Edge of War

by Larry Bond

  The jet’s engines suddenly grew very loud. Josh raised his head, then felt gravity slam it back against the seat. For a moment he felt weightless, and panicky. He’d been sleeping, and all he could think of was that they’d been shot down.

  But no one was firing at them. They were in the States, safe, at least for now. The war was literally half a world away.

  “Have a good dream?” asked Mara.

  “Was I dreaming?”

  “I guess.” She laughed. “You were mumbling something, and laughing.”

  “Laughing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow.” Josh couldn’t imagine what he’d been dreaming. All of his thoughts were dark, very, very dark.

  “Where’s Mạ?” said Josh, seeing her seat empty.

  “Behind you, coloring,” said Mara. “The sergeant had some markers.”

  Josh leaned around the seat. Mạ was making pictures on a yellow pad. They looked like black, violent scribbles. She was very intent on what she was doing.

  “We’re landing?” Josh asked Mara.

  “Landing.”

  The jet taxied to the far end of the base. It was night, and a foglike humidity clung to the runway, the lights’ yellow and white beams struggling against the moisture. Out the window, Josh saw a pair of F-22 fighters sitting at the edge of the parking area, their canopies open, security officers standing at attention.

  The jet pulled to a stop just beyond a pair of black MH-6 helicopters. The sergeant who’d shepherded them opened the door, unfolding the ladder to the ground.

  “Sir, it’s been an honor having you,” he told Josh.

  Josh mumbled his thanks.

  “Please watch your step, okay? Careful with that little one. Ma’am, a real pleasure. Thank you for your service.”

  Mara caught Josh’s elbow from behind as he stepped away from the plane.

  “That’s our car,” she told him.

  A Lincoln Town Car stood at the edge of the cement apron. The rear door opened. A short, middle-aged man got out. He looked a bit like an accountant, in a dark suit and rumpled white shirt. “Josh?”

  “You’re Peter.”

  “I told you I’d get you home,” said Lucas. He was beaming, a proud father greeting the prodigal son.

  His handshake was a little limp, Josh thought.

  “And you must be Mạ,” said Peter, stooping down. “Xin chào. How are you?”

  He reeled off some Vietnamese. Mạ pressed closer to Josh.

  “We’re going to be great friends,” Lucas said, rising. “I have some nurses and a doctor who will take really good care of you.”

  “Child psychologist?” asked Josh.

  “The best.” Lucas turned to Mara. “You! How the hell are you?”

  They hugged. Mara pecked him on the cheek. It was almost like a family reunion.

  “You did good, Mara. Damn good.” Lucas shooed them into the car. “Come on, we have an appointment to keep and we’re a little late.”

  “Where are we going?” Mara asked.

  “White House. President wants to talk to you right away. As in, now.”

  * * *

  When Josh McArthur was in seventh grade, his school had arranged a visit to Washington, D.C. The highlight of the trip—if one didn’t count the scandalous game of strip spin the bottle after hours at the hotel—was a visit to the White House. Josh wasn’t one of the six or seven kids who’d gotten to shake the president’s hand when they visited the Oval Office, but the memory of standing around the room was still vivid.

  And here he was now, an adult, an important person, waiting in the back of the limo as it whipped up the driveway toward the West Wing.

  “Ready?” Lucas asked as the car came to a stop in the circle below the portico entrance to the building. Two limos, with only their drivers inside, were blocking the drive in front of the doorway.

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” said Mara.

  A uniformed Marine Corps guard opened the door. Josh stepped out, then reached back and helped Mạ. The night was warm, nearly as hot as Vietnam and almost as sticky. A swarm of small flies buzzed nearby.

  “Damn gnats,” said Lucas. “Damn things are everywhere.”

  Mycetophilidae. One of the indicators of extreme climate change—an increase in fungi in the environment, generally caused by increased dampness, meant there was more food for them. The bugs’ diversity—there were more than three thousand described species—meant that they could rapidly adapt to pesticides.

  Josh had been involved in a study examining the genus as an undergrad.

  And there was a great deal of mold in the air—he struggled to hold back a sneeze.

  Mạ had no idea what was going on. She held Josh’s hand tightly as they walked. Then she said something to Mara in Vietnamese.

  “She’s hungry,” Mara told Lucas.

  “We’ll get some food in a minute.”

  “Mr. Lucas, good to see you, sir,” said a young man in a black suit. He had a clipboard in his hand. “You’re Mr. MacArthur?”

  “Yeah,” said Josh, trying to keep from sneezing.

  “Really, really good to meet you, sir. After all you’ve been through.”

  “Uh-huh.” Josh turned and sneezed.

  “Ms. Duncan?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Thank you for your service, ma’am. And this is…?”

  “Mạ,” said Mara. “We don’t know what her other name is.”

  “Follow me, please.”

  Josh sneezed a few more times. The aide raised his clipboard and waved them toward the doors. Josh had imagined there would be a crowd of reporters, even though it was night, but the only people he saw were the Marines and uniformed Secret Service agents prowling nearby. He, Mara, Lucas, and Mạ went through a metal detector at the door, then followed the aide up the stairs to a small room used as a waiting area.

  “Can I get anyone anything?” asked the aide.

  “Can you get something for the kid?” asked Lucas.

  “Sure. What would she eat?”

  “Peanut butter and jelly?” said Josh.

  “I don’t think she knows what that is,” said Mara.

  “I don’t know what I can find in the cafeteria this late,” said the aide. “But I’ll look for something. What else?”

  “Coffee,” said Mara. “With a little milk. No sugar.”

  “Me, too,” said Lucas.

  Josh passed.

  “Sneezing done?” asked Lucas.

  “Probably have another round, adjusting to the AC,” said Josh. “Allergies.”

  “Vietnam didn’t help, huh?”

  “No.”

  Josh felt some of the excitement draining from him. He was tired, jet-lagged; he wished he could go to sleep.

  The door opened. A bald man with a round face leaned inside. “Peter, you ready?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” said Lucas, jumping to his feet.

  “You’re MacArthur, right?” said the bald man. He stuck out his hand. He was wearing a blue blazer over khaki pants, a blue-striped shirt, and a rep tie. “Glad to meetcha.”

  Josh shook his hand. It was a solid, though moist, grip.

  “Turner Cole. I’m the assistant to the deputy national security adviser on Asia.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Mara Duncan,” said Mara.

  “Mara, thanks for coming. This is the little girl, right? Josh? You saved her?”

  “She found me. Her people were killed.”

  Cole pressed his lips together tightly. The gesture seemed a little too pat to Josh.

  “This way, all right?” said Cole.

  Cole led them down a short hallway to a rounded hallway. Two Secret Servicemen were standing outside.

  This is it, thought Josh. Finally.

  * * *

  As soon as Greene heard the knock at the door, he raised his hand to quiet Frost. The CIA director stopped speaking midsen
tence.

  “Come,” said Greene. He leaned back in his chair, watching as Turner Cole led in Lucas, Mara, Josh, and Mạ. In an instant, Greene sized them up, analyzing how they would come across on television.

  Regular people. Kids.

  God, they were kids—Josh looked like he was still in high school. But then everybody seemed to look that way to him these days.

  The little girl was adorable. She reminded him of his grandkids.

  “Mr. President, this is CIA officer Mara Duncan, and scientist Josh MacArthur,” said Cole. “And Ms. Mạ.”

  “Mara Duncan, Josh MacArthur,” said Greene, rising and stepping out from behind the desk. “Damn, I’m glad to meet you.”

  He grabbed Josh’s hand and pumped it, then stepped over and gave Mara a hug and kiss on the cheek. She was a big girl—nearly as tall he was.

  “And who are you?” Greene asked, sliding down on his haunches to look at the little girl.

  She turned and buried her face in Josh’s leg. The scientist put his hand on her protectively.

  “She doesn’t understand English, Mr. President,” said Mara.

  “Have you sent someone to talk to her? A psychologist?”

  “We haven’t had the chance.”

  “I want someone.” Greene stood. “Turner. A psychologist and a translator. Actually, see if you can find a child psychologist who can speak Vietnamese.”

  “We did find one, Mr. President. She’ll be here in the morning.”

  “Excellent. Excellent. Well, sit,” he added, turning to Lucas. “Good work, Peter. Again. Good work.”

  Greene sat on the edge of his desk. “Josh, I’ve seen the footage,” he said. “Terrible stuff. Tell me in your own words what happened.”

  “Well, um, I’d gone to Vietnam to, uh, study the effects of climate change, as I guess you know. I was with a UN team and we were studying the flora and fauna—”

  “You might just want to skip to the essential parts,” said Frost.

  Greene gave Frost a wink. Josh recounted the night when he had woken and left camp to relieve himself, just escaping the massacre. Then he spoke of the village where he’d gone, the hand he’d found in the dirt. His voice grew stronger as he continued.

  Greene liked that. They could use that.

  “Do you have the location of that site?” Frost asked.

  “I’m not really sure,” said Josh. “I ended up a lot closer to the border than I thought I was.”

  “All right,” said the president. “Now how did you find our little princess here?”

  * * *

  Josh felt his nose starting to act up, tickling as if a sneeze was about to follow. He tried to ward it off, but it was difficult while he was talking.

  Something about the way that the president’s people were treating Mạ bothered him. They were too—was “unctuous” the right word?

  They wanted her as proof of the massacre. But something about it, something about the way they treated her—she was important only for their political agenda.

  Not that he didn’t agree with the agenda. China must be stopped. But still: he felt as if he had to protect Mạ, and bringing her here, contrary to his expectations, seemed to be doing the opposite.

  The CIA director turned a notebook computer around and showed him a map of northern Vietnam, trying to pin down where exactly the massacre had taken place. Josh located the camp where they had been when the Chinese first attacked, but the map showed the stream where he had been chased on the wrong side—or at least what he thought was the wrong side.

  “Should be up here,” he said. And as he pointed, he sneezed, barely covering his nose and mouth with his forearm.

  “God bless,” said the president. “Peter, I think you can work on the exact location and narrow it down later. In fact—”

  The president paused, a thought forming in his mind. Josh and the others looked at him expectantly. Then Josh sneezed again.

  “Hope that’s not catching,” said the president. He smiled at Josh, letting him know it was a joke.

  Or at least Josh thought it was.

  “I, uh—no. Allergies,” said Josh, sneezing again. “Excuse me, sir.” He got up and moved toward the door, trying to discreetly blow his nose.

  “It may be more useful to us to be vague,” said the president. “For now. To make it seem as if we don’t know exactly where it is.”

  Frost and the president began discussing the political implications. Josh, though consumed by his sudden sneezing fit, was shocked, not only that they were planning how best to use the information, but that they would consider holding back some of it. Facts were facts—data points, whether convenient or not, had to be shared and dealt with. That was the only way one reached truth.

  Scientific truth, at least.

  The president turned to him abruptly. “Josh, here’s what I’d like you to do. I’m going to address a special session of the United Nations on Friday.” Greene pushed off from the desk and walked past Josh toward a large globe that stood near the fireplace. He put his hand on it, moving it gently, gazing at it distractedly. “I’d like you to be my guest. And to repeat what you’ve told me.”

  “Everything?” said Josh.

  “Well, shorten it a bit,” said the president.

  “The interesting parts,” said Frost drily. “And we can do without the sneezing.”

  The president laughed. So did Frost, after a moment.

  “It’s all right, Josh. The director has a very droll sense of humor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you, little girl”—Greene leaned toward Mạ; his voice was soft and gentle—“would you tell your story to the world?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” blurted Josh.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “Why not?” asked Frost.

  “Because—she’s just … a little kid.”

  “Well, I agree with you there, Josh.” The president straightened. “But—well, let’s take the matter under advisement.” He turned to Cole. “The psychologist will be here in the morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll get his input.”

  “Hers.”

  “Hers.”

  Greene frowned. Josh could tell he didn’t like being corrected.

  “But, Josh, you’ll definitely be there, yes?” said Greene enthusiastically.

  “Well, yes, sir.”

  “Ms. Duncan, I’d like you there as well,” said the president. “The media will be interested in your impressions. And how you got our friend out.”

  “The SEALs played a part,” said Mara. “Two of them died.”

  Greene looked at Frost. “The Chinese killed them, right?”

  “That’s what we believe.”

  “Then there’s not a problem with that,” the president told Frost.

  “I don’t want to be giving away craft,” said Frost. “I think we should just produce Josh and leave it at that.”

  “She adds authenticity,” said Greene. He looked over at her. “And she’s an attractive young woman. Ms. Duncan, hope you don’t mind my compliment. I’m afraid that’s how things are with the media. People will look at your pretty face and focus on that rather than your intelligence and resourcefulness, which I’m sure were the real reasons for your success.”

  Mara had flushed. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “Not at all. You’re the one who deserves thanks. And you, too, Mr. Lucas. I know you and your staff have been working hard on this.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Get someone from my staff to help Josh whittle down his speech,” Greene told Cole. “One of the political boys. Billy would be best. Jablonski. You know what? I’ll call him myself.”

  The president walked to his desk, picked up the phone, and told the White House operator to get him William Jablonski.

  Josh glanced at his watch. It was nearly 1 a.m. Was Jablonski still in his office?

  “You’ll like Billy,”
said Greene, looking over at them from the phone as he waited for the call to go through. “He’s a bit of a pill, but he knows his stuff. He got me through New York. And that took some doing. Don’t offer to buy him lunch though.”

  “Josh,” said Mạ, tugging on him.

  Josh turned to her. “What’s up, honey?”

  “Josh,” said Mạ.

  Mara leaned over to her and whispered something in her ear. They exchanged a few words in Vietnamese.

  “She’s tired,” said Mara. “She should get some sleep.”

  “We have a nurse who can take her,” said Cole. “There’s a bed all ready for her.”

  “In a hotel?” asked Josh.

  “My house.” Cole beamed. “My wife and I have two kids, eight and five. She’ll fit right in.”

  “She only speaks Vietnamese,” said Josh.

  “I have a translator coming,” said Frost.

  Meanwhile, the president’s line connected.

  “Billy,” said the president, his voice rising several decibels. “Listen, I have an incredibly important assignment for you.… The hell with that. I’ll square that for you.… No, that’s crap.… Listen, I have a real hero here—a pair of heroes. Josh MacArthur and Mara Duncan. Josh witnessed the Chinese massacre of a village in Vietnam. Ms. Duncan rescued him from behind the lines.”

  “There were SEALs involved, Mr. President,” said Lucas.

  “SEALs, too,” said the president. “It sounds like a movie plot, but it’s real. I want Josh to talk with me Friday in New York. He needs a little polish. Not too much—it shouldn’t be Hollywood. Find him some clothes, too. Get Sara on it.… Well, whoever you think can do a decent job. He should look like a scientist, though, not some wiseass rap star.… You won’t have to do anything with her.”

  The president gave Mara a wink, then told Jablonski that he would be hearing from Josh and Mara later in the day.

  “No, you know what? Get up to New York. You can meet with them there,” the president told Jablonski. “And, Billy, this is quiet until the session. No advance notice, you understand. That columnist at the Times you have in your pocket—if he finds out about this before I step to the podium, you are going to be flailed and I’ll be using your skin as a bear rug at Camp David. Capisce?”

  * * *

  Mara watched the president, considering how to explain tactfully that she didn’t want to go public, since doing so would effectively end her career in operations.