by Larry Bond
“Why are you so uptight?” asked Li.
By Wu’s light, the corporal had earned the right to question him by serving during the clandestine action two years before in Burma—but only just.
“Be thankful we don’t have their captain as our boss,” Wu told him.
“All officers are scum.”
“Most. Not Jing Yo.”
“Hmmmph. We’ll see.”
“He saved me from the truck,” said Ai Gua. “I think he’s a good commander.”
“That was his duty,” said Li. “As an officer. Besides, Granddaddy Wu would have grabbed you.”
“Most officers wouldn’t have rushed in,” said Wu. “They would have thought about it first.”
“He’s still young yet. We’ll see what happens when he’s a captain.”
Jing Yo took out his paper map as the troops began their sweep back toward the highway. The most galling thing about their mission wasn’t the fact that the plane probably hadn’t crashed anywhere near here; it was the fact that Colonel Sun moved them around completely at whim, changing plans that had been prepared months in advance simply because he wanted some friend in the antiaircraft artillery to get credit for shooting down the plane. That was Sun, always playing the politics of the situation, no matter what the costs to anyone else.
Jealousy.
Jing Yo took a slow breath, then hung his head, the reprimand of his mentors echoing in his head as loudly as if the monks were standing over him.
Jing Yo was jealous of Colonel Sun’s power. And as understandable as it might be, it was nonetheless an emotion that would cloud his judgment, keeping him from doing his duty.
He would do his duty. It was not his place to judge his superior officers. Doing so would make him just like Sergeant Fan.
Or worse, lead him down the path of dissolution, like the regular army captain.
Jing Yo swung to the south, moving among the regular army men, encouraging them as they walked. They were even less refined than the men whom he had been working with the past few days, though like them they were mostly poor farmers. Drafted from the northwest provinces and given a few weeks of rudimentary training, they were undoubtedly scared and awed by their task. Impressionable, they would follow even a bad leader—like their captain.
“Keep our eyes open, now!” he called as he walked up behind them. “Keep our separation. Good work, Sergeant. There, Private, stay alert!”
He walked back and forth across the line for the next hour, until finally the road was once more in sight. Jing Yo ordered the soldiers to rest, then called Colonel Sun to tell him that the search had not produced a downed plane.
“What are you doing up there still?” said Sun as soon as his communications man put him through. “The air force downed the plane to the east. Get your men back in the line.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Wait, Jing Yo—you have regular troops searching with you?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Have them continue searching. Just in case. You get your men down to Lai Châu as planned. We’re making good time. We need to stay on schedule.”
“Yes, sir.”
Josh felt both his anger and his hunger grow as the hours went on. In the meantime, it seemed as if all China were flooding over the border. Occasionally he caught glimpses of men on the tanks, but for the most part all he could see was gray and green steel passing. The engines drowned out any sounds he made himself; he felt almost invisible.
But he realized he was in grave danger when two men suddenly materialized a few yards from him. His attention had been fixed on the road to his left, and by the time he saw them push into the woods farther north on his right, they were too close for him to run.
He held his breath as they walked closer, then stopped. For a moment he thought they had spotted him. Then he realized they had only come to relieve themselves. As soon as they were done, they ran back toward the road.
Even as he retreated farther into the jungle, Josh berated himself—he could have tackled them for their guns. He had to start thinking long term if he was going to get back.
He had to get back. He was going to tell the world what the Chinese were doing.
It had been the Chinese who’d massacred the scientists and the village. Josh had realized it as he watched the tanks rolling. The Chinese had probably sent advance units in to make sure there would be no alarm or resistance. Their orders had undoubtedly been to kill anyone they found.
It was the only thing that made sense—even though it didn’t make sense at all. But what war did?
He had to get out. That meant he had to find a weapon.
Josh walked away from the road in as straight a line as he could manage. At times he heard small animals running through the brush as he approached, but he never saw any. Even the frogs seemed shy—they quickly leapt away as he approached, showing only glimpses of their legs.
The terrain ran uphill, and after about a half hour he began moving farther south to avoid the hardest climb. Finally he stopped to rest. Without planning to, he fell asleep against a tree.
A spider walking across his hand a few minutes later woke him up. He jumped, shaking his hand furiously, unnerved by the tickling sensation. Body shaking, he grabbed his arms, hugging his chest and looking around to get his bearings. Josh wasn’t ordinarily afraid of spiders, and when he finally got hold of himself he laughed—softly—mocking his fear.
Can’t eat spiders, he told himself, setting out again.
He’d gone about fifty yards, perhaps a little more, when he heard sounds in the jungle to his left. He couldn’t tell what was going on at first—the sounds were too faint. Then he saw brush moving in the distance. He started to back up. Thinking it was an animal coming toward him, he glanced around for something to use as a weapon—this might be a chance at food. He saw a rock about the size of his fist and grabbed it, then continued backward, perpendicular to the animal’s path.
What was it? Something green.
A man. A soldier.
Josh froze as he saw the rifle slung over the soldier’s shoulder. Slowly he sank to his haunches, watching as the man walked. He was about ten yards away, poking at the brush with a stick as he moved forward. His eyes were fixed on the ground in front of him.
Ten yards was close enough to be seen, but not close enough to attack the man with any guarantee of surprise. Josh remained where he was, willing the man past.
The man whacked at the large leaves in front of him. He was talking to himself, singing maybe, shaking his head, looking at the ground, only occasionally looking up to see where he was going.
Josh looked at the rock, still in his hand. One side was smooth; the other, jagged. It didn’t weigh very much.
He could come up behind the soldier, hit him on the head, take his gun, shoot him.
But there must be others. A soldier wouldn’t walk alone through the woods.
Josh remained still, seeing himself charging up behind the man. He heard something in the distance—another soldier, walking about ten yards farther south, calling to his companion.
The soldier who’d already passed kept moving without answering.
I can take one of them, Josh told himself. But not both.
The man called out again. He was walking on a diagonal, in Josh’s direction.
Maybe this was the man to take.
No. This one was more alert. He wasn’t hitting the brush with a stick. He kept looking around.
Josh closed his fist around the rock, then pounded his other palm with it. He had to think long range. He had to think survival.
Don’t be a coward, he told himself. This is your chance. You need a rifle if you’re going to survive.
Was it a chance? Or was it suicide?
The man wasn’t wearing a helmet. Hit him in the head and he would go down quickly.
He might be one of the men who had killed the villagers. He might be—he was one of the men who had killed his friends, his colleagu
es, on the expedition.
True or not, it didn’t matter. Josh began moving forward. His body shrank slightly, slinking closer to the jungle floor. His legs and arms lengthened, the limbs of a cat, preparing to strike.
“Nihao?” said the soldier, asking if anyone was there. “Nihao?”
Josh sprang.
The soldier heard the noise behind him. Thinking it was his friend, he started to spin around. The rifle was in his hands, across his chest.
Josh hit him square in the forehead with the rock. It didn’t seem to do anything. It did nothing—all his strength and he hadn’t even moved the man.
He was going to die. Here, in the middle of the jungle, like an animal, this was how he would die.
His anger exploded. He wasn’t a cat now; he was a volcano, he was fire, he was violence itself. Josh smashed the soldier’s forehead once, twice, a third time—blood splattered everywhere. He smashed it again. He threw his body forward and he hit hard, harder than he had ever hit anything in his life. Again. Another time. He hit the splatter of blood that had been the man’s face. He saw something gray, was sure it was the man’s brain spurting out.
Josh punched the man’s jaw with his fist, the rock still held tightly in his hand. Then he leapt up, grabbed the rifle, and began to run, sure someone had heard, sure he was going to be shot at any second.
He ran until his breath gave out, then pushed himself for a few more strides until finally he threw his arm out and caught himself around a tree. He had a stitch in his side, a sharp pain from muscles not used to such exertion.
He’d just killed a man. He should feel bad. And yet he didn’t. He didn’t feel good—he didn’t feel anything.
He had the gun. The next thing he needed was food.
A map maybe.
What had happened to the other man? Was he following him?
As Josh waited for his breath to become regular again, he looked up at the sky, trying to judge direction by the position of the sun. He needed to go southeast, in the general direction of Hanoi.
Not that he’d be able to walk to Hanoi.
He could if he had to. He would.
Josh gripped the rifle, ready to shoot the man’s friend. But no one came. There were no shouts, no alarms, no cries for help. It was as if nothing had happened.
But it had. The gun proved it. And the blood on his clothes.
Josh began walking. He went at a good pace for another half hour, perhaps forty-five minutes, before starting to tire. He was oblivious of the fatigue at first. Then the rock slipped from his hand. He hadn’t even realized he’d still been holding it.
He crouched down, hoping that by doing that he would avoid falling asleep as he had last time. His nose was starting to act up and he debated taking one of his pills. Finally he decided to risk one of the lighter ones and reached into his pocket for the pillbox.
His hand shook as he opened it. He had only four left—one white, small dose, three green ones. He picked the lighter pill out with his thumb and forefinger, but as he reached for his mouth it slipped from his grip.
Then he sneezed, dropping the case.
Josh went down his hands and knees, patting for the pills on the ground. He found only one—a white one, fortunately. He swallowed, ignoring the bitter aftertaste. Then he hunted some more, until finally he realized it was hopeless, and gave up.
He continued up the hill, his steps becoming shorter and more labored. He spotted a waterfall in the distance ahead, and made it his goal. It wasn’t until he reached it, some ten or fifteen minutes later, that Josh realized it wasn’t a waterfall, or at least it wasn’t now. Erosion from the seasonal storms had carved a sluice down the slope, but without a hard, steady rain the stream was dry. There was no water.
To his left, a ravine dropped into a cultivated field; Josh could see its edge through the trees.
If there was a field, there would be a village. He could get food there.
Steal food. He couldn’t trust anyone now. He’d check it out once night came.
Josh sat on the rocks that had formed the crest of the waterfall and studied the gun he’d taken. He’d handled plenty of rifles and shotguns on his uncle’s farm, but this was unlike anything he’d ever used before. It seemed to be made largely of plastic, which contributed to its odd feel in his hands. Its banana clip was located behind the trigger, bullpup style, something he knew was possible though had never seen. It had a large, M16-like carrying handle at the top, with a lever he surmised was the charging handle beneath it. The ejection port sat at the right side; fortunately he was right-handed.
He put the gun across his lap and peered down into the jungle. The friend of the man he’d killed was still out there somewhere, probably looking for him by now. There were bound to be many others as well.
Josh felt a twinge in his stomach—fear, regret that he had made the wrong choice.
I’ll just kill them all, he told himself. That’s what I’ll do.
The idea floated through his head, something foreign, not too theoretical to take hold.
Captain Lai’s frustration had ebbed somewhat since the commandos had left them to conduct the search themselves. He was glad to be rid of the lieutenant and his smart-mouthed sergeant; they were a clear threat to his authority. The search mission had seemed like a waste of time from the beginning, but it was a relatively easy task; he didn’t have to worry too much about his men, who he knew had been poorly trained. That wasn’t his fault—he’d joined the unit only a few weeks before—but he would surely catch the blame if they did poorly in battle.
Lai scrolled his arms together, trying to ward off the thirst that was always with him. He had not had alcohol for over two months, and he knew he would not have it now—he had made very sure not to bring any with him. But the urge was extremely strong, a desire beyond emotion that rose from every part of his body.
He craved the warm honey of the first sip as it spread from his mouth to every muscle and organ. He could taste the wholeness it brought, the way the alcohol—any alcohol, at this point—filled the other half of his soul, a complementary yin.
But he would not have any today, or any day for that matter. He would get through today, and the next one, as his counselor advised.
It was torture.
Lai turned abruptly, realizing that one of his sergeants was staring at him.
“Captain, the units are too spread out. We have many stragglers.”
“Then get them together,” said Lai.
“We’ll have to stop the search, sir.”
Lai waved dismissively. “Do it,” he said.
The sergeant bowed his head, and moved to spread the word.
Lai took his satellite radio from his belt and called division headquarters. Instead of getting the communications clerk, he was connected immediately to Major Wang, the chief of staff. He explained the situation, saying that he would need transportation when the search was completed.
“You should have stayed away from the commando,” said the major. “I told you earlier, once you are attached to anything Colonel Sun does, you are as good as dead to us.”
“I did try to,” said Lai. “I told him I had other orders. But he wouldn’t listen.”
“You’re an idiot if you think that is enough.”
Wang asked about transport.
“Did Sun release you?” asked Wang.
“I need to talk to him?”
“Did he release you?”
Lai was forced to answer that he had not.
“Then you will continue on the mission until you hear from me. I will see what I can do.” But don’t count on miracles, suggested Wang’s voice. “Really, the best thing you must do, from now on—is to stay away from the commando. From any commando.”
Wonderful advice, thought Lai as he returned the radio to his belt. But he wasn’t the one who had placed his unit so close to the spearhead of the attack in the first place.
“I’m going to scout up the way here,” he said
aloud, though none of his men were nearby. “I’m going to find a good place for a command post.”
He hated the army. But it was his penance—if he had not drunk so much as a young man, his father would never have insisted that he join. He would be working now in the company with his brother.
The army could be a terrific opportunity for the right man. The right man could make use of the power and connections it afforded to advance. Even now, with the hard economic times, the right man in the army had less trouble than most.
Lai, however, wasn’t the right man.
Perhaps he could be. If he got through today.
The captain walked slowly uphill through the jungle, picking his way through the trees as they began to thin out. The vegetation amazed him. Much of southern China, where he’d spent the last lonely year and a half, was arid wasteland. Yet here, only a few kilometers over the border, plants of all sorts grew with abandon.
It was as if there were a curse on Chinese land. Or maybe the Americans and their agents had poisoned the Chinese countryside secretly, perhaps years or even decades before. The American war with Vietnam could easily have been just a pretext; while the two countries pretended to be at arm’s length now, everyone knew the Vietnamese were simply monkeys in the West’s employ. That was the way the Americans operated—lazy themselves, they got someone else to do the work for them.
As he started picking his way around the rocks, the captain heard a pair of voices talking in the distance below. Their voices were hushed—so soft, in fact, that at first he thought he was imagining them. He held his breath, listening as carefully as he could.
They were real voices, he decided: men talking about something back at home, talking about a son, a newborn, a child he had had to leave.
Lai took a tentative step in their direction, moving quietly. As far as he knew, there were no other units in the area. But the men had to be Chinese—they were speaking Chinese.
Right until the moment he saw them, sitting on the ground against a large rock not twenty yards from where he had climbed up, the captain refused to believe that they were his soldiers. His entire unit should have been in front of him, stretched out through the jungle conducting the search. To find two men huddled here, far from where they were supposed to be and goofing off besides—the idea did not even seem possible.
