Edge of War - [Red Dragon Rising 02]

by Larry Bond

  “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.
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  “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.”

  So at least he can add two plus two, Zeus thought. He turned to Solt.

  “We’re not going back to the fishing boat,” he told her. “I’m afraid the marines will kill us before we get back to port.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “I’m sorry about Mr. Quach.”

  “Don’t be,” she said. “He’s with them.”

  The landing craft were anchored ahout ten meters apart, in long rows. They hopscotched toward shore, resting every few minutes and making sure that there were no patrols nearby. They were nearly to the wharf when Zeus spotted an army truck trolling along the far side.

  “We’ll have to look for another place to land,” he told the others. “I think farther east.”

  “We should go this way,” said Solt. “We can take one of the small boats and go to the beach.”

  “Back by the city?” asked Christian.

  “We can change our clothes,” she said.

  “You brought some?”

  “Under the wet suit. In case.”

  “I don’t have any clothes,” said Christian.

  “I have yours,” said Zeus. He held up the ruck.

  “Well then lead the way,” said Christian.

  Solt waited until the truck had turned around before pushing off from the side of the landing craft. The dock she was talking about was nearly a half mile off. Zeus felt tired before he’d taken more than a dozen strokes. He put his head down, willing himself forward.

  He’d almost reached the boat when he heard an explosion in the distance. He stopped and turned, looking back in the direction of the landing craft they’d put the charges on. He couldn’t see it because of the other landing craft in the way.

  A fireball shot up from the ocean. Then there was a loud crack, and a red glow in the distance where the patrol boat would have been.

  “I set the charges on the patrol boat,” said Christian. “I didn’t figure you’d object.”

  “When?”

  “I did it right after we took it over. You think I’m going to leave something like that for the last minute? All I had to do was press the button.”

  “Good work,” said Zeus.

  “We better get moving. The landing craft should explode any second. My bet is the fishing boat will, too.”

  ~ * ~

  28

  New York Hall of Science, New York City

  It took Jing Yo three turns around the parking lot to get a feel for the place, matching the photos and brochures he’d seen online with the building’s exterior. Besides the main entrance, there were four different service doors and a loading dock. Each had a card reader; gaining access would require obtaining an employee ID.

  Jing Yo parked the van in a cluster of cars near one of the doors, backing into a spot that allowed him to observe the loading dock and another service entrance on the side. He got out, planning to look in the nearby cars for spare IDs—a violation of security protocols so common that it was generally unpunished, especially at a place like the museum, where security was usually not a high priority.

  The first car was locked. Not seeing anything that would make it worth breaking into, Jing Yo moved on to the second car. He was just opening the passenger door when a worker opened the service door at the side of the building and walked out.

  The man stuck his hand into the pocket of his blue mechanics overalls and pulled out a cigarette. Cupping his hands against the light breeze, he lit up, took a puff, then began walking toward the two heating company trucks parked a short distance away.

  Jing Yo watched. He expected that the man would get into the cab of the truck and drive off. Instead, the man went to the back of the truck and opened it, climbing in for some part or tool he needed inside.

  Jing Yo left the car and circled back, angling toward the rear of the truck just out of view from the interior.

  He would take him with his hands. Shooting would be too loud.

  Jing Yo was almost at the back of the truck when the employee jumped out, the vehicle rocking on its shocks. The man looked at him in surprise. Jing Yo was surprised as well—the man was a Chinese-American, which for some reason Jing Yo hadn’t expected.

  “I wonder if you have a cig,” said Jing Yo.

  “Cig?” The man looked bewildered, and slightly annoyed.

  “Cigarette?”

  “Yeah, I guess I got one,” said the worker, digging into his pocket. “Damn things cost a fortune,” he added, taking the pack and shaking a cigarette out. “Here.”

  It seemed odd to be complaining about your own sense of charity. Jing Yo took the cigarette, then watched the man pull out another for himself. The worker put his parts down—there were small pieces of electronics gear—and lit up. Then he handed Jing Yo the lighter.

  “You work here?” asked the man.

  “Yes.”

  “Nice place, huh? Pay okay?”

  Jing Yo shrugged. The other man laughed.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not looking to take your job.”

  “What are you fixing?” Jing Yo asked.

  “The safety cutoff on boiler two is your big problem,” said the man. “You guys are lucky I found the parts in the truck. Boss wanted me to drive back to the warehouse. Forget that, man.”

  “Don’t you need an access badge?” asked Jing Yo.

  “You mean a card to get in? Nah—I stuck a doorstop in there. You’ll open it for me, right? If I need it.”

  “Sure.”

  “Have we met?” the man asked. “You look familiar. You live in Kew Gardens?”

  Jing Yo shook his head. “I come from China,” he said in Chinese.

  “Huh?”

  If the man had answered him, or even shown some recognition of the language, Jing Yo might have spared his life. But the man’s ignorance of his ancestral language broke the small spell his Asian roots had cast.

  Jing Yo stepped forward quickly and swung his left leg up in a hard kick that caught the worker in the chest, doubling him over. A chop on his neck sent him to the pavement.

  Two kicks to the side of his head finished him.

  Jing Yo picked him up and put him in his truck. The man was a little shorter than he, and the coveralls didn’t quite fall to his shoe tops. But they were roomy enough for him to move his arms easily, and gave him a good place to hide his pistol.

  A toolbox hid the P90 submachine gun.

  ~ * ~

  A woman called to him a few feet into the building. “Where are you going?”

  Jing Yo turned abruptly, angry that he was being stopped. “Your heating system has difficulties,” he said.

  The woman frowned at him. “I know it has difficulties” she said. “When is it going to be fixed?”

  “It may take a few hours.”

  “A few hours? It was supposed to be fixed by nine. It’s a quarter past.”

  Jing Yo stared at her.

  “We have some important guests coming,” she continued. “You have to fix it quickly.”

  “We need parts.”

  “Get them. And get it fixed.”

  The woman turned on her heel and stomped away in the direction she’d come. Jing Yo shifted the mental map he had constructed of the interior: she must be walking toward the staff offices, which he had thought were on the other side.

  He went to the stairway door and opened it, as if going down to the basement. But he went up instead of down, coming out on the second floor.

  He found himself
in the middle of a display of rocket ships. A black man about his age wearing a tan turtleneck and faded blue jeans looked at him expectantly.