Shadows of War

tangle of pain.

He knew the cure — he simply had to relax his muscles and the pain would go away. But relaxing was the most difficult thing in the world to do just then; climbing Mount Everest barefoot and without oxygen would have been easier.

It was amazing how much pain the muscles managed to generate. His foot and leg felt as if they were tearing themselves in half. How much worse would it be if I’d been shot? Josh asked himself.

The question did nothing to help him relax. The despair he’d chased earlier began to creep back, stealing around him like a fog in late fall. He lowered himself to the ground, flat on his back at the side of the road, eyes closed, willing his muscles to loosen.

As he lay there, trying not to writhe, Josh heard a sound rising over the buzz and peep of the insects. It was a mechanical sound, an engine.

The trucks, he thought, farther ahead.

Then he heard something else, not mechanical, something moving at the edge of the road, sideswiping brush. It was only for a moment, but the sound put him back on alert, and gave his mind something else to concentrate on. Its subconscious grapple with his leg muscles eased ever so slightly; Josh held his breath and pushed himself off the road and back into the jungle.

Footsteps approached. Men were walking a few yards away, coming up the road, talking.

He lay in the bushes, trying not to breathe. The men continued by, walking north on the road about twenty more yards before stopping. They spoke in low whispers. Josh couldn’t have understood what they were saying in any event, but their voices gave him something to concentrate on. He listened as they turned and started walking back toward him, then past again.

They’d been gone a good seven or eight minutes before he sat back upright. He’d have to stay off the road, he decided, at least for a while. The jungle was comparatively sparse here, easier to move through than what he’d passed earlier in the day.

Though no longer cramped, his leg remained stiff as he slipped through the jungle, pushing the brush away branch by branch. He moved uphill, passing through a stand of waist-high ferns turned silver by the moonlight angling down through the gaps in the trees. Despite the slope, the ground was soggy; an underground stream pooled up nearby, running off toward the road.

The wet ground made a sucking noise as he lifted his boots. He had to walk ever slower to keep quiet.

Finally he managed to get beyond the pool, tracking almost due west, walking away from where he thought the road was. But soon the sounds of the trucks he’d heard were closer, straight ahead — the road, he realized as he stopped and listened, must join with the highway here.

There weren’t many highways in this part of Vietnam, and Josh thought this must be the same road the expedition had camped along. If that was true, he could simply follow it and find his way back. It would be a long journey, but doable.

The small burst of optimism faded quickly as he heard voices ahead. They were shouting and arguing.

Josh got down, hiding behind the trees. If it’s my time, he told himself, I won’t go like a coward. I won’t beg for my life.

A truck engine revved. There were more shouts. Then he heard vehicles moving away.

Finally, with the sound gone, the jungle seemed to move back in as it left, as though the insects and animals had been waiting for the humans to leave.

I’m safe now, Josh thought to himself. Whoever they were, they’re gone.

I’m safe now. For a little while at least.

That was the last conscious thought he had for several hours, as he slipped off to sleep while sitting against the trees.

15

Beijing, China

Premier Cho Lai folded his arms. Vietnam lay before him, its lush, fertile valleys marked prominently on the large map spread over his desk.

Many centuries had passed since the land had been a Chinese kingdom. Soon it would be one again.

Vietnam’s oil, located mostly in the southern coastal waters, would be an immediate prize. Even more important were their rice paddies and fields, so lately favored by the weather. But what Cho Lai truly craved was the accomplishment of cutting down the haughty Vietnamese, leaving them groveling at his feet.

Just a month before, they had rejected the Chinese premier’s proposal of a mutual economic zone, an arrangement that, while tilted in China’s favor, would have been far better for them and their people than war.

Idiots.

Taking Vietnam would not be difficult. The army had studied the possibilities for years, modeling their present plan partly on America’s burst through Iraq in 2003.

The occupation, of course, would be different. The Americans had foolishly tried to use a light hand, where nothing but an iron fist would do the job. That, too, would be easy — anyone who did not like China’s benevolent rule could leave the country. As a corpse.

The trick would be keeping the rest of the world on his side long enough to at least prevent a military backlash. China’s investments in Europe, the Third World, and most especially the United States were a powerful argument for them not to interfere. But Cho Lai knew blackmail would not suffice. Weak as they were, the Westerners needed to feel as if they were doing the right thing.

Hence tonight’s operation. The world would soon be convinced, and remain convinced, that he was acting righteously.

And after that — Japan. Korea. The rest of Indochina. Malaysia would finally be dealt with openly. The Philippines. He’d leave Australia — it was a dowdy, useless country.

The deal Vietnam had rejected would be offered to each of them. They would see the wisdom of agreeing. Or be crushed. And then Cho Lai would be free to concentrate on his real goal: America.

There was a delicious irony in starting here, in Vietnam. He would succeed where the Americans had failed. It would be the first thing historians would notice when they wrote of his exploits in a thousand years.

The premier looked up from the map. His generals stared at him, waiting.

“Give the order to proceed,” he said. “And do it quickly, exactly as we have planned.”

16

Hanoi

Mara took a nap at the minihotel she’d, called Bangkok from, then went back to the Star to shower. As she toweled off she checked the TV and the Internet connection. There was nothing on China, and the only hint she could find on the Google News Asian page — heavily censored, not just in Vietnam but throughout Asia — was a story from China quoting the premier on “outside aggressors,” but not mentioning Vietnam specifically.

It was still too early to get breakfast at the Star buffet, or at any restaurant catering to foreigners for that matter. A few blocks from the hotel, Mara found a man with a small cart of breakfast items; better-off locals would stop there on their way to work.

She waited her turn amid the small cluster of men, smiling but politely insisting that they take their turn instead of letting her jump ahead. She wasn’t just being polite; she was mentally practicing her Vietnamese.

When it was finally her turn, she repeated what the man before her had ordered. Her pronunciation was a bit stiff, and when the man asked her to repeat what she wanted, Mara simply pointed. She got a piece of meat tucked