something screeched behind the ravine, and suddenly the bullets stopped flying from that direction. Sergeant Wu had begun a counterattack, striking with several grenades into the heart of the Vietnamese force. The enemy was caught in the V of the dried-out stream, where Wu’s grenades found easy targets.
Jing Yo turned his attention back to the road. The Vietnamese were very close — all around the burned-out armored cars. He emptied his gun, then threw his last hand grenade.
Jing Yo pressed himself against the dirt, expecting to die now; the only question was whether he would run out of ammunition first.
Another whistle sounded. The enemy gunfire ceased. The Vietnamese commander had called for another retreat.
Jing Yo started to get up to look after his two men, then stopped — they hadn’t left his side.
That was a fatal decision for Lai; he’d been shot through the forehead.
Jing Yo took Lai’s gun and spare ammo. He’d been down to his last two boxes when he died.
“What ammunition do you have left?” Jing Yo asked Kim.
Kim held up his rifle. Jing Yo gave him Lai’s mags.
“Back to the bridge,” Jing Yo said.
Kim scrambled up from the streambed and ran toward the nearest dead body, hoping to get his gun and ammunition. It was a good idea, but a very dangerous one — before Jing Yo could warn him, gunfire from the highway shoulder near the burned-out armored car cut the private down. The bullets blew away a good portion of the private’s head, leaving no doubt he was dead.
Jing Yo fired in anger, unable to control himself. There was no answering fire, but it was impossible to tell whether he had killed Kim’s executioner or merely convinced him to take cover.
He made his way back to the ravine below the bridge. Wu was already there, tending to Chin. The private had been shot in the leg and groin. His blood flowed freely despite the bandage that Wu had placed; Jing Yo took a look at his face and knew he was going to die.
To lose so many men for an insignificant bridge — what would his mentors say?
That he had done his duty.
“Give him morphine,” Jing Yo told Wu as Chin began to scream in pain.
“Already did.”
Jing Yo opened his med pouch and took out his syringe. He pulled off the plastic protector and plunged it into Chin’s leg.
“Something’s coming,” said Wu. “A truck.”
Jing Yo turned to the north, then realized the vehicle was coming from the south.
Ai Gua.
He ran up onto the road. The vehicle did not have its lights on, and at the last moment Jing Yo felt a pang of indecision — what if this wasn’t Ai Gua? But then he recognized the shape of the cab.
“Sorry it took so long,” said the private, jerking to a stop.
“Pull off the road near the bridge,” said Jing Yo. “No — go over the bridge.”
Jing Yo leapt onto the running board as Ai Gua put the truck in gear and raced forward. They stopped a few yards beyond the stone pillars. Both men jumped out, ran to the back, and began pulling gear from the back. They managed two trips back to the stream before the Vietnamese began firing at them again.
Their ammunition had been replenished, but the odds were still overwhelming. They were down to six men, counting the wounded Bo.
“We could drop back off the bridge, let them come over, then retake it,” suggested Wu as Jing Yo caught his breath. “They’re just going to want to get the hell out of here. If we hit them hard enough, they’ll run.”
Jing Yo frowned.
“Who’s gonna know?” said Wu. “And what difference will a hundred Vietnamese make in the end?”
“I’ll know,” said Jing Yo, rising.
“Trucks coming down the road,” said Ai Gua as the sound of the vehicles rose above the cries of the wounded Vietnamese.
“There’s going to be another mad rush,” said Wu. “We’ll be massacred.”
“Take your three men and go up to the copse,” Jing Yo told him. “Wait until you hear me fire.”
Wu frowned, but then waved to the others and began cutting down the streambed to circle into the trees.
Jing Yo told Ai Gua and Bo to move up the ravine to the right and cover him.
“If they begin firing to your right, retreat back to those rocks,” Jing Yo told them. He gave them two grenades from the store he’d pulled out of the truck to use to cover the withdrawal.
“Where are you going, Lieutenant?” asked Ai Gua.
“I’m going to rig one of the demolition kits in the truck.”
Jing Yo crawled up the side of the streambed, moving across to the pavement on his belly for about ten meters before deciding to risk running the rest of the way. No one fired at him as he leapt into the back of truck.
It was too dark to see. He got to his knees and began feeling around for metal boxes where the demolition kits were stored. He started to open one, then realized it was a med kit. Finally he found one of the boxes with a double latch. Undoing them, he pulled up the top and reached inside for one of the briefcase-like kits.
The plastic explosives inside were relatively easy to handle. The charges were prewired and set with a small primer package at the side; intended to be put together as modular units and adjusted to the size of the target, they were activated either by a radio signal or, as a backup, wire current.
Radio was the much better option, but it required coding the control and charge units, a safety precaution to keep them from being exploded accidentally or by the enemy. With no time to do that, Jing Yo had to opt for the old-fashioned wire. He took the reel from the side of the case and clipped the leads in place. Then he put the explosive pack back into the storage box, tucked the control unit under his arm, and took the wire, stringing a good bit as he moved to the tailgate.
As he dropped down from the truck, he realized he had left his gun in the back. Cursing, he started to go back, then hit the ground as someone began firing at him. With bullets chewing through the macadam, Jing Yo crawled to the side of the road, stringing the wire out behind him.
He made it to the side of the road without being hit. Once in the ditch, he was no longer a target, and the shooter lost interest. Jing Yo crawled back to the streambed, trailing the wire.
“They’re coming!” yelled Ai Gua as engines began revving around the road.
Either forgetting his order or seeing an opportunity too good to pass up, Sergeant Wu’s team began firing. The Vietnamese began firing back.
Jing Yo curled himself around the detonator, wrapping the first lead around the metal post. A memory shot into his head — the last time he had done this under fire, in Malaysia. They’d snuck into an oil dump to sabotage some of the tanks, but had been surprised before the work could be completed. His two companions had been killed; he had escaped unscathed.
Luck had been his companion that night. Perhaps it would return.
Jing Yo finished attaching the wire, then unhooked the small hand crank at the side of the device. As he cranked it, he raised his head and peered over the side of the embankment.
Guns were blazing in earnest now — an armored personnel carrier rounded the curve, heading toward the armored cars. Bullets pinged off its side.
“Hold your fire!” yelled Jing Yo. “Wu! Stop firing! Stop! Stop!”
Wu couldn’t hear him and continued firing. But the bulk of the Vietnamese were moving with the armored car or along the other side of the road, trying to bypass Wu’s position and reach the bridge.
The APC — it appeared to be a captured American relic — rambled to the first armored car. Rather than continuing past, it pushed it off the roadway. A second APC came up behind it as it succeeded in getting the car off the pavement. It took on the second armored car, pushing it to the right.
A troop truck appeared behind it. Jing Yo felt his breath starting to get shallow and forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply.
The first APC approached the truck with the demolitions, aiming to push it out of the way.
Chin’s body was between it and the truck. The APC ran over it.
