“What is the army doing here?”
“We are on official business,” said Jing Yo. “Let me see your identification.”
The man frowned, then reached into his pocket. Sergeant Wu, meanwhile, appeared on the other side of the cab.
The man handed out an ID card folded around some papers. Jing Yo opened the card and unfolded the papers, looking at them first. Two were on official letterhead; a third was handwritten.
While the lieutenant had spent several months refining his spoken Vietnamese, his reading ability lagged, and he wasn’t sure precisely what the letters said. The man appeared to be a resident of Bo Sai, a village ten kilometers to the south.
Jing Yo knew it well: it was one of the checkpoints for tomorrow night’s advance by the main force.
“Why are you going north?” Jing Yo asked, folding the papers.
“As the doctor’s letter says. My great-aunt — ”
“I’m not interested in aunts, or in sob stories,” said Jing Yo sharply. “There is a curfew here. You are not to be driving.”
“A curfew?”
“Do you know that you are driving in the direction of China? Our enemy?”
The man tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, apparently a nervous habit.
“I’m not going to China,” he said. “My aunt lives with the hill people. She — ”
“Have you been over the border recently?” asked Jing Yo sharply.
“Never.”
“Have you been there in the last few days?”
“I told you. Never.”
Sergeant Wu pulled open the passenger door. For a moment, Jing Yo thought he was going to grab the man; then he realized he was only opening the glove compartment.
The man reached to stop him. Jing Yo grabbed his shoulder.
“Your business is with me,” Jing Yo said. “Why are you driving to China?”
“I am not going to China, comrade,” said the man. Finally, he was scared. The color drained from his face. His fingers, rather than tapping, were now dancing in a nervous tremor. “My aunt is very sick. She is important to our family. She — ”
“Nothing,” said Wu, snapping the glove compartment closed.
Wu’s Vietnamese was limited, but his accent and tones, especially in very short bursts, were excellent. His brooding manner was a perfect complement, signaling to any who heard him that it would be unwise to question him.
“I have nothing for you,” said the driver, turning back to Jing Yo. “But you must be hungry. There will be food in the village. It is just two kilometers ahead.”
“You are not going there tonight. Turn around and go back. Move now.”
“But — ”
“The army has closed the road. And it will be closed until further notice. Tell your friends and neighbors. But do it tomorrow. Tonight there is a curfew, and anyone who violates it will be shot.”
The man pushed the truck into reverse, then backed down the road about twenty meters before making a three-point turn.
“I knew you weren’t going to kill him,” said Sergeant Wu as the tail-lights disappeared around the bend. “Just like you wouldn’t have killed that man last night.”
“Why is that?” said Jing Yo coldly.
“Fan thought it was because you were a coward.”
Jing Yo couldn’t keep himself from smiling.
“But I see it has to do with your superstitions,” said Wu. “You’re not a coward, Lieutenant. I’m glad of that.”
“Which superstitions?”
“Religion, superstitions — it’s your kung fu, right? The dance with your leg.”
“Do you know a lot about kung fu, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Wu shook his head.
“I do not kill if it is unnecessary,” said Jing Yo. “Nor if the death does not serve some higher purpose. I let him go because he will serve us.”
“How does he help us?”
“He will tell everyone he meets tomorrow that he encountered Vietnamese soldiers on the highway leading to China. The word of a plain man is worth ten times the promise of a politician.”
Sergeant Wu nodded, and went to check on the men.
The two countries were not precisely enemies, but Josh knew from the precursory briefing the U.S. State Department envoy had given him before he left on the trip that they were certainly not friends. Even the two debates he’d witnessed at the UN, theoretically focused on allocating money for the scientific expedition he had joined, had made the tensions clear. Enmity between China and all of its neighbors, with the sometime exception of Russia, had grown exponentially since the dramatic upturn in global climate change.
Something was going on, or maybe there was more to the squabbling than met the eye.
Did this have anything to do with the massacres?
The questions were overwhelming. He couldn’t answer them. The important thing at the moment was that he didn’t know and couldn’t know what the situation was. And therefore, he couldn’t trust either the Vietnamese or the Chinese. He couldn’t trust anyone. He had to depend on himself.
That was the lesson he had learned as a child. He had to go into survival mode. No more panic — use logic to get himself out of this. Logic. A scientist’s tool.
Josh took a deep breath. He had to go south, away from the border, and away from the people who were after him. Eventually, he would find a village where he could find transportation. He would make his way to Hanoi, to the U.S. embassy.
Without help from the Vietnamese authorities. Maybe with no one’s help.
Plan made, he leaned to the side and rose, unfolding his frame upward. As the blood rushed from his head, he felt slightly faint.
Josh pushed the low bushes near the tree and stepped out into the dirt road. He could follow it, as long as he was careful. It was his only choice, really — walking in the jungle at night was difficult and time consuming, not to mention dangerous. And he had to travel at night, at least until he figured out what was going on.
He’d hide himself and sleep during the day.
For the first hour as he walked, Josh kept his mind busy by reviewing the route they’d taken to get to the camp, trying to remember different landmarks along the way. But it was difficult to do that while still paying attention to the road and nearby jungle. Eventually, his thoughts drifted away, and his mind filled with the details of what was around him, the smells, the sounds, the shadows of the trees rising on both sides of him, funneling him onward.
Fatigue settled against him in long, modulating waves; his thighs would feel battered for a while, and lifting them would be almost impossible. He would drag them through the dust for a hundred yards or so, until gradually the fatigue dissipated. They would seem lighter; within a few paces he would be walking normally again — not sprinting along by any means, but making steady progress. Then his shoulders would feel tired, and his eyes. The process would repeat, each part of him taking its own turn at being tired.
After about two hours, Josh’s left calf cramped terribly. He stopped and tried kneading it out with his hand, pressing his thumb firmly against the knot just below the muscle’s crown. But the cramp grew as if it were a contagious disease. His whole lower leg began to spasm, the muscles in his sole and arch freezing in a jagged
