Shadows of War

sure of the Russians, the French assurance was not on very firm ground. If France caved in to American pressure — and Cho Lai had no illusions about where the U.S. would stand — then the Poles would be next, followed by the Germans. He would have to follow through on his threat to pull the country’s deposits from the French banks, thereby weakening the country’s investments elsewhere. The situation would be difficult.

At some point he would have to confront the rest of the world, but he greatly preferred to do it later, after Japan if possible.

The real problem was the U.S. president. Cho Lai had believed that he, of all people, would be happy to see the Vietnamese crushed. For a brief time he had even toyed with the idea of inviting the Americans to take part in the feast. But the American was a wily opponent, crafty and sure of himself.

The ancient emperors would have been pleased to take on such a worthy enemy.

But that did not make the problem any less vexing. The scientist had to be dealt with. Immediately and discreetly.

Cho Lai turned to General Lang. “Get me Colonel Sun. I will speak to him personally. No one else.”

14

Western Vietnam

Jing Yo didn’t expect Colonel Sun to be in too good a mood when he returned to Na San from the division meeting; that would be against his character. Still, given that they had achieved all of their objectives, and that by all reports the Chinese army was advancing at an even quicker pace than expected, he did think his commander would be at least neutral. But the frown on the colonel’s face was obvious even from fifty paces as he stepped off the helicopter.

“The camp at Ba Nheu Sang,” barked Sun as he strode toward the hangar building that had been commandeered as the commandos’ headquarters. “The scientists.”

Jing Yo fell in, unsure what the problem was.

“Your hands?” asked the colonel as they walked.

“My right hand was burned but has been treated.” He held it up. The bandage covered the palm; the rest was fine. “The wounds are of no matter.”

“Good.”

Sun snapped off a salute as he passed the two guards at the hangar door. Ordinarily, Jing Yo had no trouble keeping up, but Sun’s anger was driving him at a rapid pace, and the colonel reached the door to his office several steps ahead of him. Sun threw the door open and went to his desk, a narrow metal table salvaged from one of the terminal offices. The room itself had been used as a storehouse for parts until the Chinese takeover. The bins, nearly all of them empty, lined the wall behind Sun.

“Close the door,” said Sun. “The man you chased — you killed him?”

The question had an accusatory ring to it. Jing Yo’s hand lingered on the doorknob as he tried to decide whether to remind Sun of his order or not. In the end, he decided mentioning it would at least put Sun on notice that he knew the full story, not whatever one the colonel was going to adopt.

But of course, it had to be done judiciously. Not to avoid the truth, as his mentors would say, but to make the truth something all could view with calmness.

Calmness being a relative quality in Sun’s case.

“He had gone into the water, as I reported at the time,” said Jing Yo. “We were told to suspend the search. We were required elsewhere, with a higher priority.”

Sun’s frown deepened, but he did not explode.

“It may not even have been him,” said the colonel. “It probably wasn’t. This is what happens when we use general troops. Incompetents. Peasants. This was a job the commandos should have done.”

“A problem, Colonel?”

“An incredible problem, Lieutenant.” Now Sun’s temper flared. “A problem that must be rectified. That you will rectify.”

Jing Yo waited. Given the injuries his unit had sustained, he had expected he and the surviving members would be rotated back home for replenishment and training. That was not a prospect he relished — much better to be in the middle of fighting, he felt — but he knew his men would welcome the rest.

“Here. Look at this.” Sun reached into the pocket of his shirt for a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it to Jing Yo. “This is a transmission he has made. An American. Josh MacArthur. A CIA agent, undoubtedly.”

Jing Yo took the paper. According to the heading, it was a transcript of a transmission made within the past twenty-four hours by sat phone.

“From this description — ”

“The village at Pa Nam. Not the one you responded to that night,” said Sun. “They covered it up, but apparently not well. Their commander has been recalled.”

Jing Yo nodded.

“Peasants with guns. But we are the ones who have to fix it. Because,” Sun added derisively, “we are the only ones who are competent in the Chinese army. Only the commandos can carry out an order without screwing it up.”

“Do we have the coordinates of the phone that was used to transmit this?”

“We have an area location. The American spy made a second transmission a few hours ago. You’re to meet with an intelligence officer from divisional at Ba Hong forward operating base in an hour to discuss the latest information.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Sun folded his arms in front of his chest, shaking his head. Jing Yo stepped back, bowed his head, then prepared to leave. As he reached the door, Sun stopped him.

“Beijing has heard of your fine work,” the colonel said. “The premier himself asked about you.”

Jing Yo felt his face flush.

“It will be very clear that this problem originated with the regular army,” said Sun. “But we must not fail to correct it.”

“I will correct it to the best of my ability, Colonel.”

Sun nodded, dismissing him.

15

Northwestern Vietnam

The small house and the buildings surrounding it looked normal from the top of the hill, and it was only when Josh and M? got a dozen meters away that he realized something was wrong. A pair of goats were braying in the yard between the house and the livestock barn, pleading hungrily for attention. They were standing at the edge of a pond so wide it blocked the way. It looked as if it had been there forever, yet it blocked off not only the yard but the driveway to the road, which easily twisted around several other obstructions on the three-hundred-yard path from the macadam.

Josh guessed what had happened — a Chinese bomb had hit the ground and disturbed an underground spring or well piping. The goats might have been able to swim across, but the pond’s sudden appearance baffled and spooked them.

The rear of the house had been hit by another bomb or missile. The explosion had cratered the rear third of the structure. Afraid of what he might find in the house, Josh decided not to scout it by himself; he didn’t want the girl to see any dead bodies. So he carried her around the back of the barn to a small saltbox shanty covered in sheets of rusted tin. Putting M? down, he knocked on the door, even though the building looked barely big enough to hold a few rakes.

The structure shuddered with his tap.