Shadows of War

The tiger growled. Its shoulders pushed back, gathering strength for a pounce.

“Ha-ah!” said Jing Yo again.

The tiger growled, lower this time, then leaned to its left. In an instant, all of its weight shifted — and it slunk backward through the grass, retreating.

Fear could be controlled; that was the lesson today. It was a lesson he had learned many years before, and had relearned many times since. It was a lesson he would learn many times in the years to come.

A voice shook Jing Yo from his meditation.

“Incredible — you scared the damn tiger away!”

Jing Yo turned to find Sergeant Wu squatting on the ground, a few feet away. Wu rose slowly, trembling.

“I thought one of us — I thought one of us was going to be its breakfast,” said Wu. “You stared him down. I can’t believe it.”

“Why are you without your weapon?”

“I came looking for you,” said the sergeant. “Colonel Sun wants to talk to you.”

“Check on the sentries,” said Jing Yo, walking back up the hill. “Make sure they are aware there is a tiger in the jungle.”

“Of course.”

One of the helicopter’s crewmen was waiting with the chopper’s secure radio. Jing Yo took the handset and held it to his ear.

“What are you doing, Lieutenant?” snapped Colonel Sun. “Sleeping?”

“Meditating.”

“Do your meditation later. The attack time is moved up. The tower must be taken within the hour.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Don’t fail in this, Lieutenant.”

You are a fearful man, thought Jing Yo as he handed the handset back.

* * *

The men were groggy but did not complain when Jing Yo woke them. They donned their fake Vietnamese uniforms and filed toward the helicopter at a deliberate pace; no one ran, and no one lagged behind. They were veterans now, Jing Yo thought; they were just beginning to understand who they were.

It took three battles to test a man. His action in the first could not be counted for anything. War was too confusing to be sorted into categories the first time it was experienced; keeping your balance amid the blows was impossible until you understood where those blows might come from, let alone how much they hurt.

The second battle was almost always a reaction to the first. A man who had frozen might do the opposite, making a grave mistake. A person who had acted like a hero might be filled with the dread he had ignored during his first battle and be overwhelmed. There was no predicting.

So the third battle was the real test. By the third battle, the sound of gunfire, the rumble of the earth as a bomb went off — neither of these things was new. The soldier had survived two encounters, as a hero or a coward, or more likely as something in between. Stripped of his illusions, a man would face himself.

Jing Yo’s third battle had come long ago. So had Wu’s — a good sergeant, competent and loyal, in his way, Jing Yo decided. For most of the rest of the squad, this would be only the second.

Much room for error.

“We are being queried by their air traffic controller,” said the pilot five minutes after they were airborne.

“Very good.” Jing Yo turned to his men. “Be ready.”

They were quiet. He couldn’t read their faces in the shadow-laced interior, but he didn’t have to; he knew their expressions would mix fear, anticipation, and even joy. He gripped the hand strap on the metal framework between the cockpit and crew compartment and began breathing slowly, pushing his ribs against the armored vest, easing it outward and then pulling it inward. The pit of his stomach was empty.

“They’ve accepted us,” said the pilot. “Three minutes to the airport.”

Jing Yo looked over and caught Sergeant Wu’s eye. He nodded.

“Prepare!” yelled the sergeant.

The commandos rose as one from the benches. Weapons were readied, belts cinched.

Jing Yo saw the airport runway through the window as they began to bank into a landing pattern. A pair of MiGs — probably inoperable, according to the premission briefing — were parked in a tarmac apron area at the far end. A civilian aircraft was on the opposite taxiway, waiting to take off.

There was a helicopter nearby. And a second one.

Were they being sucked into a trap?

Two helicopters? There was generally only one — it was a bit of deception they were counting on.

Did the Vietnamese know they were imposters?

Jing Yo twisted around and leaned into the space between the two pilots.

“There are two helicopters at the airport,” he said. “Did they ask questions?”

“No,” said the copilot. He was a Vietnamese language specialist, chosen specifically because he sounded like a native.

Or had he been chosen because he was someone’s nephew? In China, one could never be absolutely sure, and Jing Yo’s Vietnamese wasn’t sufficient for him to judge the man’s abilities.

“Lieutenant, we are almost over the runway,” said the pilot.

“Proceed as planned,” said Jing Yo. He reached into his pocket for his earplugs, slipping them into his ears as he joined his men.

The helicopter skimmed forward, exactly as it would do if landing on an ordinary flight. It then began to veer to the left, toward the designated parking area near the civilian terminal. At the last second, the pilot flexed his control, jolting the chopper upward. They flew another three hundred meters, hopping over the terminal building, past the security gate, and right next to the small parking area flanking the tower.

When they’d rehearsed the landing, the lot had always been filled with cars. Today it was empty. That allowed the helicopter pilot to put down closer to the tower than planned, shaving precious seconds off the timetable. But as he hit the pavement, Jing Yo realized the lack of cars might mean there were no workers — it might really be the trap he feared.

Too late.

“Go! Go! Go!” shouted Sergeant Wu.

One team raced for the building; a second, headed by Wu, ran to the auxiliary shack next door, taking out the phone lines that connected the base with the outside world. When that was accomplished, the second team would split up, half providing security at the base of the tower and the other half circling around the far side of the runway, aiming to take out two antiaircraft guns there.

The point man for the tower group, Private Han, and Corporal Chen were already at the tower door. They had it open — no locks, no need for explosives.

It must be a trap.

“Move! Move!” shouted Jing Yo, the last one out of the chopper.

The helicopter was already up. If it was a trap, they were doomed.

The smell of burning metal hit Jing Yo’s nose as he pushed into the building. He hadn’t heard any gunfire yet, but he could smell that too as he started up the metal steps that led to the control area. The building, opened only within the past year, was basically a staircase topped by a large glass-enclosed room where the flight controllers worked. There were no security checks at each landing, just more steps.

Jing Yo slung his feet on the metal treads, jogging upward. He kept his head up, eyes darting. There were shouts above, but still he hadn’t heard gunfire.

The earplugs were good, but not that good.

Have I gone deaf? he asked himself. Did someone throw one of the loud grenades, a flash-bang, to get into the control room?

No — he heard the voices around him, barely muffled by the plugs. And he heard his own steps, the slight rasp on the metal.

The steps came up into the middle of the control room. Jing Yo saw the rail as he approached and put out