Edge of War

Twenty minutes later, Zeus lifted binoculars to his eyes and strained to see into the distance. The night had darkened and the ocean smelled of rain. That was probably good, he reasoned; a storm would preoccupy the Chinese ships, making them much less likely to be on guard.

“There!” said the marine across from Zeus. Zeus turned to the north. There was a low black shadow on the horizon. It was heading in their direction.

A destroyer.

They’d make it past, he calculated; so could the boat following them. But he couldn’t be sure about the others.

He swung back to find the other boats.

* * *

They sat on the ocean for a half hour, waiting for the Chinese vessel to pass south. The ship’s outline was barely visible, and only when the waves took the Zodiac to their highest crest.

Quach sat in his boat next to Zeus, smoking the entire time. They’d killed the engines, and his smoke-laden breaths were louder than the slap of the waves against the rubber hulls.

Zeus was tired. Even though his heart was pumping with adrenaline, he felt his eyes sliding closed. He had to lean over the side and throw water on his face.

“Do you want a cigarette?” asked Quach. “It will help you keep awake.”

“I’m okay.”

They started out again a few minutes later. The monotonous drone of the engine and the slacking waves reinforced Zeus’s desire for sleep. He found himself wishing he’d taken up Quach’s offer of a cigarette — or better, had taken along a stash of the “go” pills doctors often prescribed for USSOCOM members on critical night missions.

Within minutes they were passing through a small rain squall. The water struck the boat so hard that it shook. Within five minutes they were beyond it, the ocean considerably calmer, but the night just as black.

The boats drew tighter together. An hour passed, boredom giving way to excitement as they neared land. Every apprehension Zeus had had about the mission began asserting itself; every possible argument against it echoed in his head.

He stretched; he moved around in the boat as much as its small size and the weighted bags of cargo and gear allowed. He knew he’d be fine once he got to shore. Once he was actually doing something, all the doubts dropped away. It was like playing quarterback — get on the field and the butterflies stopped flapping their damn wings.

“Major!” said the marine at the bow, pointing right.

Zeus looked into the shadows.

It was land.

He pulled his GPS out, surprised that they were so close already.

Then he realized it wasn’t land; it was a small ship, cutting north with no running lights.

“Gas!” yelled Zeus. “Give it the gas!”

The marine nailed the throttle. The ship just missed them. Its wake nearly threw the small Zodiac under the water.

Their second boat wasn’t as lucky. As the ship cleared, Zeus heard a scream behind them.

“Turn us around, turn us around!” he yelled, anxiously scanning the waves.

12

Washington, D.C.

Once a week, President Greene and his wife spent an hour having coffee together in the morning. It was a ritual they had begun decades earlier, when their schedules were easier to manage, but the practice was sacrosanct as far as the first lady was concerned; she insisted that her husband make the time.

If matters had been left completely to him, of course, he might never have made it. But the first lady knew a thing or two about politics — Greene’s appointments secretary and the chief of staff not only knew how important the time was to her, but also realized there would be hell to pay if the president missed the coffee.

Greene did, however, occasionally bring work to the sessions, which were held in the residence. He also pretended to be surprised by interruptions that he had arranged, knowing that his wife would not object if they at least seemed spontaneous.

“I really think we should invite Brin and the children to spend the holiday at the White House,” said his wife after they sat down in the dining room. “It would be so nice to have the little ones around.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Greene, glancing toward the door. As if on cue — and actually it was — Turner Cole appeared. “Oh look, Martha, here’s Turner. Come on in, Turner. Grab some coffee.”

His wife rolled her eyes at the interruption, then proceeded to welcome Cole graciously, as Greene knew she would. Ms. Greene’s real name was Sally; Martha, a reference to the very first first lady, was a joke between them.

“Coffee, Turner?” asked the president.

“I’m a little caffeined out, Mr. President.”

“Already? It’s barely nine o’clock.”

“Don’t give the poor man the jitters, George,” said Ms. Greene. “You should try the mini cannolis, Turner. They’re very good.”

“Turner, I’m glad you came. It’s a good coincidence,” said the president. It wasn’t a coincidence at all, of course — Greene had made it clear that Cole was to be sent over as soon as he arrived. “Here’s something you should hear, Sal. We have this little girl, an orphan girl from Vietnam. The cutest thing. Her name is M?. Right, Turner?”

“There’s a down tone on the vowel, Mr. President. Maa.”

“Yes,” said Greene. Actually, it was Turner who had the accent a little off, but the president didn’t feel like giving the aide a language lesson. “Now the horrible thing is, Sal, her family was assassinated by the Chinese.”

“My God.”

“How is she, Turner?”

“She’s very good, Mr. President. She, uh, she misses Mr. MacArthur.”

“Well she’ll see him soon enough. She’s going with me to New York Friday, Sal.”

“She’s not going to that dreadful dinner, is she?”

“No, she’s testifying before the UN. She’ll make a great case.”

“Testifying?”

“Just saying what happened to her family.”

Ms. Greene frowned.

“What’s wrong, Sal?”

“How old is this little girl?”

“Teri’s age — six or seven.”

“We believe six, sir,” said Cole.

“You’re going to have her speak before the UN?” said Ms. Greene.

“Why not?”

The first lady shook her head.

“She has held up remarkably well, Ms. Greene,” said Cole.

“I’m sure she has. On the surface,” said the first lady.

“We’re having a psychologist look her over,” said Greene.

“They’re with her now,” said Cole.

“You’d better be gentle with her, George,” said Ms. Greene.

“She’s not going to break.”

“She’s still a child. Would you want Teri to speak before the UN?”