Shadows of War

“Science?”

“There are different instruments. It was a UN team.”

Sun frowned. Killing Vietnamese was one thing; murdering international scientists, quite another.

“An expedition?” The colonel’s expression changed as he considered this. “So they were spies.”

Jing Yo shook his head. “Their equipment — ”

“They were spies, Lieutenant. If the matter should ever be raised later on. Something that is very unlikely. In the meantime, we still have operational secrecy. That was maintained, for better or worse.”

Jing Yo knew better than to disagree. Colonel Sun was Jing Yo’s superior as head of the commando regiment. More important as far as the present operation was concerned, he was the executive officer to General Ho Ling, the commander of Group Task Force 1, and thus the second-in-command of the army at the spearhead of the campaign to subdue Vietnam. Though still in his early thirties, Sun was as politically connected as any general in the army, as his position with the commandos demonstrated: he was the nephew of Premier Cho Lai — the favorite nephew, by all accounts.

Still, Jing Yo was not a toady or yes-man; Sun would not have had him as a platoon leader and personal confidant if he was.

“I sense from your silence that you disapprove,” said Sun when Jing Yo didn’t answer. “You consider this attack a sign of poor discipline.”

“It does not signify achievement.”

Sun laughed. “Well said, my understated monk.” The colonel practically bellowed. “Well said. But what do we expect of these ignorant peasants? We’ve worn out our tongues on this.”

Sun had, in fact, argued against using regular troops rather than commandos for the secret border mission before the invasion. But General Ho had countered that the tasks could be conducted by regular troops with some guidance. The argument became moot when the central command decided to allocate only one commando platoon — Jing Yo’s — to the mission. They blamed this on manpower shortages, but in truth the decision had much more to do with army politics: central command wanted to limit the commandos’ influence by limiting their glories.

“We’ll have to wipe these idiots’ noses for them before it’s through,” said Sun. “But Vietnam is not Malaysia, eh? We won’t be fighting the CIA here.”

“No,” said Jing Yo. “But we should not underestimate our enemy.”

One of the regular soldiers rushed up from the side of the hill. It was Sergeant Cho, one of the noncommissioned officers who had presided over the massacre.

“Colonel, Private Bai believes he heard someone running up the hill in that direction,” said Cho.

“Lieutenant, investigate,” said Sun. “We do not need witnesses.”

Jing Yo bowed his head, then turned to Cho. “Which way?”

“I will show you.”

“No, you will tell me. My men and I will deal with it.”

3

Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China

Josh felt his chest tighten into a knot, the muscles stretched across his rib cage. He knew better than to give in to the pain — he had to flee, escape whoever was pursuing him. The sound of the bullets slashing through the air, the metal thump that shook both sides of his skull, had turned him into something less than human: an animal, scared; a rabbit or something smaller, a mouse.

He ran and he ran, maybe in circles, pushing through the thick brush without a plan. He pushed through thin stalks of growing trees and wide fern fronds, jostling against thicker trees. The pain in his chest spread inward, gripping his lungs, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe.

And still he ran.

The ground tipped upward, sloping in the direction of the mountains. Somewhere beyond Josh the rain forest gave way to bamboo, the elevation climbing to 2,400 meters. But the jungle still ruled here, and the thick, closely spaced trees would have been a hazard even in full daylight. Josh hit against them repeatedly, bouncing off mostly, pushing to the right or left, until inevitably he fell, his balance and energy drained. He rolled on the jungle floor, the cold, damp earth seeming to climb around him.

His heart pounded furiously. He gulped at the air, desperate to breathe. He tasted the leaves and thick moss deep in his lungs. His eyes watered and his nose was full, but he managed to keep himself from sneezing until he could raise his arm to his mouth and muffle the sound with the inside crook of his elbow. He coughed and wheezed, rising to his haunches. Sweat ran down both temples, and his back was soaked. It felt as if every organ, every blood vessel inside his body, had given way, the liquid surging through his pores.

And then he began to retch.

* * *

For Jing Yo, each step was critical. To move through the jungle — to move anywhere — was a matter of balance. The difficulty was to make each move lead to another, to choose a step that would lead inevitably to the step ten paces later. When Jing Yo was moving properly, this was how he stepped; when he went forward with the proper discipline, the hundredth step was preordained.

He had spent years mastering this, learning with his mentors as his practice of self-awareness in the days before his induction into the army.

The trouble was not moving through the dark, but moving with the other men, who knew little of balance, let alone Ch‘an or the Way That Guides All, often known as kung fu outside China. The commandos on his team were elite soldiers, carefully selected and trained to be the country’s best warfighters, but even so, they were not Ch‘an monks nor indoctrinated like them. They walked as soldiers walk, not as ghosts balancing on the edge of the sword.

Jing Yo was the fourth man in the team, the center of a triangle, with Ai Gua at point fifty meters ahead, Sergeant Fan to his left, and Private Po directly behind him. This was not commando doctrine — a spread, single-file line was preferred in this circumstance — but Jing Yo had his own way for many things.

Ai Gua stopped. Jing Yo froze as well, then turned and held out his hands, trying to signal to Po, who didn’t see him until he was only a few meters away; at that point the private fell quickly — and noisily — to his knees.

“Wait,” Jing Yo whispered. “Quietly.”

He slipped forward to Ai Gua. Raised in southwestern China, Ai Gua had hunted from a very young age, and had the judgment of a much older man.

“In that direction,” said Ai Gua, pointing to his right. “Going up the slope.”

“How many?”

“I cannot tell. Just one, maybe. But a noisy one.”

Jing Yo stared at the forest. One man could be more difficult to apprehend than an entire squad.

Sergeant Fan crept close on Jing Yo’s left.

“Where?” Jing Yo asked.

Ai Gua pointed. The sergeant adjusted his night-vision goggles as he scanned the area.

“I see nothing,” he told Jing Yo.

“They are there,” said Ai Gua.

Without even looking at him, Jing Yo knew the sergeant was frowning. In his midthirties, a career soldier from a poor family, Sergeant Fan was a practical man, skeptical by nature.

“Sergeant, take Ai Gua and move in this direction. Private Po and I will go this way and flank our prey.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Remember, we want them alive.”

“Alive?”

“Until we get information from them, yes.”

* * *

Josh steadied himself over the small pool of vomit and mucus. He’d finally caught