his arm. Accelerating, he leapt upward, vaulting over the pipe and landing only a few feet from the console area.
Three men lay on the floor, blood pooling around their heads. All Vietnamese. One of their pistols lay on the floor; the others hadn’t managed to unholster their weapons.
“The tower is ours,” said Corporal Chen.
Jing Yo scanned the consoles quickly. They seemed to be working.
“Geijui, get to the radio,” Jing Yo told the corporal who had been trained as an air controller. He was to use the Vietnamese circuits to broadcast to the incoming flights.
A body lay in front of the console where Geijui was to work. He hesitated, his face pale.
“Bring the bodies downstairs,” Jing Yo told Chen. “Put them below the steps. Quickly. Then make sure there are no charges set anywhere inside.”
As the squad got to work, there was an explosion outside. Jing Yo pushed up on the console and craned his neck to see if it had been the auxiliary shed, but all he could see was the shack’s black sloped roof.
Sergeant Wu ran up the stairs a few moments later.
“Pin and Fushan are at the door,” said Wu. “The rest of the team is going for the antiair gun at the southeast.”
“Good,” said Jing Yo.
“Now comes the fun part,” added Wu.
Jing Yo picked up a pair of binoculars from the shelf below the window and began scanning the airstrip. The Vietnamese unit responsible for providing security to the base had not yet reacted; no troops were pouring from the barracks, no messengers running frantically from the headquarters building.
Jing Yo pulled out his radio and sent the prearranged signal that the tower had been taken: “The ostrich has been beheaded.”
Before he could return the radio to its pocket in his vest, a cloud of black smoke appeared beyond the runway. The bombardment had begun.
“Direct the fire,” Wu told Chen, handing over the radio. “Tell them they have a good hit.”
Jing Yo went to the door at the side of the room, which opened onto a metal catwalk that surrounded the tower. Privates Ai Gua and Han were already there, lining up their rocket-grenade launchers on the mobile antiaircraft emplacements at the northern side of the field.
The flak guns were four-barreled ZSU-23 cannons mounted on tank chassis. Though old, they were devastating weapons against slow-moving aircraft, helicopters especially.
The back of Ai Gua’s launcher flared as his grenade shot out. A second later, white smoke enveloped the farthest truck. Han fired next, scoring a direct hit on the gun next to the one Ai had hit.
The other antiair unit began firing at the tower a few seconds later. The barrage was thick but at first missed the tower completely, shooting wildly high and well off to the side. The swarm of bullets moved toward them slowly, slamming into the tower almost directly below where Jing Yo was standing before moving across.
Ai Gua cursed — he could not get his launcher loaded correctly.
Han fired, but his grenade flew wide, exploding harmlessly on the runway in front of the ZSU-23-4. The antiaircraft gun raked the tower a second time, this time shattering the glass above them.
Ai Gua continued to curse. Han fired again. His grenade hit the front of the antiaircraft truck, just below the turret. The gunfire stopped.
They had only a few seconds to catch their breath. The two track-mounted ZSU-23-4’s at the far end of the runway swung their guns in the tower’s direction and began firing. Tracers flew through the air wildly, well above the tower and several degrees left and right, but Jing Yo realized it would take only a few moments for the gunners to adjust.
The ground team wasn’t close enough to get the trucks yet. They’d have to take them from here with the RPGs.
Jing Yo went to Ai Gua just as the private finally managed to get his grenade inserted. He stopped short, waiting for the customary hiss as the rocket shot from the launcher.
He didn’t hear it. The weapon began to smoke, but the grenade remained attached.
“Throw it down,” yelled Jing Yo.
Ai Gua remained in his firing position, stunned. Jing Yo reached for the barrel of the weapon. His hand seemed to catch on fire — the propellant was burning and the barrel hot — but by the time the sensation of pain had reached his brain the launcher had struck the ground and exploded.
Han fired again, hitting the antiaircraft gun on the left straight on. The other one stopped firing.
“Help Han,” Jing Yo told Ai Gua, who was staring at him.
“Your hand.”
“Help Han.”
Ai Gua jumped up, scooping his ammo case along as he went to his comrade.
A second later, a fresh rocket flew from the tower, knocking out the last antiaircraft truck.
“Remain vigilant,” Jing Yo told the two privates before going back inside.
“Force is on its way,” Wu told him. “Leading helicopters are about ten minutes off.”
“The antiair guns have been disabled.”
“What the hell happened to your hand?”
Jing Yo held out his right hand, looking at it. It was bright red. The left seemed unscathed, its throbs duller.
“The weapon misfired,” he said. “How far away are our troops?”
“Someone get the lieutenant a burn kit. He needs attention.”
“How far away are the troops?” Jing Yo asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
“The fighters should have been here by now.”
“They’re always late,” said Wu.
Jing Yo wrapped his hand with ointment, gauze, and a pair of cold packs, diminishing the pain. By the time the bandages had been taped, the control tower had come under small arms fire from the north. Bullets flew through the now battered windows and ripped into the metal below. The area around the control room just below the window was armored, so they were not in immediate danger. But it was impossible to return fire from inside.
“Aircraft inbound!” announced the controller.
“About time,” said Wu. “Damn air force is
The aircraft were a pair of MiGs assigned to shoot up the defenses.
“Make sure they know we took out the antiaircraft guns,” said Jing Yo. “Tell them to concentrate on the barracks.”
There was a flurry of gunfire outside. The Vietnamese had launched a counterattack against the tower.
Ignoring the pain in his hand, Jing Yo went back out on the catwalk. He got about two steps from the door before a hail of bullets forced him to dive face-first on the grillwork.
“Grenade!” yelled Han.
Jing Yo wasn’t sure whether he was warning about an incoming grenade, or one he was dropping. An explosion settled it — the private had targeted a knot of Vietnamese soldiers below.
Jing Yo’s bandages made it impossible to hold a gun in his right hand, but he could drop grenades easily enough with his left. He pulled one of his Type 82-2 grenades from his vest. Holding it against his chest, he slid his finger up the seam, undid the tape that held the plunger, and with the pin out and grenade armed, dropped it over the side.
There was a small explosion, followed by a much larger one, then a second and a third — incoming artillery shells, fired by their own forces. The last was so strong it pitched Jing Yo back against the rail; he just barely managed to keep his balance before turning and racing inside.
“Those are ours!” shouted Wu.
“Tell them to stop firing at us!” Jing Yo screamed.
“I’m working on it,” said Chen. He was on his hands and knees, talking on the sat radio with division. Chen
