Edge of War

by Larry Bond

  “These ships are fuel tenders,” said the Vietnamese supreme war commander. He did not use a translator when he spoke to Zeus. “They would carry the fuel for the aircraft carriers.”

  “That’s true,” said Zeus. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised at Trung’s mastery of details, and yet he was.

  The general walked back to his seat and sat down. His aides began talking among themselves in Vietnamese. Zeus looked at Perry, who didn’t offer much encouragement. Zeus sensed that Perry thought it was a bad idea.

  But there were no good ideas: with no air force, a navy that was a joke, a thin army—what could they really expect?

  “This is not a bad idea,” said Trung in his characteristically soft voice. “But there are a number of things to be added.”

  Trung paused, silent for a full minute, considering.

  “If the tenders were blown up, the carriers would have to retreat,” he said. “Their aircraft would lack fuel.”

  “That’s true,” said Zeus.

  “So that would be a prime target.”

  “Okay.”

  “The main problem is how to get the force there,” said Trung.

  “I’ve thought of that, too.” Zeus pointed at the image. “We have a diversion here, just close enough to the carriers’ attention. A force of commandos comes out from here and cuts across the gulf north of Buch Long Vi Island. Small, fast boats, stay away from the Chinese patrols farther north. You could make it.”

  “That is over two hundred kilometers,” said one of Trung’s assistants in Vietnamese. Zeus waited for it to be translated.

  “It is far,” admitted Zeus. “But from there it gets easier. Once you’re on the island, they’re not expecting you. You arrange in the harbor to make it seem as if there’s a massive attack. And we take the tankers out somehow, as General Trung suggested. The attack doesn’t have to be huge. It just has to look like a submarine attack. The Chinese will have to bring in more ASW assets. It’ll be days, if not weeks, before that happens.”

  ASW stood for antisubmarine warfare. The force left behind on Hainan had mostly second- and third-tier defenses.

  Zeus glanced around the room. There wasn’t a single enthusiastic face.

  And why should there be? Even if the mission succeeded, it would buy the Vietnamese only a few days—three or four weeks, maybe, with Trung’s adjustment. At the same time, it would be incredibly difficult, a suicide mission in all but name.

  “I believe it is worth a try,” said Trung finally. “We will go ahead.”

  Zeus was surprised. But before he could say anything, Trung raised his hand and continued to speak.

  “What the plan most requires is a dedicated commander, one who can not only plan it but lead it. The only person I can think of who would qualify, Major Murphy, is you.”

  * * *

  “I don’t even want to raise the point with the president, Zeus,” said General Perry as he, Christian, and Zeus drove back to the city. “Even if he would reverse his stand against using our troops here, I wouldn’t let you go. You’re too damn valuable.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Zeus. “I mean, thank you for saying I’m valuable. But …”

  “What’s the but?”

  Zeus wasn’t sure. Now that he had come up with the plan, a long shot if ever there was one, he felt obliged to defend it. And defending it meant being willing to go on the mission.

  The more he thought about it, in fact, the more he thought he could make it work. Once on Hainan, he could pose as a Western businessman. Businessmen were plentiful in the autonomous economic development zone, especially in the cities. Give him one Chinese speaker and some well-trained men, and they could make the attack look realistic enough. It didn’t even have to succeed—as long as the Chinese thought there were more submarines than they’d known, and that the vessels had the capability to get past the screen, they’d be forced to regroup and rethink.

  Zeus was starting to understand the Chinese military mind much better than he had before coming here. The Chinese were brilliant planners and could easily move large numbers of men. But when their initial plans broke down, the army stalled. The attack on the dam, flooding their assault path, was a prime example. An American army faced with a problem like that would have adopted a solution within hours. It might be the wrong solution—Zeus knew from his war games that most American officers would head into Laos, where mountains and high jungle would greatly complicate their advance—but they would do something. The Chinese were just sitting and waiting.

  “I don’t know, General,” said Christian. “If Zeus wants to put his neck on the line, I say let him.”

  “Careful, Win. Or you’ll be going with him.”

  “I—have no problem with that,” stuttered Christian.

  Zeus barely stifled a laugh. The asshole.

  The driver brought them back to the embassy, where General Perry had to use the secure communications center to talk to Washington.

  “You boys can go back to the hotel,” Perry said as he got out of the car. “Zeus?”

  “Yes, General?”

  “You think this idea has any chance of succeeding?”

  “Sir, if it were up to me I’d lead it myself,” said Zeus. “That’s how much I believe in it.”

  Perry grimaced, then closed the door.

  “Man, who’s the brownnoser now?” said Christian as the car pulled away from the embassy gate.

  “I wasn’t bullshitting. I would.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You forget, Win, I was in Special Forces.”

  “Big fucking deal. You got your ticket punched there because you figured it was a quick path to a star on your shoulder.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to snow me. I know the score. I know how the politics work, believe me. I pull the strings myself when I can.”

  “Duh.”

  “Yeah, duh.”

  “You don’t know crap. You were an engineering major. What are you going to do, build roads?”

  “I could build a fuckin’ road if I had to,” said Christian. “And for your information, my engineering degree is in mechanical—”

  “I’m shocked. You actually used an expletive.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you back.”

  Zeus looked toward the front of the car. The driver was Vietnamese, and didn’t know much English.

  A good thing, thought Zeus. He’d be looking at them like they were kindergartners.

  17

  Washington, D.C.

  President Greene rose from his desk in the Oval Office, took a last swig of coffee, then hurried out to the hall, Secret Service detail and aides in tow. It was nearly one. He was due in the secure communications area for another phone call from General Perry in Hanoi.

  Then the real fun would begin. Lunch with Senator Grasso et al.

  Dickson Theodore, his chief of staff, met him on the steps.

  “What crisis do you have now, Dix?” asked the president.

  “Which one do you want?”

  “Which one should I worry about?”

  “Teamsters are threatening a three-day walkout beginning of next week over the price of diesel.”

  “Good. That will send it down.”

  “George—”

  “I have no influence with them. And I’m not joking—if the trucks don’t drive for three days, demand will be less and the price will go down.”

  “I was thinking you could have Senator Leiber try and talk to them. You’re going to see him at breakfast.”

  “The only friendly face I’ll see all day. Not counting yours.”

  “Mine’s not friendly. The Fed is going to raise interest rates—”

  “Again? My God, is the recession not deep enough for them? Unemployment is over sixteen percent!”

  “What we need to do is get some bankers unemployed,” said Theodore. “Then it will come down.”

  “Give that to Jablonski. Tel
l him I want to use it. In New York, at the Al Smith Dinner.”

  “You’re not invited.”

  “I will be. Next problem.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” The dinner, the major political event of the year in New York City, was only a few days away.

  “I’ll bet you on it if you want,” said Greene. “What’s the next problem? More talk of impeachment if we help Vietnam?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to hear reports on that anymore.”

  “I don’t want reports. I want names.”

  “Half of Congress will impeach you if you ask for aid to Vietnam. The other half is ready to impeach you no matter what.”

  “Good to have a mandate.”

  They continued their half banter, half briefing all the way down to the Secure Communications Room. National Security Adviser Walter Jackson and Peter Frost, the CIA chief, were waiting.

  “So who made the coffee?” President Greene asked as he walked into the room.

  “It was here already,” said Jackson.

  “Always dangerous,” said Greene, helping himself.

  “There’s sandwiches,” said Frost.

  “Can’t eat. Gotta break bread in the lion’s den after this.”

  “Grasso?” said Frost.

  “Who else?”

  “You have assassins on your payroll, don’t you, Peter?” asked Jackson.

  “Don’t even tempt me,” said Greene.

  “Mr. President, Hanoi is ready,” said the communications specialist.

  “Let ’er rip.”

  Greene pulled his seat out just in time to see General Perry’s face come on the screen. The transmission quality was a little off; the general’s face was blotched with patches of magenta.

  “Have you had a good day, General?” asked Greene.

  “So far, it’s been acceptable. Vietnam is still here.”

  “That’s a plus.”

  “If they don’t get some sort of relief very soon, Mr. President—”

  “I’m working on it, Harland. Trust me, I’m working on it.”

  “Major Murphy did come up with an idea, as you requested,” said Perry, who didn’t look at all relieved by the president’s assurances. “He believes a diversionary raid against the Chinese assault force before they have a chance to actually launch their invasion will delay it at least a week. I have to say, Mr. President, I think it’s a bit far-fetched.”

  “Just a week?” Greene rubbed his forehead. It was one of several tics he had when he was trying to figure a way out of a bad situation—a habit he’d picked up while in a prisoner of war camp in Vietnam, ironically enough.

  “Maybe more,” conceded General Perry. “It’s designed to get the Chinese thinking they left a major hole in their intelligence. The Chinese seem to react to every new situation with caution. They still haven’t broken out of the reservoir perimeter.”

  “So let’s hear it,” said Greene.

  Perry briefly described it. Greene liked it—but then he liked most special operations. He turned to Frost.

  “You think it will work, Pete?” he asked.

  “Well … If it goes off exactly as planned, if they buy it, it will confuse them. But … I will say that if those tenders were destroyed …”

  Frost was hesitating, calculating in his head. Greene had known him for so long that he could read the hesitation: the plan was close, but not quite there yet.

  “If the tenders are destroyed, then you’ve got real possibilities,” said the CIA chief. His words started coming faster. “Because that’s going to be where the fuel for their aircraft is. They won’t launch an invasion if they don’t have air cover. A lot of it, and not just from Hainan. They’re very cautious.”

  “How many commandos does Major Murphy say the Vietnamese need?” asked Jackson, his voice clearly skeptical. “And when are they thinking of launching this mission?”

  “Those are good questions, sir,” said Perry. “Major Murphy recommends a relatively small but highly trained force. The Vietnamese really don’t have a dedicated special ops force. They could put together some spies and marines, but it would be very ad hoc.”

  “They’ll never take out the tenders,” said Jackson. “There’s no time. You know how long SEALs would practice to do something like this? And they train all the time.”

  “The right people could do it,” said Frost. “SEALs could do it.”

  “How hard would it be to hit those tankers with Tomahawk missiles?” Greene asked.

  “Child’s play,” said Jackson drily. “And then the Chinese will declare war on us. And you’ll be impeached.”

  “Not if they don’t know they were Tomahawks,” said the president.

  “Easily identified,” said Jackson.

  “I’m afraid he’s right, George,” said Frost.

  “We used them against the dams,” said Perry. “The Chinese haven’t identified them yet.”

  “The missiles struck the bottom of the dams,” said Jackson. “The evidence is buried under a lake. We won’t get away with that here. Or at least we can’t count on it.”

  “What kind of missiles do the Vietnamese have?” Greene asked General Perry.

  “Very few.”

  “They have about a half dozen Kingbolts in their inventory,” said Frost. “Probably rusting at a base near Ho Chi Minh City.”

  “Kingbolt. What is that? Chinese?”

  The name sounded familiar to Greene, a former Navy aviator, but his memory was faulty: it was an air-launched Russian weapon, sold to some foreign governments—including Dubai’s. Jackson, who loved to show off his knowledge of military minutiae, lovingly detailed the missile’s origin and capabilities.

  Greene cut him off before he got down to mentioning the type of explosive the warheads held.

  “We can get some of those from Dubai easily enough,” said Greene. “And quietly. Can we launch them?”

  “Have to talk to the Navy about that,” said Jackson. “I don’t know if they’d go for it.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Greene.

  “We might use some of the assets we used in Malaysia,” suggested Frost. He was referring to mercenaries loosely connected with the government air force—and not so loosely on the CIA payroll.

  “Good,” said Greene. “So if we made this look like a Vietnamese attack—add an air element in there—”

  “Easier said than done,” said Jackson. “The only air bases operating are in the south.”

  “Launch it from a helicopter,” said Frost.

  “I doubt that would work.”

  “It doesn’t have to work,” said Greene. “It just has to look as if it could.”

  “I don’t know, George. You’re awful close to the line,” said Jackson.

  “The hell with the line.”

  “What are the senators you’re having lunch with going to say if you tell them we’re helping Vietnam on the sly?”

  “I’m not going to tell them. Besides, this isn’t much more than I’ve already done.”

  “I don’t want to contradict you,” said Jackson.

  “Then don’t.”

  “Even sending General Perry was over the line.”

  “I’ll worry about the line,” said Greene. “It’s only politics anyway.”

  “Mr. President, there is one other factor that you should know about,” interrupted General Perry. “The Vietnamese—in order to go along with this, sir, they want Major Murphy to lead the operation.”

  “I couldn’t pick a better man myself,” said the president.

  18

  Hanoi

  Soldiers were guarding the Hanoi train station. Jing Yo drove past slowly, then stopped the scooter down the street.

  Hyuen Bo tightened her grip around his midsection. “I’m coming with you,” she whispered.

  “It’s too dangerous.” He pried her hand away and got off.

  “I’ll turn you in.”

  “You could never do that.” He touc
hed her gently, then walked down the street toward the station, steeling himself not to look back.

  He’d felt the same way when the time had come to leave the monastery. It was a difficult walk.

  Jing Yo kept his head down as he passed the soldiers. One or two glanced in his direction, then ignored him. He wasn’t important.

  Like the rest of the city, the main lights inside the station had been blacked out; a pair of small kerosene lanterns had been set up near the center of the waiting area. While in theory the blackout was a precaution against bombers, in truth the lights made no difference to the weapons the Chinese used, as the glow of fresh fires from the north and east proved. But turning off the lights was a tangible, if feeble, action the city could take in its own defense, important for morale if nothing else.

  A man three times Jing Yo’s age stood at the desk in the far corner of the station’s waiting room, standing stiffly, as if at attention. The only other occupants of the waiting room were two men stretched out along the chairs, snoring. The plastic seats were improbable beds, but with their heads covered they were oblivious of the world.

  “I wanted to book a sleeper on the midnight train to Ho Chi Minh City,” Jing Yo told the ticket clerk.

  “The trains have been shut down as of five o’clock. The military has commandeered them. I’m sorry.”

  Jing Yo nodded. He turned to leave, and was surprised to see Hyuen Bo there.

  She brushed past him.

  “Isn’t there a way?” Hyuen Bo asked the man. “My mother is there alone. We are afraid for her.”

  “There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing?”

  Her voice was so plaintive and convincing that Jing Yo almost couldn’t tell that she was acting.

  “Perhaps one of the buses,” said the man. “They’re still running.”

  “When do they leave?”

  “At five.”

  Jing Yo left Hyuen Bo in the station, walking quickly out and back up along the road. He had to get away from her. After that, it would be a simple matter to steal a car.

  “Halt,” said one of the soldiers, barring his way.

  Puzzled, Jing Yo stopped.