Shadows of War - [Red Dragon Rising 01]

by Larry Bond

  “First time.”

  “Interesting. Why focus on Vietnam?”

  Zeus shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Major. It wasn’t an accident.” Her voice was harsh; she was scolding him, which made Zeus angry.

  “You’re right. I considered it carefully.” He held her stare. Mai was only a few years older than he, with the slightest hint of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She was tall for a woman, five ten, though he still towered over her. “I needed a country China would attack. And one that I could use to stall for time. In that scenario, it’s the only way to win.”

  “People playing the simulation for the first time normally defend Taiwan,” said Mai. “You left almost no forces there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why not?”

  “I used what resources I had.”

  He shrugged again. She was right—but how did she know?

  Christian, probably. Trying to show off.

  “Besides, China wasn’t going to attack there,” he said.

  “No?”

  “Doesn’t make strategic sense.” Zeus shook his head. “They wouldn’t in real life either. They see Taiwan the way they see Hong Kong. Estranged brothers who will return to the fold in time. They attack their enemies. Japan I could see. Vietnam looks weak. They’ll go right after Malaysia one of these days. I’m surprised they haven’t already.”

  “So you picked Vietnam completely on your own?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because it was a traditional enemy and could attack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve had no access to an outside telephone line since you reported for duty this morning?”

  “Huh?”

  “Have you made any phone calls, Major?” Mai’s tone was sharp, almost dismissive.

  “No.”

  “You haven’t used a phone?”

  “There are no external lines downstairs because of security.” Zeus felt himself getting angry. “Listen—”

  “And your cell phone?”

  “In my car,” he snapped. “Why?”

  “I’d like you to come to Washington with me, Major.”

  “Washington? Why?”

  “Because roughly an hour ago, the Chinese invaded Vietnam. From what I’ve been told, their plan sounds very much like what you did today in the simulation. We leave in ten minutes.”

  ~ * ~

  6

  Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China

  With Jing Yo’s men at the lead, the soldiers formed about a 250-meter search line and began walking through the jungle. It took them nearly an hour to work their way east into and then beyond the area where the enemy plane had been reported shot down. With no wreckage in sight, Jing Yo waited until they had gone about a kilometer beyond the point marked by Colonel Sun before calling a break. At that point, he conferred with Sergeant Wu and the regular army captain, Captain Lai Wi, to expand the search area.

  The captain was still brooding from the way he had been treated, and sulked as Jing Yo went over the area with his handheld GPS device.

  “We can move up the hill another half kilometer,” said Jing Yo. “At that point, we’ll reach a road. One group will pivot around on the north, the other on the south, and work back to the highway.”

  “Three kilometers,” groused the captain.

  “You don’t have to walk it with your men,” Jing Yo told him.

  Captain Lai frowned, shook his head, then went off to see his sergeants.

  “Bad case of red butt, huh?” said Sergeant Wu.

  Jing Yo didn’t respond. It wasn’t his place to encourage disrespect for another officer, even if the officer was a jerk.

  “You think we’ll find the plane?” asked Wu.

  “If it went down here, we’ll find it.”

  “You don’t think it went down here, though. Do you, Lieutenant?”

  “I think it’d be fair to say that the coordinates we were given were in error,” answered Jing Yo.

  Wu smirked.

  “Let’s continue the search,” said Jing Yo, “since those are our orders.”

  ~ * ~

  Sergeant Wu concealed a smile as he hiked back to his men. The lieutenant was a decent sort, not the stiff prig he’d taken him for initially. The decision to get rid of the jackass Fan had not been a fluke.

  Sergeant Wu appreciated the fact that Jing Yo wouldn’t directly comment on orders he didn’t like—Sergeant Wu would have done the same with a subordinate. Order had to be maintained.

  Of course, that theory barely applied to the stuck-up regular army captain whose troops they had commandeered. The captain wasn’t countermanding their orders—he was too much of a wimp to do that—but he wasn’t exactly helping the search effort either. He’d told his noncommissioned officers to check with him before carrying out the slightest “request”—his word—from the commandos, meaning that every time Sergeant Wu told them to do something, they had to check back with him. It was more a pain than anything else, since the captain was too cowardly—or realistically worried about his own behind—to do anything but rubber-stamp what Wu said. Still, it was an unnecessary bit of officer bullshit, which annoyed Wu no end.

  The regular unit’s sergeants were sitting with Corporal Li and Private Ai Gua, sharing a pair of cigarettes that were being passed around commune-style. Ai Gua’s wrist, either sprained or broken in the accident the night before, was wrapped in a heavy bandage. The private had bruises up and down his side and leg. But he had not complained, nor asked to be relieved from duty as a regular soldier would have.

  Excellent. So they had at least one real commando among the untested greenies in the platoon.

  “Hey, are you ready to go?” barked Wu.

  “Sergeant, you should hear the stories,” said Li, looking up from the log where he was sitting.

  Wu put his hands on his hips.

  “Their old man’s a drunk,” added Li.

  “All right, that’s enough,” said Wu. “Lieutenant wants us to move on. Let’s do it.”

  Li rolled his eyes but got up. Wu explained how the forces were to be divided, then sent the army sergeants off to check with their commander.

  “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 Chau 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 colleagues, 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. Th
e 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.