Edge of War

by Larry Bond

“We have to go right to the UN,” said the aide. “There are demonstrations outside. A lot of them. Police should meet us on the other side of the bridge.”

  “See?” Grasso turned to Jablonski. “Your guy wants us to vote for a war. You know how unpopular we’d be? We’ll be crucified.”

  “The president isn’t asking for a war vote,” said Jablonski.

  “Not yet. But this is the first step. Sanctions. Of course, the vote would fail if it were in the Senate, you know.”

  “It’s not in the Senate.”

  “So what do you want to talk to me about, young man?” asked Grasso.

  “I just wanted to, uh, tell you, uh—”

  “Josh was in Vietnam when the war broke out,” said Jablonski. He was behind the lines for a while.”

  “Wait—you’re with the CIA?” asked Grasso.

  “Uh, no, sir. I uh—I’m a scientist.”

  “Scientist?” Grasso was acting confused. Josh realized it was an act—he was trying to draw him out, trying to be clever by playing dumb.

  It made Josh angry. And that relaxed him. Slightly, at least.

  “I was with a UN team. I was on a grant,” Josh told the senator. “We were in Vietnam. The Chinese came over the border one night. They were in black. Commandos or something like that. They killed the rest of the team. While they were sleeping.”

  “No shit?”

  Josh finally had the senator’s attention.

  “Tell him about the village, Josh,” said Jablonski.

  * * *

  Jing Yo flew down the stairs, the submachine gun in his hand. There was no sense hiding it now. It didn’t matter if anyone saw him now; if they tried to stop him, they were dead.

  He reached the first floor and threw himself against the door, expecting to be met by a hail of bullets. But there was no one there.

  It hadn’t been a trick. It was a change in plans.

  He told himself to remain calm. To be the man he had trained to be.

  He could still take the scientist. It would still be easy.

  Jing Yo ran to the van behind the building. He started the truck and pulled forward, wheels squealing as he drove to the front lot.

  Which way would the senator have gone?

  Jing Yo stopped. He reached over to the glove compartment and took out the GPS tracking monitor.

  There was a yellow dot on a map, along with a green square showing where he was.

  The senator was to his left, going east, away from the UN.

  Away from the UN? Was Josh with him? If so, it didn’t make sense.

  But it was all he had to go on. Jing Yo looked at the map, then headed for the exit.

  * * *

  “Stay close,” Mara told the marshal who was driving.

  “I’m only three cars back, for cryin’ out loud. I can’t help it if that jackass cut me off.”

  “There’s a merge up there, and traffic will pick up.”

  “He’s only going to Manhattan. I’m sure I’ll find him.”

  “Don’t be a backseat driver,” said Broome, leaning forward behind her.

  “I’m in the front seat,” she said.

  “Yeah, whatever. Watch it or Fred will give you the wheel.”

  Mara folded her arms, staring at the traffic on the bridge ahead. She felt bad that she hadn’t gone with Josh, as if she’d chickened out.

  That was stupid. The senator wasn’t exactly dangerous. She’d been with Josh in Vietnam, behind the lines—she’d been with him when things were truly bad.

  Still, she felt as if she belonged with him now.

  * * *

  Neither the senator nor Jablonski spoke when Josh finished telling them about the vehicles he had seen coming down from Vietnam.

  “They were definitely coming out of China,” repeated Josh. “It was a setup.”

  “Tell me about that village again,” said Senator Grasso. “That little girl.”

  “Mạ,” said Josh.

  “Yes.”

  “The president is bringing her,” said Josh.

  “Really. She’s someone I’d like to meet. Now, you’re sure that village was in Vietnam?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Could you find it on a map?”

  “I’m not positive. I’ve tried, from satellite photos. It’s not easy to get your bearings in the middle of the jungle.”

  “I see.”

  “I can show you where the camp was, and where I went.”

  “Okay.” Grasso leaned forward. “Kevin, we have a map of Vietnam somewhere, right?”

  * * *

  The traffic frustrated him. Jing Yo knew from the sensor that the senator’s car was somewhere ahead, but he couldn’t see it.

  He had to merge with a line of traffic to his left. Meanwhile, another stream of cars was moving in from the right a short distance ahead. The traffic was as bad as anything around Beijing. The sound was worse: the heavy thump of bass lines from several nearby cars shook the van, and every so often their disjointed symphony was interrupted by the blaring of horns.

  The steel web of the bridge’s cantilever shell rose in the distance. Jing Yo urged the van forward through the traffic, wedging it into the flow as best he could. Manhattan lay ahead, high-rises and office buildings spread along the horizon.

  Jing Yo needed to get the scientist before he got over to the other side. If he got too much of a lead once he was in Manhattan, he’d get to the UN before Jing Yo could.

  He’d take him there if necessary.

  The car in front of Jing Yo eased ahead, then hit its brakes. Brake lights were lit as far ahead as he could see.

  The van was useless here.

  He opened the window and craned his neck out the side. If the senator’s car was nearby, he’d just jump out and blow it up with the grenade launcher—climb on top of the van and let loose.

  He couldn’t see it.

  The scooter was in the back. He could use that.

  Jing Yo threw the van into park and pulled on the emergency brake. Then he got up and squeezed into the back of the van, hitting the overhead light so he could see.

  The senator’s car was undoubtedly armored. He opened the box to the grenade launcher, mounted an armor-piercing shell, then slung the gun over his shoulder. He put the P90 over his other shoulder. He still had the plumber’s coveralls on; the big Glock was in a holster and the derringer was in his pocket beneath them.

  A horn sounded behind him. Jing Yo pushed open the door to the van. It slammed into something about midway—the hood of the car that had been following him.

  The horn sounded again. Jing Yo pushed the other door open, but it too stopped halfway.

  A cab was behind him. The driver was pounding on his horn, screaming out the window at him to move, asking what the hell he was doing.

  Jing Yo kicked at the doors, then crouched in the open space between them. He swung the RPG launcher into his arm.

  “Move back!” he yelled in English. “Back!”

  The cabdriver was too shocked to do anything. Stunned, his hand stayed on the horn.

  “Out of my way!” Jing Yo yelled to the taxi driver in Chinese, menacing him again with the grenade launcher.

  Firing would have done him no good—at this range, the shaped charge on the grenade’s nose would have sent it right through the unarmored windshield, and very possibly through three or four before exploding.

  He put his foot on the door at his left and pushed, wedging it across the bumper and front end of the other car. Then he grabbed the scooter and pushed it toward the door. The taxi driver, meanwhile, had regained enough of his senses to throw the car into reverse. He tried getting around the van to the left. But he hit the bumper, pushing the front of the van sideways into another car before managing to get into a small wedge of open space. The space closed quickly—he hit a pickup truck trying to veer away, bounced off and smacked into the side of an SUV, which in turn hit the car in front of it. Within seconds, the entire bridge was one big
pileup.

  Jing Yo tumbled to the floor of the van, the scooter tumbling on top of him. Rage took over, flooding past the last bits of discipline that had been holding it back. He grabbed the scooter and pushed it over, falling with it to the pavement. Then he scrambled to his feet, pointed the bike at the left side of the crowded traffic lanes, and got on. He gunned it to life, looking for an opening, desperate to fulfill his destiny.

  * * *

  Mara couldn’t see what was going on up ahead, but clearly there was some sort of crazy commotion—car horns were going off, and suddenly an alarm began to bleat.

  She unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door, and propped herself up on the floor ledge, trying to see over the cars and trucks. Someone on a scooter cut sideways across the lane of traffic.

  He had a gun strapped across his back. Two guns.

  One was a grenade launcher.

  Mara ducked back into the car.

  “Give me your pistol,” she told the marshal driving.

  “What?”

  “There’s someone on a bike up there with a gun. Your pistol!”

  “What’s going on?” demanded Broome in the back.

  “Come with me!” Mara grabbed the pistol from the driver’s holster, then jumped out of the Chevy. Running toward the scooter, she reached for her cell phone to call Jablonski and warn him.

  30

  Hainan Island

  By the time the landing craft and fishing boat exploded, Zeus, Christian, and Solt were in a small runabout, racing past the main harbor at Sanya.

  “Beach the boat there,” said Solt, pointing to a ledge of rocks at the end of the sand. “We want to get ashore as quickly as we can, before they begin to organize.”

  Christian began pulling off his wet suit. So did Solt—she unfurled a thin pair of pants from under the suit, and stepped onto the beach barefoot.

  “We should get some better clothes,” said Christian. Zeus had inadvertently taken the wrong set of sailor’s pants, forcing Christian to wear a pair at least two sizes too small.

  “Let’s grab a car and get out of here first,” Zeus told him.

  “We can get clothes at the hotel,” said Solt, pointing to the high-rise building almost directly ahead. “There is a gym and a locker room. Westerners are there,” she added. “Your size.”

  “I hope so,” replied Christian.

  The patio was filled with people craning their necks to see the fires out in the ocean. A pair of fighter jets rocketed overhead, and a helicopter approached from the north. Zeus and Christian followed Solt into the building. She walked quickly through the hall, ducking right. She’d obviously been here before.

  “That way,” she said. “Meet in the lobby in five minutes.”

  “They all have locks,” hissed Christian, spotting combination locks on the row of metal boxes. “What the hell?”

  Zeus started opening the lockers that didn’t have locks, but gave up after finding a few empty. He looked at one of the combination locks. It was a simple device, the sort common in high schools and junior high schools across America. He knew they were fairly easy to pick, but he had no idea how to do it.

  “Clothes!” yelled Christian near the back of the room. He sounded like a kid who’d found an unexpected cache of toys under the Christmas tree. What he had found was nearly as good: a box of items that had been left behind over the past few months. He began sorting through them, pulling out a pair of jeans. They were loose and not exactly fashionable, but they fit.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” said Zeus, deciding his clothes, though damp, would do.

  “Wait—you trust her?”

  “Solt? Why not?”

  “I got a bad feeling,” said Christian. “She brought us in here. All the lockers are locked—”

  “If she was going to kill us, she could have done it in the water.”

  “Maybe we’re her prize,” said Christian. “The way the ship was to the marines. If she’s working for the Chinese.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Christian frowned, but followed Zeus out to the lobby. It was a large, marble-walled space, with soaring ceilings and four pairs of golden chandeliers. Solt wasn’t there. Zeus walked as nonchalantly as he could to the couch farthest from the registration desk.

  “Where is she?” whispered Christian.

  “Don’t know. You got your passport?”

  “Shit yeah.”

  “Emergency money?”

  “A hundred bucks ain’t gonna get us off the island.”

  It wouldn’t get them a night at the hotel, either. But they could call the embassy, maybe, have some emergency money wired in.

  There’d be lots of questions, and not just from the Chinese. But what was the alternative?

  Solt appeared across the hall. She was wearing an ankle-length silk dress that seemed to be made for her. It was supported off her shoulders by two thin straps and hugged her breasts and sides.

  She’d covered the purple welt on the side of her head with makeup. Zeus guessed she must still be hurting, but you couldn’t tell from the way she walked.

  “She’s damn hot, I’ll give her that,” said Christian. “Matala Hardy or whatever that woman’s name was.”

  “Mata Hari,” said Zeus, referring to the famous spy.

  To Zeus’s surprise, she came over and kissed him. It happened so quickly he could barely enjoy it.

  “We should leave quickly,” she whispered.

  “Yes, let’s go.”

  “How come you get the kiss?” muttered Christian as they walked out the front door.

  Solt glanced around the horseshoe-shaped drive, then started down the sidewalk to the right. Zeus and Christian followed.

  A taxi came up the driveway.

  “Let’s take the cab,” said Zeus, stepping into the road. “Get us away from the harbor.”

  Solt went to the driver’s window. He had been dispatched for another guest, but one of Zeus’s fifty-dollar bills easily changed his mind. Within a few minutes they were on the highway, Solt in the front, Christian and Zeus in the back.

  Solt told the driver to pull off at the second exit. Zeus didn’t understand the directions until they went off the highway.

  “What are we doing?” he asked.

  “I need to make a stop.”

  Christian shot him a glance. It turned into a glare as they found themselves in the center of town, heading toward a building with a troop truck and several police cars parked in front.

  Zeus held his breath as they passed. The cab stopped in front of a bank.

  “Keep him here,” whispered Solt. She hopped out. It looked as if she was going to the ATM, but she hurried past and disappeared around the corner.

  “Now what?” asked Christian.

  “Relax, would you?”

  “I’m relaxed. Just relaxed enough to get arrested. If we’re lucky.”

  The cabdriver started talking to them. At first it sounded as if he were speaking Chinese. Only after he stopped did Zeus realize the man had asked him something in English. His accent was so thick it was impossible to tell what he’d said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Zeus. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “You do business Hainan?” repeated the man.

  “Not really,” said Christian.

  “We hope to,” said Zeus quickly. “We have plans for importing Scotch. We wanted to, um, set up a trade for fish. For the fish imports. So we’re going to look at, uh, fish farms.”

  “All fish stay in China,” said the man. There was an edge to his voice. “Important to feed Chinese.”

  “That’s what they told us,” said Zeus. “I respect that.”

  “Respect?”

  “Chinese fish for Chinese people,” said Christian.

  “That is right,” said the driver.

  “But the trade would be valuable for the Chinese as well,” said Zeus.

  Christian interrupted. “You don’t like Americans?
”

  “American business—big,” said the driver. “Does not care. Too big. Steal from Chinese.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Zeus wanted to strangle Christian, or at least gag him. Two police cars pulled out behind them and raced past, sirens blaring.

  “Where miss?” asked the driver. “We must go. Cannot stay here.”

  “She’s coming,” said Zeus.

  “Must go.”

  “Please stay.”

  “Must go.”

  The driver started to put the car into gear.

  “Hey, this will get you to stay, right?” asked Christian, holding out one of his fifties.

  The driver grabbed the bill, then put the car back into park.

  “Good idea,” whispered Zeus.

  “Yeah.”

  The door opened. Solt slid in. She told the driver something in Chinese and they started out. But they found the nearby entrance to the highway blocked. So was the next one. The driver began talking very quickly, arguing with Solt.

  “We’re not going to be able to get on the highway,” Solt told Zeus finally. “I’m going to have him take us to the airport. We can get there on local roads.”

  “What the hell are we going to do at the airport?” Christian asked.

  Zeus shook his head. The driver might not speak English very well, but clearly he understood it.

  A few blocks later, it was clear they weren’t going to get to the airport, either. The roads were jammed, either closed or choked with chaotic traffic. Solt told the driver to let them out.

  “Do you have passports?” she asked after the taxi had managed a three-point turn and started away.

  “We do,” said Zeus.

  “We can get a plane to Hong Kong, and from there to Japan,” she said. “If they’re still flying.”

  “We don’t have the money. Or baggage.”

  “That won’t be a problem. As long as you still have some dollars to bribe the security people with.”

  “I have fifty.”

  “Me, too,” said Christian.

  “Then we should start. If we get separated before the gate,” Solt added, reaching into her purse, “call the number on this business card. Tell them than Mr. Jenni sent you. Do what he tells you. You can trust him.”

  “Can we trust you, though?” asked Christian.

  Solt looked at Zeus, as if to say, Why do you hang out with him? Then she started walking in the direction of the airport.