Edge of War

by Larry Bond

  “You’re right. Okay.”

  Mara inspected the freight elevator. It was large and simple, open on both sides and the top. A set of rungs extended up the right side. The first opening was two floors up and protected by a metal cage that looked as if it would swing out when the elevator arrived.

  Or maybe it was locked. There was some sort of mechanism near the shaft.

  There was only one way to find out. Mara began climbing.

  She could hear Kerfer’s heavy breathing on the radio.

  “You out yet?” he whispered.

  “We’re working on it,” said Mara.

  “Well get it going.”

  The cage was made of mesh. Mara could barely get her fingertips in. There was a small lip on the floor where it met the shaft, but this was only three inches wide. She eased out toward a cross-member, pushing gently, then a little harder. It didn’t budge.

  The screen extended only halfway up the opening, and Mara thought she could squeeze over it and get down on the other side. The problem was, she didn’t think Josh could. And Stevens would never fit.

  “The gate is a mesh fence,” she told Stevens. “It’s locked. I’m going to try climbing over it and then find the lock. Hold on. It’s very hard to climb.”

  “I can do it,” said the SEAL.

  “Your fingers are fatter than mine,” she told him. “Just relax.”

  Mara managed to get a few feet up, then quickly slid down. Her fingers were just too big for the holes.

  She looked at the locking mechanism. It was a simple lever, but there didn’t seem to be a way to reach it from this side.

  “What about the kid?” asked Stevens.

  “You mean have her climb over?” asked Josh.

  Mara looked at Mạ. Was she strong enough to climb over?

  The girl was tired, and just a few minutes ago had been crying.

  “I don’t think so,” said Mara.

  * * *

  Josh looked at Mạ. The girl sensed that they were talking about her, though since she didn’t speak English, she had no idea what they were saying.

  Could she climb up over the fence?

  He’d seen her dash through the jungle, swinging like Tarzan on some of the vines. But this was different.

  They could catch her if she fell on this side, but on the other side, she’d be hurt.

  No worse than if the Chinese caught them. If the Chinese caught them, she’d be dead.

  “We gotta do something,” said Stevens.

  “Josh—do you think she could?” asked Mara.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You said she was tough in the jungle.”

  “Ask her,” he said, dropping to his knee and putting her feet on the ground. “Ask her.”

  * * *

  Mara repeated her question twice. Mạ didn’t answer.

  “Like this,” said Mara, putting her fingers against the grid.

  Mạ leaned away from Josh, her left hand still on his shoulder. It was almost as if she were protecting him, not the other way around.

  She put her right hand on the fence. Then her left. Josh gave her a boost.

  In seconds, she was at the top.

  Mara held her breath as the child flipped over. Her feet couldn’t find a grip.

  “Against the fence,” Mara told her in Vietnamese. “Like you went up.”

  Mạ finally started down. It was harder—tears came to her eyes from the pain, but the little girl made it.

  “Push the latch,” said Mara, motioning.

  The door unlatched. Mara slid it to the side and pushed the gate upward. They were in.

  Josh scooped Mạ into his arms. They all hugged the girl. Mara kissed her.

  “Way to go, little SEAL!” Stevens told her.

  “Now all we have to do is figure out where the hell we are,” said Mara. “Stay here.”

  Rows of boxes sat on steel shelves directly in front of them. About fifty feet long, the room was some sort of storage area. Mara walked to her right slowly, her eyes still adjusting to the goggles. The shelves ended in an aisle that led to more shelves. The boxes gave way to a large row of white plates; the storeroom, she concluded, was for the restaurant. Sure enough, she found a pair of swinging doors leading into the kitchen, visible through windows in the top panels. The doors were key-locked from both sides, but Mara had little difficulty picking the lock. She eased the doors open into the dark room, then crawled in, moving past a large walk-in freezer and a row of smaller refrigerators and dishwashers.

  Mara heard a low murmur of voices in the distance. She crawled steadily through the kitchen, down a row of stoves and prep tables. As she turned the corner, she saw two red marbles staring at her from the corner.

  A rat.

  Mara shuddered. She continued to one of the doors, still on her hands and knees. There was no window on the door, and while Mara suspected it led directly to the dining room, she couldn’t tell. She rose to a sitting position and listened. The voices were indistinct, and it was impossible to tell if they were in the next room, and if they were, where in the room they might be.

  Mara crawled to the next door, hoping that this one would have a window, but it did not.

  She got up and put her hand on the door, easing it open ever so gently and slowly. A faint glow came through the crack—candlelight, she thought.

  Mara eased the door open a tiny bit more. Her view was blocked by a screen separating the kitchen from the actual dining area. She pushed the door open a little farther, and saw that the screen covered a long wait station, where extra silverware, trays, and plates were kept.

  Mara moved back from the door.

  “There may be someone in the dining room,” she told Stevens. “Can you move up here?”

  “Be right there,” said Stevens.

  “Get by the stoves. You’ll be able to ambush anyone if it comes to that.”

  Stevens, Josh, and Mạ moved up silently, crouching about ten feet away.

  Mara took the night glasses off and eased back into the dining room, listening from behind the screen. Two men were talking, but it wasn’t clear what they were saying. She heard the word “militia” and something about “control,” but the men were at the far end of the room and she couldn’t make out every word.

  She spread out on her belly and began crawling. As she reached the edge of the screen, gunfire erupted above.

  One of the men shouted. Mara leaned out in time to see their feet disappearing.

  “Let’s go!” she hissed. “It’s clear.”

  * * *

  Josh banged against the door in the dark. He pushed into the dimly lit dining room and saw Mara standing a few feet away, gun ready, waving at them to hurry.

  “The atrium is that way,” she said, pointing in the direction of the doors. Beyond them was a balcony that overlooked the lobby and registration area. “There are people down there. I think we’ll have an easier time going through the patio this way. We’re on the third level, but there should be some way to get down.”

  “What about the others?” asked Josh. Mạ clung to his side.

  “They’re creating a diversion.”

  “Are they going to be okay?”

  Mara frowned.

  “We can’t just leave them,” said Josh.

  “Don’t worry about the skipper,” said Stevens. “He can take care of himself.”

  That wasn’t the point, thought Josh as Mara led them to a glass door.

  The outside air, warm and damp, invigorated Josh. He took a deep breath, as if he’d been breathing stale air for days.

  “Two soldiers, near the intersection,” said Stevens, checking over the wall. “Nobody directly in front of us.”

  “There’s a stairwell here,” said Mara.

  She paused, put her hand to her ear.

  “What’s going on?” Josh asked.

  “Kerfer’s got somebody behind him.”

  “We gotta bail him out,” said Josh.

&nb
sp; Mara didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll go,” said Stevens. “You guys get across the road with Mạ.”

  “No,” said Mara, frowning. She took off the glasses and handed them to Josh. “I’m going to have to go through the lobby. If someone sees me, I can tell them I’m an employee. You won’t be able to understand what they’re saying.”

  “How are you going to hide the gun?” asked Stevens.

  “Josh is going to give me his shirt. I’ll make it look like a bag.”

  Josh pulled off his shirt and handed it to her. Mara folded down the stock on the submachine gun, then rigged the shirt around it. It wasn’t the most fashionable bag, but it wasn’t obviously a gun, either.

  “Get across the river and wait there,” Mara said. “Worst case, meet the helicopter.”

  “All right,” said Stevens, still reluctant.

  “I think we should back her up,” said Josh as soon as she left.

  “I don’t know. We got the little girl to worry about.”

  “We can go back the way we came, get up the elevator shaft the way Kerfer did. We’ll be right behind whoever’s behind him.”

  “It’ll be too confusing. And I got to keep you two safe. You’re more important than anyone else. Come on—let’s see about getting across the road.”

  * * *

  Mara caught her breath at the closed door separating the restaurant from the balcony overlooking the atrium. She pulled the radio up and asked Kerfer if he was okay.

  “Get out of the hotel,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  “I’m up here near the restaurant. The people who are shooting at you—where are they?”

  “Get the hell out of the hotel.”

  “Ric. I didn’t goddamn come back for you to blow me off. Come on.”

  “They’re two floors below me. On the sixth. The Chinese are on the fifth and seventh, in the stairwell. At least two top and bottom. They have police uniforms, but they must be Chinese.”

  “Anybody above you?”

  “Negative at the moment. There’s hotel security somewhere, but I haven’t seen them.”

  “Whose side are the Vietnamese on?”

  “No one’s. One of them got shot on floor five when the Chinks opened up on my guys.”

  “You sure they’re Chinese? Not Vietnamese police?”

  “I didn’t ask for passports. That was what they were speaking.”

  Mara took the submachine gun out of the shirt-bag and slipped it to her side. Then she took a deep breath, brushed her hair back from her forehead with her left hand, and stepped out through the doors.

  Candles had been placed in several spots below, and at each end of the hall, providing just enough light to see. She walked swiftly to the right, heading past the elevators to the staircase, which was located around a corner. She turned it quickly and found herself behind two policemen, who had their pistols drawn. The door to the stairs was propped open beyond them.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped in Vietnamese.

  Startled, the men turned around.

  “Who are you?”

  “Security for the prince,” she said, keeping the gun down against her leg. “What’s going on?”

  “There are thieves in the hotel,” said one of the policemen. “There was a gunfight. We have them trapped in the staircase.”

  “Are they thieves or assassins?” she demanded.

  “Thieves in black broke into the hotel,” said one of the men. “Some police have come in. Reinforcements are on the way.”

  “They’re after the prince,” said Mara. “We have to get him out.”

  The security man closest to her started to say that help was only a few minutes away, but Mara cut him off. She couldn’t afford a conversation, and knew that if she gave them time to think—or even ask which prince she was talking about—she would be in trouble.

  “Come,” she said, starting up. She took two steps, then stopped. “Are you coming?” she demanded.

  Sheepishly, the men started up behind her. The staircase came up to a level of convention rooms on the third floor. Mara was now two floors below the SEALs and one floor below the closest group of Chinese.

  “This way,” she said, pointing to the door.

  Neither man moved.

  “Squeaky, can you hear me?” said Mara over the radio.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m two floors below you. I’m coming up a flight. Get the attention of whoever is below you. I’ll take them out.”

  Gunfire rattled in the stairs. Mara put her shoulder to the door and pushed open. There were two shadows on the landing above.

  She fired until she had no more bullets. The stairway filled with smoke and the acrid fumes of spent ammo. The policemen huddled below, unsure what to do.

  “Clear!” she told Squeaky. “Kerfer?”

  “Guys? On three …”

  The stairway exploded with gunfire as Kerfer began firing from above. With the Chinese sandwiched between them, the SEALs below him used the distraction to run up the steps. Within seconds, the two Chinese agents were sprawled in the staircase, dead.

  “Kerfer?” said Mara.

  “Coming, Mother.”

  Mara trotted down the stairs, leaned out the door, and spotted the two policemen. “The prince is leaving,” she told them sternly. “Make sure the lobby is secure.”

  17

  Ho Chi Minh City

  Jing Yo recognized the van, or more specifically its round window at the side. It was a Ford, relatively rare in Vietnam, a twin of the van he had seen at Ms. Hu’s.

  Or the same one.

  “There are soldiers there, on the corner,” Jing Yo told Hyuen Bo, pointing to the truck whose gray sides grew black as the red fires behind them flickered in the night. “I’m going to move up the street, away from their view, then cross. I’ll get into the building from the back. You wait for me here.”

  “They’ll ask why you’re at the hotel,” she said. “I should go with you—we’ll say we are looking for a place to stay. We can say our house burned down.”

  It was a good idea. And it would keep her with him. Safer.

  “All right. Come on,” said Jing Yo.

  They walked back up the side street before crossing. Jing Yo took Hyuen Bo’s hand, tugging her gently as he started across the street.

  His leg muscles stiffened as he reached the other side. He shrugged off the fatigue and started down the street, toward the van. As they approached, Jing Yo realized someone was sitting in the passenger seat.

  Mr. Tong.

  He must confront him. Fate had placed them together here. To ignore it was too dangerous.

  “Stay here,” Jing Yo told Hyuen Bo, letting go of her hand.

  Mr. Tong didn’t see him until he was only a few feet from the truck. Surprise flickered across his face, then resignation. He lowered the window as Jing Yo approached.

  “Why are you here?” Jing Yo asked.

  “You’re the one I should ask,” said Mr. Tong. “Why have you not apprehended your man?”

  Jing Yo caught a glimpse of the pistol rising from Mr. Tong’s lap. He shot his arm forward, fist smashing into Mr. Tong’s jaw. The blow cracked his windpipe.

  A second punch broke Mr. Tong’s nose. He started to fall forward in the seat.

  A chop to the back of his neck killed him.

  Jing Yo reached into the truck and took the gun.

  So it was clear now. There was no room for questions or doubt.

  There was a commotion around the corner, at the front of the hotel. Jing Yo unlocked the door and climbed into the van, pushing Mr. Tong’s limp body into the back. He slid into the driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition.

  A sawed-off shotgun sat in a holster next to the central console. Directly behind the passenger seat was a case with two rocket-propelled grenades, and a pair of submachine guns, along with a backpack filled with ammunition. There was a handgun and grenades as well.

  Enoug
h for a small army. Or one commando.

  Hyuen Bo ran to the van and climbed into the passenger seat as Jing Yo started the engine. He drove up the block and back around, just in time to see half a dozen men running across the street to the park. The soldiers in the distance made no effort to stop them.

  The men were taller than average Vietnamese were. One of them, Jing Yo knew, must be the scientist.

  He continued down the block, driving slowly but steadily past the soldiers. He nodded at them, trusting—hoping, really—that the militia bandanna he was still wearing would spare any questions. Apparently it did; the soldiers didn’t say anything.

  He was just turning up the street, back toward the heart of the city, when Hyuen Bo grabbed his hand.

  “We can’t go back to the apartment,” she said.

  “I know,” said Jing Yo.

  “We should leave Saigon. There must be many ways out of the country.”

  “I can’t just leave. I have a mission.”

  “We should leave,” she said.

  For the first time since he had returned, Jing Yo heard pleading in her voice. And pain. Great pain.

  “Aren’t they trying to kill you?” she asked. “Wasn’t this the van of the people you went to see?”

  Mr. Tong had tried to kill him. Jing Yo had to assume that Ms. Hu wanted him dead.

  But that didn’t relieve him of his duty. He had let the scientist escape. He had to fulfill his obligations.

  Beijing might know nothing of the plots here. And in any event, they were irrelevant.

  “I’m sorry,” he told Hyuen Bo. “I must do my duty. Whatever the cost.”

  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.”