Shadows of War

Sun?

Most likely the latter rather than the former, but Sun did not ask for elaboration.

“Finish here. Then move on,” said the colonel. “I must return to the task force. You deal with division and the staff there as necessary. If there are further problems, report to me.”

Jing Yo bowed his head, and turned to go to work. As he walked down the path from the mess area, he fixed his gaze on the far hill. They held the hill, as well as the one beyond it to the east. There were a few scattered Hmong settlements in the valley, but otherwise no Vietnamese.

At least not alive.

The sun bathed the jungle in bright golden light. Jing Yo followed the path downward, leaning slightly to keep his center of gravity positioned properly. Though not trying to be quiet, he walked so silently by habit that he surprised Sergeant Wu, who was leaning against a tree lighting a cigarette instead of supervising a nearby work detail. Wu, the commando platoon sergeant, wore the look of mild disdain typical of commando noncoms, but otherwise would not have fit the stereotype — he was on the short side, a little heavy. His chin was in need of a shave. Unlike most commandos, he had been born in Shanghai, the son of a relatively well-off father and mother whom he never spoke of or to.

Wu’s service record, on the other hand, was the envy of the regiment; he had been in Malaysia, though not at the same time or place as Jing Yo.

“Sergeant,” said Jing Yo, nodding as he stopped.

“Have a good breakfast, Lieutenant?”

Jing Yo ignored the question, and its implied criticism of the privileges an officer was afforded. The enlisted men were issued only two meals a day — a small roll in the morning, and a bigger one at evening. Sometimes meat was added.

“So, Sergeant Fan is no longer with us?” asked Wu.

“The sergeant had difficulty following orders,” said Jing Yo.

Wu was not a friend of Sergeant Fan’s — in fact, Jing Yo suspected he could not stand the other commando. Another man in his position might have said something flattering to Jing Yo, earning easy points at his enemy’s expense. But Wu was not like that. If anything, Jing Yo suspected his opinion of Fan had changed because of his conflict with his commander.

“Have the things from the science camp been gathered?” Jing Yo asked.

“They’ve already started to bury them.”

“Bury them?”

“Captain Ching said Colonel Sun wanted his people to get rid of them. I sent Po and Ai Gua down to watch the donkeys and make sure they get it right.”

“Did I tell you to bury them?”

Wu pursed his lips. Shaking his head, Jing Yo started away, jogging a few steps before breaking into a run.

Privates Po and Ai Gua were about a hundred meters away, watching as a pair of regular army soldiers dug a trench on a flat rift in the hill. They had not gotten very far; the dirt was filled with roots and stones. The items from the camp they had overrun the night before, including the clothes the dead men had been wearing, were piled on the other side of the dirt.

“Help me with this,” he told Po and Ai Gua. “Look through the clothes. See if there’s information that will be of use.”

The two privates went to the clothes and began rifling through them. Jing Yo looked at the soldiers who were digging the ditch.

“You’d be better off putting the dirt on that side there,” he said, pointing. “It will be easier for you to push these things in. You won’t have to climb over the rocks and soil.”

The men looked at him as if he had just described the formula for solving binomial equations. They nodded, then went back to work.

Jing Yo walked to the pile of equipment and began looking through it. Colonel Sun had considered salvaging the gear and selling it in Shanghai. But Jing Yo had pointed out that the equipment was bound to be traceable, and if it ever turned up on the world market — something almost sure to happen if it was sold in Shanghai — very possibly their mission would be compromised. The colonel’s face had shaded pale, and he had quickly agreed it should be buried with the rest of the remains from the camp.

There were several boxes of instruments, most of which could be only vaguely identified. The expedition had been gathering soil and vegetation samples, and had placed a number of rain gauges near their camp. The documents on their laptop computers — none protected by passwords — indicated that they were studying changes in the climate and local plant and animal life.

“Hey, Lieutenant, look at this,” said Private Ai Gua, holding up a satellite phone. “It was in a pocket.”

Jing Yo walked over and took the phone. They had found three the night before; all had already been crushed.

“Why did we miss this?” he asked.

“We didn’t miss it,” said Sergeant Wu, answering before Ai Gua could open his mouth. Jing Yo turned to him. Wu’s cigarette had been replaced by a smug look Jing Yo associated with most veteran commando non-coms, who generally felt superior to any officer they served under. “The donkeys searched the tents.”

“We should have searched them ourselves,” said Jing Yo.

Wu scowled. It was obvious what he was thinking: they couldn’t be everywhere, or do everything that needed to be done.

Jing Yo turned on the phone. Like the others, it required a PIN. He tried a punching a few buttons in sequence — 0-0-0-0, 1-2-3-4, 9-8-7-6 — before getting a message saying he was locked out for too many failed ID attempts. Disgusted, he held the phone in his hands and snapped it in two.

Ai Gua whistled. Wu tried to hide his surprise with a frown.

The phone was small and well constructed, but snapping it in two was merely a matter of leverage, a parlor trick as far as Jing Yo was concerned. Any of the novices who had trained with the monks could have done the same in their sixth month there.

“Make sure the clothes are checked carefully,” Jing Yo said. “If there are any more phones, they must be destroyed before being buried. Anything with an identity must be burned.”

Jing Yo walked to the pile himself and began sorting through the things patiently, holding each piece for a moment as he considered what it told him before putting it aside.

Trousers — a fat, short man. Thick fabric — a man of reasonable means. Frayed at the heel — a man who held on to comfortable clothing, possibly out of frugality, but more likely out of habit.

“Are you looking for a new wardrobe?” asked Sergeant Wu behind him.

“If you want to know a man, start with his tailor, then go to his laundress,” said Jing Yo.

It was a maxim one of his teachers had taught him, but Wu thought it was a joke and laughed. Jing Yo continued sorting through the pile. Each item varied from the others as its owners had varied in life, and yet they told a single story: Westerners, men of learning, trying to understand something in a country foreign to them.

It was regrettable that they had had to die. But at least their deaths had been swift.

The clothes told more. The scientists were well off, able to afford sturdy wear. They were also relatively well fed, thicker around the waist than even the older officers in the army.

So what the premier said in his speeches was true — the West was hoarding the planet’s food, depriving China and the rest of the world of its share. Jing Yo regretted the deaths a little less.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?” asked Private Ai Gua.

“Maybe he saw a ghost,” said Sergeant Wu, laughing.

Neither private joined in. Both men, Jing Yo knew, were deeply superstitious.

“The Westerners are enjoying the fruit of our labors,” he told them. “They do not have to struggle as we do for food. This war will restore balance and equity. Bury everything well.”