Shadows of War

softening his tone. “The Chinese are very large investors in France. Just last week, we were awarded two new seats on the board of Groupe Caisse d’Epargne. I received a framed cycling shirt as a souvenir. Tres bien, eh?”

Groupe Caisse d’Epargne was one of the largest banking groups in France. China had been “awarded” the seats in exchange for not pulling out its deposits — a move that would not only have sent the firm into bankruptcy, but undoubtedly crashed the French economy.

“Of course,” said the ambassador. “But aggression — ”

“This is not aggression. I’ve shown you proof.” Cho Lai waved his hand, and returned to the couch. “A resolution in the Security Council condemning China would not be helpful to our interests. Or to yours, in the long run.”

The ambassador hesitated, but then said the words Cho Lai had been waiting to hear.

“We would veto any resolution condemning our good friend China,” said the ambassador. “So long as the situation is as you say.”

Clearly, he was following his government’s wishes, not his own — but that was of no consequence.

“Then there is no problem for any of us,” said Cho Lai. “This entire matter will pass in a week or two. The Vietnamese will come to their senses, and everything will be finished. Fine. Let me call for tea.”

5

Western Vietnam

With Lai Chau taken, the Chinese army began concentrating on its next major target farther south, the Na San airbase. Trucks and tanks raced nonstop down Route 107 to Route 6 in broad daylight, moving into position. Temporary forward airbases — little more than landing pads bulldozed from farm fields — were constructed to help support the assault.

Na San had played a critical role in Vietnam’s liberation from the French. Attacked by Giap during the campaign that led to the Battle of Dien Bien Phu, it was ultimately held by the French after considerable bloodshed. But the French misinterpreted their victory there, and made the grave mistake of using the Na San victory as a model for their defense of Dien Bien Phu. It was an error on par with the Germans’ decision to take and then hold Stalingrad, with similar results.

Jing Yo had considered the Na San and Dien Bien Phu battles carefully. His unit’s job — much more critical than at Lai Chau — was to seize the control tower at the Na San airport, and use it to direct the large assault group into the base. The defenses ringing the airport, while not extensive, would now be on high alert. Jing Yo had to bypass them, sneak into the tower, then hold on while all hell broke lose.

The easiest way to do this would have been to get onto the airport grounds before the invasion was launched; the team would have then had an easy time overcoming the guards and getting into the tower. And indeed this had been the original plan. But the assignment of the other tasks had made this impossible, and so Jing Yo had adapted.

Shortly after the battle for Lai Chau ended, a small helicopter skimmed in over the tree-lined streets, heading for a spot on the road just north of the bridge Jing Yo and his men had managed to hold. The helicopter was a warhorse from another era — a Bell Huey UH-1, the same type that the American army had used to great effect farther south some fifty years before.

This particular chopper had not seen action in the Vietnam-American war, and until roughly six months earlier it had been rusting forgotten in a boneyard in the Philippines. The men who had renovated it had found its Lycoming engine dilapidated beyond repair, and had replaced the power plant with a Harbin design nearly twice as powerful, though it had a considerable distance to go before it could prove itself as dependable as the venerable Lycoming. They had also chipped away all of the rust, replaced the rodent-chewed wires with new ones, and given the pilots an avionics system that would have seemed like something out of Star Trek to the helicopter’s early crews.

Most important, they had dressed the helicopter in the dull gray camouflaged tones favored by the transport division of the Vietnamese air force, topping the image off with a yellow star in a red circle and bar field used by the Vietnamese air force. The helicopter looked exactly like the two old Hueys still used by the Vietnamese air force in the area to the south.

After picking up Jing Yo and his squad, the helicopter flew south to the Ta Sua Nature Preserve, settling down in an isolated clearing several kilometers from the nearest road. The idea was that Jing Yo and his men would get some rest while the main assault elements got closer to the objective.

But sleep didn’t come easy to the young lieutenant. The attack on the scientists’ camp and the ferocious battle at Lai Chau had unsettled his internal balance. He knew from experience that he could restore it only through meditation, and so, after urging his men to rest, he walked a short distance up a nearby hill and began to meditate. Legs folded, he began to breathe slowly and deeply, pushing up from his diaphragm. His mind hesitated, still filled with distractions. Jing Yo concentrated on the muscles in his stomach, pushing his mind into the tendons as he had been taught at age sixteen. Then he lifted his hands to the sides of his body, moving them upward in a circular motion.

Ego was a stubborn master. His mind remained distracted. Images of the battle passed back and forth in his head. The sensations of doubt, of weakness, of dishonor, drifted through his consciousness.

He and his men had done well; their objectives had been met. Yet the ego would not be satisfied. The ego wished perfection, wanted glory and accolades so overwhelming that no mortal man could hope to enjoy them.

Ego had always been his problem, from the very moment the monks took him in. “Stubbornness,” his first mentor called it.

Stubbornness.

But the universe was around him, and so long as he could breathe, he could find balance. So long as he could feel the muscles in his chest expand and contract, the toxins infecting his mind would drift back into the void.

Jing Yo lost track of time.

That was the first sign. He felt the warm breeze tickling his tongue; that was the second.

And then there were no signs, no thoughts, only breathing, and finally, balance.

The wind blew lightly through the trees to the east, rustling through the branches like whispers drifting down a hallway. Jing Yo let the wind push into his lungs, its energy rekindling his.

Gradually, he became aware of another presence nearby, watching him through the long blades of grass on the slope from the wooded area. The rising sun made it hard for him to see, the sharp rays blurring and glaring as they struck the green slope.

It was black, dark, moving toward him slowly.

Striped orange. A tiger.

Jing Yo could feel each shift of the animal’s weight against the ground, the slow dance toward him.

Jing Yo rose from where he was sitting. He had faced the tiger many times in his training. It was the spirit of his fears — the enemy within.

As a young trainee, Jing Yo had been exhorted to face the tiger as the dragon — to assume the power of water, endlessly mutable, energy ready to be channeled at a moment’s notice.

The tiger saw him and stopped.

“What are my fears today?” Jing Yo said to it. “Failure. Disgrace. Ego fears — fears of the temporary. I am of the eternal. I am the dragon. You are only a creature of the earthly moment.”

The animal moved its head, warning him to retreat. But that was just a tactic — show the slightest weakness, give even an inch to fear, and it would overwhelm you.

Jing Yo spread his fingers and pulled back his arms. His muscles flexed, then stiffened, ready for the attack.

Confronting the tiger did not guarantee victory. But it was nonetheless the necessary course.

“Ha-ah!” said Jing Yo, moving his right foot forward as he brought his arms up into attack position.