Still, it was doable. The marines had Chinese police uniforms, which might come in handy. And the unit had received considerable training in infiltration and sabotage.

  They worked for a bit longer, sketching out contingencies.

  “We’re going to need a contact here,” Zeus said. “A contact at headquarters I can talk to directly if the shit hits the fan.”

  “Shit?”

  “If there’s a problem,” Zeus told Quach. “Someone who can stay on the phone with me. And get things done.”

  “The colonel,” suggested Quach.

  “He’s gotta speak English.”

  Quach and the colonel spoke again in Vietnamese. Finally, the colonel turned to one of his aides. The aide seemed to be arguing, but then finally put his head down.

  “Tien will be happy to help,” said Quach. “His English is very good.”

  “Why is he frowning?” Zeus asked.

  Quach said something in Vietnamese to the captain. Tien shrugged. Quach said something else. Tien looked toward the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” Zeus asked Tien, deciding that if he spoke English, there was no need for a translator.

  Tien rose, bowing his head slightly in what impressed Zeus as an overly subservient display. “Working as your translator here means I cannot go on the mission,” said Tien.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “No one else on the staff speaks English,” said Tien. “It is unfortunate.”

  “Well, maybe Mr. Quach can act as the coordinator here,” said Zeus.

  “That will not be possible,” said Quach. “I am going with
you.”

  Zeus looked at Quach. He was perhaps five four, and weighed no more than 110. And that was counting the packs of cigarettes he had in his shirt pocket.

  “I don’t know,” said Zeus.

  “I speak Chinese, and have been to the island many times. We will have one other of my agents with us,” added Quach. “This is a difficult plan as it is, Major. You would not do well without people who know the island and can speak the language.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Zeus. “But you’re — ”

  “Old?”

  “Well — ”

  Quach smiled. “That is not considered a handicap in Vietnam.”

  “It may be, out on the water. We have to swim to the ships to set the charges.”

  “I believe you will find that when the time comes, I will perform adequately,” said Quach. He pulled on his cigarette, right down to the filler. “And if we find ourselves too much in the water before we reach the harbor, there will be other problems to worry about greater than my age.”

  * * *

  They broke up the meeting a half hour later. Zeus waited to speak to Tien.

  “I know what it feels like,” he told the captain. “I’d rather be with my men.”

  “We all have a role,” said Tien stoically.

  “Your English is good.”

  “Thank you. I have studied since I was eight.” Tien took out a cigarette and offered the pack to Zeus.

  “No thanks.”

  “You Americans invented cigarettes,” said Tien. “Now you give it up.”

  “Funny, huh?”

  “We are very grateful for your assistance,” Tien said. “Your strike at the dam was legendary.”

  “I didn’t hit it myself,” said Zeus. “I just came up with the idea.”

  “Vietnam is grateful. You saved us.”

  The praise made Zeus a little uncomfortable. The strike had stopped the Chinese advance, but surely that wouldn’t last.

  As for this operation… the odds of success were stacked very much against it.