Edge of War

“I don’t set her schedule, bro.”

“What about M??”

“The little girl?” Jenkins’s face noticeably brightened. “Sleepin’ like a peach. Cute little kid.”

“Yeah,” said Josh.

Josh had rescued the little girl after her parents and the rest of her village had been massacred by the invading Chinese. She was six or seven years old — Josh wasn’t sure.

“We taking her with us?” Josh asked.

“Decision’s above my pay grade.” Jenkins grinned. “Why don’t you go get yourself some sleep? Cap’ll be looking for you in a few hours. We got a long way to go. Rumor is no flights out of the airport.”

“We flying out of here?”

“We were supposed to.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t know how the hell we’re getting out of here,” Squeaky added. He smiled. “Swimmin’, maybe.”

2

Northern Vietnam

Lieutenant Jing Yo knew better than to interrupt Colonel Sun Li when his commander was in the middle of a tirade. Neither patience nor understanding was among Sun’s strong points under the best of circumstances, and at times when he was angry, like now, saying anything would only deepen his rage.

It was galling that Sun was bawling him out for failing to do the impossible. It was infuriating that the colonel’s decision to ignore Jing Yo’s advice had led to the very failure he was now complaining about. But making the slightest excuse would only lengthen the storm. The only solution was to weather it, as the young cherry tree weathers an unusually fierce winter, or the bamboo withstands the typhoon.

The metaphors were not strictly poetic. Jing Yo had seen both, time and again, during his time at the monastery where he had studied Shaolin. He had passed one particularly brutal winter night in bare feet, seated across from one of his mentors in a mountain pass they called Claw. Ostensibly they were there to help any lost travelers caught out in the storm. The unstated reason, Jing Yo was sure, was to test his dedication as a follower of the one true way, a walker along the path that has no name and no presence, and yet endlessly exists, without beginning or end.

That was what Shaolin was to him. The path of life. To others it was kung fu — the fighting way, the way of a monk warrior. Or an old, musty superstition.

“You are expressly ordered to kill him. Do you understand that?” thundered Sun. “Wherever you find him. Kill him. No matter the personal consequences to yourself.”

Jing Yo tilted his head slightly. The colonel had jumped directly from his rant to the order. Jing Yo felt as if he had missed something.

“Colonel, if our spies say he has reached Hanoi,” said Jing Yo softly, “how do you want me to proceed?”

“You call yourself a commando?” thundered Sun. “I have to outline everything for you?”

Jing Yo pressed his lips together. In truth, Sun was no more irrational than the monks had seemed when Jing Yo first came to the monastery. But in their case, the seeming illogic masked a much deeper sense and purpose. Sun’s was chaos for chaos’s sake — emotion, as those drunk on the surface of reality would perceive it.

“Our agents believe he is in the city already. You will be given instructions on how to contact them,” said Sun. “And a briefing from intelligence. My advice to you is to leave as soon as you can. It will be more difficult to get into the city after dawn. Take whatever men you need. Here is a phone. Use it wisely.”

Jing Yo took the satellite phone from Sun. It was a precious commodity. Even the army could not be trusted in the political upheaval roiling China.

“Do not fail,” said Sun. He folded his arms. “You have tried my patience already.”

3

The outskirts of Hanoi

Mara Duncan slumped in the backseat of the car, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, even though it was the sedan, not her, that would attract attention. It was the only vehicle on the road that wasn’t connected with the military.

Even before the war, Hanoi was generally deserted at four in the morning. Now it was like something out of a Dantean painting, the fires of hell burning around the city. The moonless night was tinged red by the flames, their glow occasionally clouded by black smoke furrowing from their center. The smoke threw vaporous shadows into the air, darkening the city beyond what seemed physically possible. It was as if Hanoi were at the epicenter of a black hole, its matter being pushed together into a mass that defied reason but was nonetheless mathematically correct. And Mara Duncan was a witness to it all.

“Train tracks, twenty meters,” said Ric Kerfer. The SEAL lieutenant was sitting in the passenger seat, next to the driver, a Vietnamese man whom Mara had bribed to drive the vehicle. She figured that having a Vietnamese driver would help her cover story if they were stopped. She’d told him not to speak if that happened, and from the looks of his shaking hands, that wouldn’t be a problem.

“Di th?ng,” Mara told the driver. “Go straight over the tracks.”

The driver slowed and inched over the crossing as if afraid a train might materialize out of the darkness.

“Ph?i,” said Mara. “Right. Here.”

He found the narrow trail parallel to the tracks and started down it. The car, a two-year-old Toyota, bounced violently.

“Stop here,” Mara told him after they’d gone about thirty meters. She opened the door. Kerfer opened his.

“No, you stay,” she told the SEAL lieutenant.

“What the fuck would I do that for?”

“How about so the car’s here when I get back.”

“Slant-eyes ain’t gonna steal it.”

“You’re so damn charming,” Mara said, closing her door. “Stay with the car.”

She slipped her hand behind her back and pulled her Beretta pistol from her belt.

There was just enough glow to see the track to her right. After thirty meters, she spotted a signal box. She stopped and looked around carefully. Then she resumed walking, glancing left and right and continuing to watch everything around her. After she’d gone another thirty meters, she stopped and dropped to her haunches, listening.

Every so often in the distance she could hear automatic weapons being fired, undoubtedly by nervous soldiers on guard duty. The real war was still some miles to the west. Hanoi was safe enough for now, except for the missiles and bombs.

And spies, which she expected China would have here by the dozens.

Satisfied that no one was nearby, Mara crossed the tracks and walked back in the direction she had come. She stopped when she was roughly parallel to the signal box, then walked into the weeds.

There was supposed to be a footlocker with supplies here. She didn’t see it.

Mara moved forward slowly. There were many possibilities about why it might not be here, and she tried not to think of them. She also fought off her inclination to start composing a Plan B. There was no sense devoting her energy to it yet; better to make sure first that it was needed.

Besides, she was already on Plan Z, not B. She’d have to start the alphabet over.

Her foot kicked something. She stopped, bent to it slowly.