Edge of War

She met him at the door. She wore a long silk chemise, a Western-style gown so thin her body seemed to flow through it. His resistance, bare as it was, melted completely. Hyuen Bo pulled him inside and pushed her mouth to his. As their lips touched, Jing Yo gave up everything — not merely his honor or his commitment to duty, but his will and his life.

They made love on her cot on the floor. The war did not exist. He pushed gently into her, and then he did not exist.

* * *

Jing Yo was starting to doze when the sat phone rang. He’d left it in the pocket of his pants, a world away.

Hyuen Bo grabbed at his chest as he started to get up.

He pushed her away gently.

“Yes,” he said.

“Hanoi’s Finest Hotel.” The voice spoke calmly but mechanically. “Soldiers are escorting them. But we believe they may have left to go south. The airport is open at Saigon. We have people looking there.”

“Are you sure they have gone there?” asked Jing Yo.

“We have nothing else. We will call at six tomorrow.”

The phone circuit died.

Jing Yo sat at the edge of the bed. He was at the precipice, teetering between everything he believed in, everything he was, and Hyuen Bo.

Several of his mentors among the monks used to say that voices came to them at times of stress, apparitions that seemed to float from the mountain where they lived and trained. They guided them back to the path, clearing their minds the way a rising sun burns off mist.

No such voice came to Jing Yo now, though he longed for it. Never had he felt so alienated from himself. The decision to leave the monastery and accept his commission in the army was, by contrast, the decision between different flavors of ice cream.

“Jing Yo?”

Hyuen Bo put her hand on his back.

“I have to go,” he said, standing.

“Where?”

She reached for him as he stood, her hand slipping down his naked hack.

“I need to go to Ho Chi Minh City. Tonight,” he added. “Are the trains running?”

“The army commandeers them. Spies are suspected of using them.” She stopped, suddenly aware of what she had said — aware of which side she was on, he thought. “There was — an accident on one today.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Some soldiers were killed. They think it was a deserter.”

In that moment, Jing Yo knew. He knew both that his quarry had been on that train, and that he would follow him. There was no logic to his knowledge — and yet he knew it.

“Where was the train going?”

“Ho Chi Minh City.”

Jing Yo turned and looked at her. He wanted a last glimpse before he left. For he had to leave.

“I’m going with you,” she told him.

“Your mother’s memorial is the day after next.”

“I’m going with you,” she said.

“Take me to the train station.”

“I’m going with you.”

15

Northern Vietnam

Mara reached over and hit the radio’s Scan button as the station faded, hoping to find something else. Several Vietnamese stations were still broadcasting; she didn’t know whether it was because the Vietnamese were resourceful in keeping them on the air, or if the Chinese were allowing them to continue for some reason that suited their purposes, such as sending messages along their spy network.

She got a pop music station; the radio stayed there for a moment, then scanned again, then found the same station. She punched the button to keep the music there, then put her full attention back on the road. It was dark, and to help avoid detection they were driving without lights. She needed to stay as focused as possible.

Josh was sleeping, slumped over toward Squeaky. She could feel the heat coming off his body. He was burning up.

His getting sick was one thing she hadn’t counted on. The Chinese blockade — and Washington politics — were two others.

But they’d be out of here soon. Get to the airport, get the plane — she’d be due for a long vacation.

“How we doing for time?” asked Squeaky. He was drifting in and out of sleep.

“We’re getting there,” said Mara.

“Lucky we haven’t hit any checkpoints.”

“That’s not a good sign.”

“Why not?”

“There should be troops all over the place, rushing to defend the country,” said Mara. “The Chinese are going to roll all over them.”

“As long as we’re out of here first, who cares?”

“They won’t stop with Vietnam,” said Mara.

Squeaky didn’t answer. Mara didn’t feel like talking geopolitics with him anyway. She fiddled with the radio again as the pop station faded. It scanned and scanned. Finally she turned it off.

“I’d kind of like to take a leak soon,” said Squeaky. “You think it’s okay to pull over?”

“I’ll find a place,” Mara told him.

She tapped her brake gently, signaling to Kerfer, then eased off onto the shoulder. There wasn’t quite enough to hold the entire truck off the pavement, but it had been a while since they’d seen another vehicle, and straddling the line didn’t look like it would be a major problem. Mara turned off the ignition to save gas, then got out, stretching her arms and back in the damp night air.

“What’s going on?” asked Kerfer, who’d stopped behind her. They’d switched off the team radios to preserve the batteries, planning to use them only when they were closer to Saigon, or in an emergency.

“Potty time,” said Mara sarcastically. “And I gotta call home. How’s M??”

“Sleepin’ like a SEAL. She lost her doll,” added Kerfer. “We’re gonna have to get her a new one.”

“I’ll put you in charge of that.”

Beyond the shoulder of the road the ground sloped downward to a field. Mara picked her way down, but in the dark sidestepped into a ditch filled with water. She climbed out on the other side, muddy to her calves.

Wheat stalks brushed at her legs, about a month from harvest. Even five years ago, the field would have been fallow, the crop not even a figment of the local farmers’ imaginations.

Mara pulled her sat phone from the sling bag, took a breath, then turned it on.

Jesse DeBiase, the deputy station chief in Bangkok, answered the duty line. “Well, hello there, sweet thing,” he drawled. “I was starting to worry about you.”

“Hi, Jess.”

“Using proper names. Aren’t we formal?”

Mara, like everyone else who worked with him, usually called DeBiase by his nickname, Million Dollar Man. But she was in no mood for the usual kidding and bantering, good-natured as it was.

“I’m wondering what the road situation is,” she told him.

“I’m looking at an image right now. You’re five miles north of the Vietnamese Second Regiment. They have