Edge of War rdr-2

by Larry Bond

  The limos stopped in front of the brick colonial. Secret Service agents were already spread out on the lawn. The front door was open; Turner Cole stood centered in it.

  Greene got out. He was going to do this right — this child was going to see exactly how grandfatherly he could be.

  Hell, maybe they’d take in an amusement park over the weekend. It had been ages since he’d been on a roller coaster. He loved those damn things.

  “Mr. President, very good to see you this morning,” said Cole as Greene strode up the walk.

  “Turner. So, where’s my little girl?”

  “She’s upstairs, sir. Uh…”

  Greene didn’t like the sound of that “uh.” “Out with it, Cole,” he snapped.

  “Sir — ”

  “You might want to get in the residence,” suggested one of the nearby Secret Service agents.

  Greene stepped inside.

  “Mạ is upstairs,” said Cole, still mispronouncing the name. “She, uh, she’s a little resistant.”

  The translator and the psychologist, along with a CIA officer, two federal marshals, and some of the Secret Service detail, were standing in the living room. Cole’s wife had taken the children to school. A nurse was upstairs with Mạ.

  “All right, the president wants the entire story,” said Greene, addressing the small crowd. “And he wants it unvarnished. This is a no-bullshit zone. Out with it.”

  “Well, the psychologist seems to feel that reliving the — going back over what happened to her family would be traumatic at this point,” said Cole when no one else would speak. His tone was reluctant in the extreme.

  “It’s no more traumatic than what happened to her in the first place,” said Greene.

  He looked at the psychologist, a kind of dorky-looking type with unkempt hair and blue jeans.

  “You’re the psychiatrist, right?” said Greene.

  “Child psychologist, sir.”

  “Whatever. What’s the problem?”

  “Reliving the trauma, at this point — ”

  “She’s not reliving it. She’s telling the world about it. She’s saving her people.”

  “Damn it,” cursed Greene, “sometimes individuals have to make sacrifices for the better good.”

  “She’s already made a hell of a sacrifice,” said the psychologist. “With respect.”

  “Maybe we could tape her talking,” said Cole. “Not bringing her in front of all those people.”

  “Where is she?” demanded Greene. “Upstairs?” He started for the steps. “I want to talk to her. Myself. Now.”

  The retinue paraded up the stairs. Cole had given Mạ her own room, sandwiched between the master bedroom and his oldest daughter’s.

  “Everybody but the translator stay out,” said Greene. “You, too, Frankenstein,” he joked to the Secret Service agent next to him. “No offense, but you’ll scare the kid.”

  “Sir, I — ”

  “If I can’t handle a seven-year-old, this country is in serious trouble,” said Greene.

  The nurse, who’d been sitting in a rocker, jumped to her feet as Greene came in. Mạ remained sitting on the floor, in front of scattering of wooden blocks, Legos, and a toy kitchen set. She had an airplane in her hands. She looked up at Greene with a puzzled expression when he came in.

  “Josh?” she said.

  “Josh had to go do some important work,” said Greene, sitting down next to her. As he listened to the translator explain, Greene realized she wasn’t going to understand, no matter what words he used.

  “Nice airplane,” he told her, pointing.

  She handed it to him. It happened to be an F-4 Phantom.

  “Thank you. I used to fly one of these. The stories I could tell.” He circled it around the air, ducking and diving, making airplane noises.

  Mạ tucked her elbows against her ribs, apprehensive.

  “You saw these from the other direction, huh?” said Greene, suddenly realizing that she was scared of the plane. He stopped flying it and handed it back to her. She took it, then threw it angrily against the wall.

  “Bad plane, huh?” said Greene.

  The Vietnamese words came back to him as the translator spoke.

  “Demon plane,” they meant specifically.

  He remembered those words very well.

  And then more came back. Everything.

  “Tên tôi lá George,” he told the girl in Vietnamese. “My name is George. And you are Mạ.”

  “Yes,” she told him. ‘

  “Terrible things happened to you,” he continued in Vietnamese, stumbling a little, as he was at the limit of his vocabulary. But the translator didn’t interrupt. “I am very sorry.”

  She stared at him.

  “Tôi không biet tiêng Viêt,” he said. “I don’t speak Vietnamese very well. I was in your country long ago. During a war. Another war.”

  He glanced at the translator, who nodded. He’d gotten the words right.

  “War is terrible,” continued Greene. “We have to stop it. You can help.”

  “Josh?”

  “He’s helping,” said Greene, resorting to English. “Will you help us?”

  Mạ looked at him, her eyes wide. She looked like a child on a poster they used as public service announcements against child abuse. The posters had adorable kids, with two-word captions.

  Protect me.

  It was impossible to protect everyone in the world. As president, he had to protect the most people he could. If he thought too much about individuals, he’d never be able to do his job.

  And yet, he did have to protect individuals. Little girls and boys, if he could.

  They used to plan the bombing missions over the north meticulously to avoid civilian deaths. It always pained him that critics of the war didn’t realize that. They didn’t appreciate the dangers the pilots subjected themselves to, just to lessen the chances that the inaccurate bombs of the day wouldn’t hurt people like Mạ.

  Bad things did happen. That was the nature of war. That was why you did what he was doing, trying to head bigger conflicts off.

  Mạ began speaking in Vietnamese. She had tears in her eyes.

  “She will help,” said the translator.

  Greene rose. “We’ll do it without you, honey,” he said. “Your friend Josh should be able to pull it off. We won’t hurt you again.”

  Greene looked at the translator. “You don’t have to translate that. Tell her she’s a brave little girl, and she’ll see her friend Josh very soon.”

  28

  New York City

  “They came in the middle of the night. I found out later they were Chinese commandos. They snuck into the camp while I’d gone off into the woods to relieve myself. The next thing I knew, there was gunfire. The entire scientific expedition — the UN’s expedition — was slaughtered. All in their sleep. The bodies were buried, and the site was wiped out.

  “A day later, as I wandered… as I moved around the jungle, trying to find my way back to the highway leading to Hanoi, I saw… I came to a village. It was deserted. Well, I thought it was deserted. There was a field above the village. It looked freshly plowed. Then… but when I put my foot into the ground I realized it was, that it had been dug up. I saw something on the surface. I pushed the dirt away with my hands.

  “It was a body. Buried. It belonged to a woman. Young, maybe a teenager. She’d been shot in the head. And there were more bodies beneath her. I couldn’t take it. I got sick.

  “Later, I think it was that day or maybe the next, I found a little girl. Her whole village…”

  Josh stopped speaking. He felt light-headed; his tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  “That’s good,” said Jablonski. “That’s perfect. You can just stop there and let it go. The video will be playing. It’s perfect.”

  The bastard thought it was a performance. People dead, butchered in their sleep, and he looked at it like a goddamn performance. Points for
his political bullshit.

  “It’s okay, Josh,” said Mara, touching his elbow. “It’s all right.”

  They were sitting in an empty section of the hotel restaurant, reserved by Jablonski so they could talk without being bothered. The hotel had provided a buffet breakfast, but Josh hadn’t bothered with any of it, except for the coffee.

  He got up, anxious, angry, feeling as if he was part of something he really didn’t want to be part of. He walked to the serving table, took a new cup from the tray, and pushed it under the spigot of the silver pot. The ornate handle squeaked as he pushed it forward. The coffee sputtered, then streamed out, steam escaping with the liquid.

  “I know this is hard for you,” said Mara behind him. “You did everything you could. You’re doing everything you can now.”

  “That’s not the point,” said Josh.

  Jablonski was still at the table, concentrating on his food and pretending not to hear. Josh tilted his head, then walked over near the door, wanting Mara to follow. He pushed out into the hall, frowning at Broome before walking down to a pair of upholstered chairs sitting by themselves in a small alcove. He sat down. Mara remained standing.

  “What’s up, Josh?”

  “I just — the whole thing. It’s kinda, it’s like a production.”

  “Of course it’s a production. This is a huge event. Millions of people’s lives are involved.”

  “It’s not an event. It’s not a show. It’s a war.”

  “I used the wrong word,” she said quickly. “We have to save people. China is going to run over Vietnam if something isn’t done.”

  “I know that. I don’t want Mạ involved in this.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  Josh looked up at her. The suit looked good on her, but he wondered what she would look like in a dress. She didn’t have a classic female figure. She was too tall for that, with broad shoulders, a little more muscle than the typical woman. But she’d look pretty, he was sure.

  “It’s just so… political,” said Josh, flailing for the right words.

  “Of course it is. But we have to do this.”

  “You’re not…”

  She stared at him. Their eyes locked.

  “I’ll blow my cover if you want,” she said. “I’ll stand with you.”

  He could have kissed her at that moment, jumped to his feet and hugged her, told her he loved her. He could have married her and had an entire future in that instant; he could have died and been content. But instead, he just nodded.

  “It’s all right,” said Josh, his voice catching. “I can do it. I just wish the whole damn thing wasn’t so political. But we have to keep Mạ out of it.”

  “I’ll talk to my boss. And Jablonski.”

  Josh looked down at his hand. He was surprised he still had the coffee cup, and took a sip.

  27

  Hainan Island

  After the mutiny, Zeus went up to the bridge, thinking he might try to talk some sense into Quach. But the spy had been placed under guard as well. He shrugged when Zeus came in, and stayed at his post near the radio, listening to the transmissions from shore and other Chinese vessels.

  Zeus took his binoculars and went above, watching the water and considering what to do.

  At this point, the marines might very well decide to scutde the whole mission, since it would jeopardize their escaping with the ship. If they went that far, then it would eventually occur to them that killing Zeus and Christian was the next logical step.

  If it hadn’t already.

  They’d probably kill the spies as well. Except that they wouldn’t do that while they still needed to speak Chinese. Which might be the real reason they hadn’t killed the Americans — no sense getting rid of them while they were still useful.

  Zeus and Christian would have to escape on their own. They could make their way back to the area where they’d left the Zodiacs, steal their own boat.

  The marines might look for them. But the Chinese would be looking for the marines. The boat was a pretty big target. They’d never get away with it.

  Assuming the Chinese realized what was going on. They might not. They hadn’t so far.

  Maybe he didn’t have to escape. Maybe the marines knew they’d have no problems once they were back — they’d be considered heroes. The Americans’ objections would be insignificant.

  It would be a risk for them. Better to escape.

  Zeus and Christian had their U.S. passports taped in small plastic bags to their chests. China and the U.S. weren’t at war, and once on shore the Americans should have no trouble — in theory. But they didn’t have any of the necessary paperwork, and just washing up on shore in the middle of a battle in wet suits — that wasn’t going to look good.

  Better than turning up MIA. They’d never even be acknowledged.

  “How grim is it, you think?” asked Christian, coming up the ladder after visiting the galley. One of the marines was right behind him. Zeus had no idea how much English, if any, the man spoke, but he couldn’t take chances.

  “Grim.” Zeus pointed in the distance. “There’s a highway there.”

  Christian pulled up his glasses and looked. Did he understand what Zeus was trying to tell him?

  There was no way of knowing. Zeus scanned the shore again, mentally calculating the distance. It had to be nearly three miles.

  Could he swim that far if he had to?

  What did it matter? As soon as the marines saw he was gone, they’d chase him down anyway.

  Around 5 p.m., they got a communication from a command unit. The unit was wondering why they had not checked in. The marine captain told Quach not to answer at first, then sent Solt up to ask Zeus for advice.

  Zeus went down to the bridge.

  “Tell them we’re continuing to inspect some suspicious boats,” said Zeus. “Be as vague but as positive as you can.”

  Quach spoke to them for a few minutes in Chinese, apparently satisfying them.

  “It’ll be dark enough to set out soon,” Zeus told the marine captain, deciding to try and push up the timetable. “We should get ready.”

  “Go over the plan.”

  Zeus mapped out the attack he had envisioned earlier, with minor revisions. It called for the two fishing boats to go into the harbor. A team of two men aboard each would swim over and plant charges on the landing boats closest to the open water. The debris would be released nearby and the fishing boats would then retreat. Rather than blowing up the patrol boat — still his preference, he said — he suggested putting charges on the third fishing vessel and leaving some debris nearby. The patrol boat would start westward as soon as the teams arrived back.

  “It is a good plan,” said the marine captain.

  “Christian and I will take this landing boat,” said Zeus, pointing to the craft farthest west. “Mr. Quach should come with us in the fishing boat, in case we’re stopped by the Chinese.”

  “Mr. Quach has to stay with the ship,” said the captain. “Solt will go.”

  He assigned one of his men as well. Zeus let him pick the other crew.

  “Once you see the explosions, make a transmission that you’ve spotted a periscope,” said Zeus. “Lay down the depth charges from the fan tail.”

  “We should be back aboard by then,” said Christian.

  “I mean if we don’t make it,” said Zeus, staring at the marine captain.

  The captain held his glare for a moment, then turned his eyes toward the deck.

  * * *

  Since the timers they had for the charges were only good for an hour and they wanted the explosions to coincide roughly with the missile attack, leaving before 10 p.m. didn’t make much sense. But Zeus wanted to be on the island before the attack, which meant leaving as soon as possible. And with the marines itching to get out of the area, they set a new H-hour for the explosions: 10 p.m.

  They climbed aboard the fishing boats at 1807 — seven minutes after 6 p.m. They would
have a little over three hours to get close to the landing ships and set the charges, then return.

  Or not.

  “I’m surprised they let us go,” whispered Christian as Zeus steered the boat away.

  “Maybe.”

  Zeus took a wide turn, heading westward. The plan called for him to sail to the west of the city, then tack back, following a pattern they’d observed some of the fishing boats take earlier. But after a few minutes he changed course and headed directly for the landing craft.

  “What are you doing?” Christian asked.

  “Going to Plan B.”

  “B?”

  “It’s more like W or X,” admitted Zeus. “Hang on.”

  He pushed the engines to full throttle. The marine watching them stayed at the aft end of the cabin, not saying anything. Nor did he object twenty minutes later when Zeus cut the motor and let the boat drift.

  “You’re coming with us,” Zeus told Solt.

  She looked up at him, her eyes studying his face. She was a beautiful woman, he realized. Very beautiful.

  “Will you be able to swim?” Zeus asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  They took the bags with the debris with them over the side, pushing off one by one. The night was cloudy and fairly dark, but the boxy shadow of the landing craft stood out against the light from shore. Zeus was the last to leave the boat, watching after Solt as she swam. But within a few strokes she started to pull away, and he ended up being the last one to the landing craft by quite a margin.

  “Hey, slowpoke,” said Christian when he got there.

  “Set the charges,” said Zeus.

  “Ya think? Already done. All we have to do is push the button and the timer starts.”

  “Do it.” Zeus swam to the stern of the landing boat and climbed up the ladder with the body bags. He threw the pieces of metal and plastic inside the empty craft, then went back to the water and let the weighted bags sink to the bottom. He pulled a waterproof ruck from the last bag — clothes.

  “We’re good?” Zeus asked Christian.

  “You bet. I say we get to shore.”