“Are you all right?” he asked Ai Gua.
“Yes.”
The commando, a blank look on his face, held up his right wrist. Jing Yo took hold of the hand gently. Fixing his eyes on Ai Gua’s face, he began to squeeze the wrist, twisting slightly as he increased the pressure. Within a second or two, the private winced, though he did not call out.
A sprain, most likely. Not worth going back to Beijing for — especially since the injury would result in his being removed from the commando corps.
The second truck slipped past the rear wheels of the one that had flipped, the driver gingerly finding the road.
“Try not to use it,” Jing Yo told Ai Gua. “Go with the driver. Make sure he wears a seat belt.”
The private went to the truck without saying anything else.
They stopped the last truck to use it to right the crashed vehicle. Sergeant Wu rigged a chain to the rear axle, then stood back with Jing Yo as the driver maneuvered to give his vehicle a good foothold. The slight scent of an orange mingled with the harsher smells of sweat and cigarettes on Wu’s uniform. He mumbled something to himself as the truck started.
“Faster,” he said finally. “Move!”
The fallen truck rose back up about fifteen degrees before the wheels began to slide. Something from the side caught against the pavement and began to screech. The driver in the vehicle with the tow line jammed on his brakes. The truck yawed to the side, the upper frame bending under its own weight.
“He should have jammed the pedal, not stopped,” said Sergeant Wu disgustedly. “These drivers know nothing.”
Jing Yo walked over to the truck, straining against the chain. Something clicked — Jing Yo sprang back just in time as one of the links gave way and the truck fell back over.
“Let’s try this again,” said Jing Yo.
They needed to attach the chain to a higher spot. The only thing strong enough looked like the A-pillar at the side of the windshield. Coiling his leg on the bumper, Jing Yo hopped up to the roof of the truck; there, he composed himself for a moment before whirling down to the hood, kicking out the windshield in the process. He cleared the glass — it was bound by a layer of plastic, and came off in a panel — then took the chain from Sergeant Wu and tightened it around the pillar.
“One more thing,” he said to Wu. “Help me with the tree trunk.”
Jing Yo had seen the trunk on the ground earlier. About a half meter in diameter and nearly two meters long, it was heavy and difficult to carry between them. Wu told him he needed to let go and rest when they reached the road.
“We’ll just roll it from here,” said Jing Yo, and they let it drop.
Jing Yo rigged the tree at the corner of the rear wheel, hoping to use it as an anchor or fulcrum, fixing the lower half of the vehicle in place so it could be pulled upward. It was only partly successful — the vehicle dragged against the pavement as the other tugged. Still, the truck began to tilt.
“Go!” Sergeant Wu said to the driver. “Give it gas.”
The driver did — but too much. His motor stalled. The vehicles strained against each other, as if playing tug-of-war.
“I’ll do it,” said Wu, his disgust as evident as his impatience. He climbed up into the cab, shoving the driver aside. After starting the engine, he gunned the truck forward, then jammed on the brakes. The other truck jerked back onto its tires.
“See if it will start,” Jing Yo told the driver who’d crashed it originally.
Until now, the man had stood, frozen and silent, at the side of the road where Sergeant Wu had left him earlier. Now, sensing that he might win a reprieve, he sprang forward. Inside the cab, he pumped the gas a few times, then turned the engine over. It whined, but didn’t start.
“You’re flooding it,” said Sergeant Wu.
“Private, relax,” said Jing Yo, walking to the cab. “Take your foot off the gas.”
“It always needs a pump.”
“You’ve pumped it plenty already, idiot,” said Sergeant Wu.
“Let it rest for a moment,” said Jing Yo calmly.
He waited for a full minute, staring at the driver the entire time. The man held his gaze for only a few seconds before turning away.
“Now try. Gently. Do not pump the gas.”
The engine caught, ran fitfully for a few moments, then suddenly backfired and gave up.
“Once more,” said Jing Yo.
The battery was starting to go. The starter whined as it tried moving the pistons without the proper voltage behind it.
“Now you can pump it,” said Jing Yo. “A single tap.”
Once again the engine caught, this time solidly. The driver revved it, not entirely trusting it to run on its own. Before Jing Yo could tell him to do so, he put the truck in gear and set off in the direction the others had taken. Sergeant Wu waved the other truck after him.
“Idiot peasants,” said Sergeant Wu. “They’ve never driven. But they’re the ones chosen to drive the trucks.”
“Which requires more skill, Sergeant? Combat, or driving a truck?” asked Jing Yo.
“Combat, of course.”
Jing Yo nodded. “And which is more difficult — fighting an enemy, or delivering supplies?”
“I can’t fight without bullets. But I get your point.”
Sergeant Wu reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He shook the pack, then handed it toward Jing Yo. It was the first time he had ever offered one.
“Cigarette, Lieutenant?”
“No thank you.”
Wu lit up, then took a long drag from the cigarette. He released a cloud of smoke when he exhaled.
“Brave of you, running over to grab Ai Gua out,” said the sergeant. “Considering the way the trucks are rigged with explosives.”
“He is my soldier. He should expect nothing less.”
Sergeant Wu smiled, amused, though Jing Yo did not quite understand why. It was his duty, as an officer, to look out for his men the way a father would watch his sons.
He hadn’t thought of his duty at the moment, just understood it the same way his legs understood how to walk.
“What was that thing you did with your foot?” asked the sergeant. “On the windshield.”
“The kick? So we could rig it properly? The windshield won’t matter — it will be blown up in a few hours.”
“You’re all right, Lieutenant. You’re tougher than I thought. And not as stuck-up.”
Jing Yo walked over to the side of the road, examining the gouges in the earth. They would not mean anything to anyone, he decided, and could safely be left.
“Uh-oh,” said Wu, reading the signal from the lookout. A minute later, Private Po came running up the road.
“Truck coming,” he hissed. “Old pickup.”
“We’ll stop it,” said Jing Yo. “We want them alive.”
Jing Yo checked his uniform, then reached to his belt to undo the snap holding his pistol in its holster. Wu, rifle in hand, stood two meters away. Po trotted to the side of the road, taking up a position where he could cover the truck.
Headlights appeared in the distance. Jing Yo put up his hand.
The truck began to slow almost immediately. When he was sure it was going to stop, Jing Yo stepped to the side of the road and waited. The driver was a man of about fifty, thin, a wreath of white hair around his head. He reminded Jing Yo of the monks who had taught him as a young boy.
“Where are you going?” Jing Yo demanded in Vietnamese as the man rolled down his window.
