Edge of War

“Maybe they didn’t start the war,” said Greene. “What would your reaction be then?”

“I’d need some very good proof that they didn’t.”

“We’ve seen footage from the Chinese,” said Grasso. “We’ve seen their satellite photos. Is there proof they’re lying?”

“If I have proof, that would change your mind?” asked Greene.

“I would consider it,” fudged Grasso. “Do you have proof?”

Greene did have proof — Josh MacArthur, and the little orphan girl he’d found. But he wasn’t ready to share that proof with anyone outside the administration. Even there, most didn’t know about it. The problem was that once he said something, especially here, it would get out, and the Chinese would find a way to rebut it.

“We’re examining the situation,” Greene said.

“What’s ‘examining’ mean?” asked Kraft.

“Reviewing the intelligence. Let’s say we have proof — what then?”

“Convince the UN. Start with sanctions,” suggested Kraft. “Then you might be able to get some votes.”

You might get some votes — not we. Greene boiled inside. He had very little use for the UN. No use, in fact.

Yet he couldn’t go to war without the support of the American people. And their elected representatives.

“I am going to the UN,” he said. “You can count on that.” He looked around the table. “Could someone pass me the pepper? My chicken is a little bland.”

21

Vinh Province, Vietnam

Jing Yo stopped again to siphon gas, this time from a small farm not far from the road. Hyuen Bo had fallen asleep against his back, and nearly fell off when he stopped. Jing Yo left her with the scooter near the road and went alone to scout the yard.

A few years before, this would have been a rich farm for Vietnam, with several acres and several buildings. Now it was commonplace. He guessed that it would have a tractor and at least one car or motorbike, but he couldn’t find them. There were two sheds near the road. Neither had a vehicle. In one, he found a small fuel can, but it smelled of diesel or kerosene, and its fuel was too thick to be gasoline.

Jing Yo found a path that led back to the two small houses. It started to rain as he approached the nearer house. The small droplets felt good at first, but soon they started to fall faster and thicker, and it became harder to see.

A tractor was parked in a hollow next to the house. A motorcycle leaned against it. Jing Yo unscrewed the top to the motorcycle’s gas tank. There was gas almost to the brim. He pushed his hose in to fill his makeshift gas tank, then got another idea. He picked up the bike and backed it away from the house, walking with it to the spot where he’d left Hyuen Bo.

He didn’t see her or the scooter. A hole opened in his chest as he stood still, turning around slowly as he looked for her.

Perhaps it is good that she has left, he thought.

“I’m here,” she whispered. And his heart jumped.

“Across the road,” Hyuen Bo added. “I was afraid we could be seen.”

She pushed the bike out from around the brush where she’d been hiding.

“You found another bike?”

“Just for the gas,” said Jing Yo, changing his mind about taking it.

He didn’t want to be separated from her.

Not yet.

They rigged the hose, taking advantage of the different heights between the machines. The slope and the full tank of gas in the bike made it easy.

“Are you hungry?” Jing Yo asked when they finished.

“Why? Is there food?”

“There are houses. There’s bound to be something.”

“You shouldn’t take the food from the people,” said Hyuen Bo. “They probably have very little.”

“It’s a rich farm,” said Jing Yo. “A person with a farm this size would be very well off in China. If not for the drought.”

“Is that how you justify stealing?”

Jing Yo didn’t answer. He took the bike and pushed it back to its resting spot. He leaned it against the tractor just as the sat phone rang.

“We have found a transmission on the frequencies used by the CIA,” said a man whose voice he did not recognize. “There have been three transmissions in the past several hours, moving in a general direction south. The last was fifteen minutes ago, in southern Vinh Province. There have been no other transmissions from the American spies in the past two days.”

“Give me directions,” said Jing Yo.

* * *

The last signal had come from, a position barely thirty kilometers, or twenty miles, away. Jing Yo drove with new focus. It might be nothing — there was no way of knowing from the signal itself, and his informer had made no promises — but he was convinced that he was now on his quarry’s trail. And close to him.

Rain continued to fall steadily. The scooter’s small wheels slipped on the pavement, and he had to keep his speed down to roughly forty kilometers an hour. It was an exercise in patience.

He had learned to be patient in the monastery by spending whole days sitting outside the prayer hall, waiting for the monk he was assigned to accompany. During this phase of his training, the monks were completely unpredictable. They would arrive before morning prayer; they would not come until nightfall. This was all absolutely intentional — they had perceived in Jing Yo a weakness for action. They interpreted this as impetuousness, a vice. Not trained, the tendency could overcome careful thought. And so they had taught him to harness it, first by teaching patience, and then by instructing him in the physical skills of kung fu.

The rain made it harder to see in the distance, and Jing Yo nearly missed the intersection where he needed to turn. He braked a little too hard and the bike began to slide to its left. He let off on the brake, shifted his weight. It was all automatic; he had his balance before he could even open his mouth to warn Hyuen Bo. But the incident warned him against his wandering thoughts. He needed to concentrate and focus on what he was doing.

A truck blocked the highway about two miles later. Jing Yo slowed gently, easing the brake against the wheel. The truck was a civilian vehicle, and it was parked on a diagonal, nose facing south. As he came close, Jing saw that he could slip around on the left shoulder. As he did, two men came out from behind the truck. They had guns. He pushed down toward the handlebars and accelerated, trying to speed past.

One of the men lurched at them. He hit Hyuen Bo and spun the scooter into a skid.

Jing Yo fell away from the vehicle, tumbling across the pavement into the ditch beyond the shoulder. In the dark night with the rain he was momentarily blind, his bearings scrambled.

Caught by surprise, Hyuen Bo fell with the scooter, landing at the edge of the road.

“We will take your bike!” yelled one of the men. “We will take your money as well.”

“This one’s a girl,” said the man who had lurched at the scooter. “We’ll have her.”

“They’re both girls, I’ll bet,” said the other. “Put her in the truck while I get the other.”

Jing Yo scrambled to his feet.

“Come on and don’t make this hard,” said the other man, unsure in the darkness where Jing Yo was. “You’ll escape with your life, and be glad for it!”

Jing Yo’s eyes focused on the shadow, barely ten feet away on his right, up on the road. The man had a rifle in his hand.

“Come on,” said the man, who still hadn’t seen him. “Don’t make me shoot you!”