Edge of War

McCampbell’s Aegis system had been specifically designed to handle this sort of threat. Like her sister Arleigh Burkes, she could put three or four SM2 Block IV missiles into the air against each P-500 in less than a minute. It would be a serious workout, but one the DDG could probably handle.

Silas would love to see it try.

He stepped out of the enclosed bridge onto the deck. There was something about standing here, high above the waves, that still seemed magical some twenty years after his first “real” ocean voyage. It was more than the physical sensation of the wind and the light, salt-mixed spray in the air. Silas felt a link to the men he’d grown up reading about, the old captains and seadogs who put themselves on the line, warriors whose every breath seemed to inspire heroic deeds.

Looking back on the stories from the perspective of an adult, he knew that they had glossed over many things — hardships for one, failures for another. No man facing the sea was always courageous, and no one facing an enemy’s gun could claim that his stomach didn’t occasionally hint of mutiny. But the omissions were unimportant; on the whole, those stories told a greater truth about human nature than a meticulously accurate log ever could.

Or at least what Silas thought human nature should be.

Unfortunately, the days of heroes were gone. The Navy wasn’t anything like it had been during the cold war, let alone back in the days when the crisp crack of a sail filling with wind told a sailor all he needed to know about the weather. The idea that a single captain and crew could take destiny into their own hands was a quaint, even forlorn notion. The McCampbell was connected to the rest of the world by a suite of communications systems and sensors. Silas’s commander could look at a screen and know instantly where the destroyer was.

So could half the Pentagon.

The day was not far off, the captain believed, when the Tomahawks and enhanced Standard missiles in his vertical launching tubes would be fired by some desk admiral in the basement of the Pentagon.

“Captain, you have a minute?”

Silas turned and saw his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Dorothy Li.

“Sneaking up on me, Exec?”

“No, sir.”

Silas sensed trouble in Li’s voice. She wasn’t usually half this formal with him.

“Shoot,” he told her.

“Captain, as I understand our orders, we’re to proceed toward Cam Ranh Bay, staying in international waters. Correct?”

“You know the orders as well as I do.”

“Permission to speak freely.”

“Hell, Dorie, you don’t have to be so formal. What’s up?”

“Back channel on this is not that good.” She shook her head. The stiff tone remained in her voice, and it was obvious she was choosing her words very carefully. “Desron’s passing along orders, but flashing stop signs everywhere. Dirk, I think we’re being set up for something political.”

Desron referred to the destroyer squadron the McCampbell was assigned to. Li had spent considerable time working under the squadron’s commander before joining the McCampbell as its new executive officer four months ago. Silas had no doubt that she was able to hear things that he wasn’t — that was pretty much her job description as the ship’s second in command.

“All right. So tell me. What exactly is the back channel?” Silas asked.

“Well.” Li paused and looked behind her, making sure there were no other sailors within earshot. “A lot of people think the president is itching for a war. The Chinese have announced a blockade of Vietnam. Our orders are basically to test it.”

“That’s not in the orders.”

“No, not in so many words. But the words that are there add up to that.”

Silas turned to starboard. “You see that over there, Dorie?”

“I don’t see anything.”

“There are two Chinese ships over there, shadowing us.”

“I realize that.”

“A few hundred miles farther north, they have a carrier task force.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The captains on those ships know that we know they’re there. But they haven’t attacked us. You know why?”

“Because we’re not at war.”

“Because they know if they try to attack us, we’ll sink them both. It’s about force, Dor. They know we’re stronger than they are. That’s why they don’t attack. That’s the reason we sail to Cam Ranh. And beyond if we have to.”

“I’m missing you, Cap. I don’t get the logic.”

“We have to show them we’re not afraid. Or a year from now, maybe six months, they won’t hesitate to attack us. And then there’ll be real problems.”

8

Ho Chi Minh City

Jing Yo was not surprised that the American would go to the Dong Khoi district, the downtown area that contained not only most of the large foreign hotels, but also the most familiar tourist landmarks. It was an area that would have the most foreigners, and make it harder to spot him.

The traffic was extremely light, and until Jing Yo left Cholon he saw few police officers or soldiers on the streets. Near the river the number of policemen multiplied exponentially. Several streets were blocked off. When Jing Yo reached Nguyen Thi Minh Khai — one of the main thoroughfares through the district — he was stopped by a roadblock.

“Why are you out driving?” demanded the policeman who stopped his scooter. “You should be home.”

“I’m going to work,” said Jing Yo. “My wife said the same thing.”

“Where do you work?”

“Bun Cha Hanoi,” he said, naming a famous restaurant in the area.

“I am sure the restaurant is closed,” said the policeman, but he waved Jing Yo through without even bothering to look at his papers.

The area Mr. Tong had directed him to was over a mile long, and without more information it would be extremely difficult to locate the scientist. Jing Yo decided he would cruise along the waterfront, not so much in hopes of finding him but so that he was likely to be nearby when Tong called with more information.

He got less than halfway before meeting another roadblock. A pair of army trucks had been parked across Ben Chuong Duong, the main road running near the water. Here there was no possibility of being let through, so Jing Yo turned back westward, found a place to park, then set out on foot.

He’d gone a block when his phone rang.

“He is near Bach Dang Jetty,” said Mr. Tong. “They are still talking.”

Jing Yo resisted the urge to run. He was already walking in the right direction, just three blocks from the jetty itself.

Jing Yo walked across Ben Chuong Duong, normally choked with traffic at this hour. Small groups of Vietnamese were standing on the opposite side, clustered around the park that ran along the riverfront. There were more in the park itself, close to the water, almost as if they were gathering for a performance or some entertainment — fireworks, perhaps. Jing Yo caught bits of their conversation as he passed. They gossiped not about the war or the danger they were in, but about trivial matters — work, an in-law’s boorish manners.

Jing Yo had seen the photographs of the scientist from the UN Web sites, but he wasn’t sure whom Josh MacArthur was with. Soldiers had helped rescue him from behind the lines, but how many was impossible to