by Larry Bond
After ten minutes, the memory was full. He turned the camera off and put it back into his pocket, continuing to look around the village and the nearby fields.
Maybe there hadn’t been a massacre here—maybe the villager had been killed by someone in the village. That might explain why everyone had fled.
He doubted it was true, but it was a plausible, or at least possible, explanation. Josh continued walking around the village and nearby fields, looking for more evidence.
It wasn’t until he had stared at the upper field for a few minutes that he realized part of it had been turned over, while the one below had not.
Who would work a field in February?
Josh sank slowly to his knees. There were footprints—boots. He traced one of the boot marks with his index finger. It was a man’s boot, about his size, perhaps one or two sizes smaller.
Evidence of what had happened.
He didn’t need it; he’d seen enough.
There was doubt, though. Just one body.
If this were a weather event, he would gather as much data as he possibly could. He would leave nothing to chance.
Josh put his hands into the earth. His heart began throbbing. He pulled the dirt toward him. It resisted. He dug deeper and pulled again.
After his fourth or fifth pull, the dirt came away easily. Sweat ran down the sides of his neck as he worked.
Five minutes after he started digging, Josh’s left hand pushed against something that felt like a stick. He pushed a little more, then scooped upward, removing the dirt but not revealing the object. He took as slow a breath as he could manage, and began to dig again, gently though steadily. He moved the dirt around the object like he thought an archaeologist would, bringing it slowly to the surface.
A thick tree branch.
An old shirt on a stone.
An arm, with fingers rolled into a ball.
Enough.
Josh took out the camera and erased one of the files he had shot the night before, giving himself about a minute and a half more of video time. He panned the area, then closed in on the arm, focusing on the hand.
Done, he replaced the dirt with his foot, eyes closed, tamped it back down, and returned to the village.
10
National Security Situation Room, White House
“Let’s see the video,” said President Greene.
A screen rose slowly from the middle of the table of the secure situation room. Over in the Pentagon, the Joint Chiefs turned their attention to a similar display at the front of the large secure room there.
A news clip began to play. China’s Premier Cho Lai was speaking to a crowd of over one hundred thousand packed into Tiananmen Square. His face was red, his hand motions emphatic.
His words were translated in English subtitles on the screen. Though literally correct, the translation did not quite catch the nuances of venom and racism.
Greene caught it all. His Chinese was fluent, and he needed no help in deciphering the full implication of Premier Cho Lai’s words. The message could be summed up in one word: war.
Though that was a word the premier never used.
“We must recover the dignity of the Chinese people, sullied too long by those inferior to us, those with despicable agendas, those with goals we cannot share,” declared Cho Lai. The premier paused to listen as the crowd erupted in applause.
Greene shook his head. Despite what his critics and late-night comics sometimes implied, the president wasn’t old enough to have heard Hitler’s speeches firsthand, but he knew they sounded something like this.
“You can turn it off. Peter, review the intelligence, please,” Greene told CIA Director Peter Frost.
Frost began speaking, detailing the Chinese buildup as he had earlier for the president and national security adviser. Everyone sitting in on the briefing, both at the Pentagon and at the White House, had heard or seen at least some of the intelligence Frost reviewed. Nonetheless, the CIA director’s pithy summary placed the situation in stark relief, and to a person they seemed surprised, and deeply troubled.
“We’re looking at World War III here,” said the chief of staff, Army General Clayton Fisk. “First Vietnam, then the rest of Asia. India—they won’t stop.”
Fisk gets it, thought Greene. Finally.
One American convinced. Another 350 million to go.
“Maybe they take the country in a few months,” said the Air Force chief, Tarn Washington. “Or maybe they get bogged down there like we did in the 1960s. Maybe they don’t even attack. The Chinese have a habit of moving troops to their borders. Look what they did at Myanmar a couple of years ago. They’re bullies, but they don’t actually want to stub their toes, let alone get bloodied.”
“The question is, how can we stop them?” said Admiral Nancy Gilead, the Navy head. “If that’s what we want to do.”
“We can’t,” said Fisk quickly. “We can’t get troops there. And frankly, the American people would never stand for it. Never.”
Secretary of State Theodore “Tad” Knox nodded his head vigorously.
“How long before they invade?” asked Fisk.
“If they invade,” said Washington.
“The analysts’ best consensus is that they’re a week away, maybe two, from being in a position where they can attack,” said Frost. “It’s a guess though.”
“It could be sooner?” asked Fisk.
“Possibly.”
“With all due respect, I have to disagree,” said General Peter Shoemaker. Shoemaker headed the Army. “The Chinese are a notoriously slow-moving army. They could take months getting into position—and a half a year going over the border. Especially in western Vietnam. Their history is against them.”
“They’ve been studying Shock and Awe for years,” said Jackson.
“I’ve studied piano just as long, and I still can’t play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’” replied Shoemaker.
No one laughed.
Frost continued his briefing. The Vietnamese seemed completely unprepared. Their defenses were situated in the northeastern portion of the country, where China had attacked in the 1970s.
The questions that followed made it clear that even if the U.S. was in a position to stop the invasion, the chiefs would be less than unanimous in support of it. They didn’t want to reward the Chinese, but Greene sensed that they would be only halfheartedly in favor of sanctions. There was more lingering resentment against the Vietnamese than he’d expected. And more admiration of the Chinese.
But he was the one making the decisions.
“I want a military plan to go with UN sanctions, if there’s an invasion,” he told them when the conversation died. “I want something with teeth. I want options.”
“They’re very limited, sir,” said Shoemaker.
“Let’s not decide that before we’ve examined it carefully.”
“Mr. President, stopping China—it’s just not possible,” said Fisk. “If they invade, we can’t stop them. And helping the Vietnamese will only make us look weaker in their eyes.”
“And why should we?” asked Washington. “We don’t owe the Vietnamese anything. Absolutely nothing.”
Washington had lost his father in the Vietnam War. But he spoke for most Americans.
“We don’t owe them anything, that’s true,” said Greene. “But this isn’t about them. We must be prepared for the worst, and we have to do what’s right.”
11
Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China
To Lieutenant Jing Yo, the Chinese army seemed both fitful and petulant, often harsh, and even, at times, maddeningly paranoid. But it could be benevolent and even generous as well—was not the breakfast it was issuing to him this morning an emperor’s feast? Hard-boiled eggs, a large piece of bread, fresh cheese, two apples—a poor man in the countryside could live a week on such a meal.
The cook had apologized that there was no rice. He had done the same the day before—and the day before that,
and the week before that. The apology had become a pro forma ritual, repeated every morning.
Rice was an incredibly expensive commodity, far too precious to be given to common soldiers in the field—let alone soldiers who’d been assigned to a dangerous mission outside the country and might never return.
Jing Yo couldn’t remember the last time he had had rice, except when visiting Beijing. China without rice—the very notion seemed impossible. And yet it was now a fact of life.
“Lieutenant, you are lingering when there is work to be done,” said Colonel Sun behind him.
Jing Yo rose silently, leaving his half-finished meal on his plate.
“The matter last night?” said the colonel.
“Completed.”
“Good. You believe there are others?”
“Certainly.”
A dozen different regular army companies, most without direct supervision, were operating in the area, securing it or preparing for the mission. The troops had been taught to hate all enemies, but especially the Vietnamese, considered a mongrel race.
Sun frowned. He did not harbor any particular compassion toward the Vietnamese; his concern was only for the operation.
“Further steps?” asked the colonel, in a tone that sounded like a warning.
Jing Yo considered how to answer. There really was no easy way to deal with the problem, short of recalling all of the troops, and that wasn’t going to happen.
“I believe the general’s order will be sufficient,” he said finally.
Sufficient to prevent further massacres? Or to cover up those that had already occurred but not been seen by Sun?
Most likely the latter rather than the former, but Sun did not ask for elaboration.
“Finish here. Then move on,” said the colonel. “I must return to the task force. You deal with division and the staff there as necessary. If there are further problems, report to me.”
Jing Yo bowed his head, and turned to go to work. As he walked down the path from the mess area, he fixed his gaze on the far hill. They held the hill, as well as the one beyond it to the east. There were a few scattered Hmong settlements in the valley, but otherwise no Vietnamese.
At least not alive.
The sun bathed the jungle in bright golden light. Jing Yo followed the path downward, leaning slightly to keep his center of gravity positioned properly. Though not trying to be quiet, he walked so silently by habit that he surprised Sergeant Wu, who was leaning against a tree lighting a cigarette instead of supervising a nearby work detail. Wu, the commando platoon sergeant, wore the look of mild disdain typical of commando noncoms, but otherwise would not have fit the stereotype—he was on the short side, a little heavy. His chin was in need of a shave. Unlike most commandos, he had been born in Shanghai, the son of a relatively well-off father and mother whom he never spoke of or to.
Wu’s service record, on the other hand, was the envy of the regiment; he had been in Malaysia, though not at the same time or place as Jing Yo.
“Sergeant,” said Jing Yo, nodding as he stopped.
“Have a good breakfast, Lieutenant?”
Jing Yo ignored the question, and its implied criticism of the privileges an officer was afforded. The enlisted men were issued only two meals a day—a small roll in the morning, and a bigger one at evening. Sometimes meat was added.
“So, Sergeant Fan is no longer with us?” asked Wu.
“The sergeant had difficulty following orders,” said Jing Yo.
Wu was not a friend of Sergeant Fan’s—in fact, Jing Yo suspected he could not stand the other commando. Another man in his position might have said something flattering to Jing Yo, earning easy points at his enemy’s expense. But Wu was not like that. If anything, Jing Yo suspected his opinion of Fan had changed because of his conflict with his commander.
“Have the things from the science camp been gathered?” Jing Yo asked.
“They’ve already started to bury them.”
“Bury them?”
“Captain Ching said Colonel Sun wanted his people to get rid of them. I sent Po and Ai Gua down to watch the donkeys and make sure they get it right.”
“Did I tell you to bury them?”
Wu pursed his lips. Shaking his head, Jing Yo started away, jogging a few steps before breaking into a run.
Privates Po and Ai Gua were about a hundred meters away, watching as a pair of regular army soldiers dug a trench on a flat rift in the hill. They had not gotten very far; the dirt was filled with roots and stones. The items from the camp they had overrun the night before, including the clothes the dead men had been wearing, were piled on the other side of the dirt.
“Help me with this,” he told Po and Ai Gua. “Look through the clothes. See if there’s information that will be of use.”
The two privates went to the clothes and began rifling through them. Jing Yo looked at the soldiers who were digging the ditch.
“You’d be better off putting the dirt on that side there,” he said, pointing. “It will be easier for you to push these things in. You won’t have to climb over the rocks and soil.”
The men looked at him as if he had just described the formula for solving binomial equations. They nodded, then went back to work.
Jing Yo walked to the pile of equipment and began looking through it. Colonel Sun had considered salvaging the gear and selling it in Shanghai. But Jing Yo had pointed out that the equipment was bound to be traceable, and if it ever turned up on the world market—something almost sure to happen if it was sold in Shanghai—very possibly their mission would be compromised. The colonel’s face had shaded pale, and he had quickly agreed it should be buried with the rest of the remains from the camp.
There were several boxes of instruments, most of which could be only vaguely identified. The expedition had been gathering soil and vegetation samples, and had placed a number of rain gauges near their camp. The documents on their laptop computers—none protected by passwords—indicated that they were studying changes in the climate and local plant and animal life.
“Hey, Lieutenant, look at this,” said Private Ai Gua, holding up a satellite phone. “It was in a pocket.”
Jing Yo walked over and took the phone. They had found three the night before; all had already been crushed.
“Why did we miss this?” he asked.
“We didn’t miss it,” said Sergeant Wu, answering before Ai Gua could open his mouth. Jing Yo turned to him. Wu’s cigarette had been replaced by a smug look Jing Yo associated with most veteran commando noncoms, who generally felt superior to any officer they served under. “The donkeys searched the tents.”
“We should have searched them ourselves,” said Jing Yo.
Wu scowled. It was obvious what he was thinking: they couldn’t be everywhere, or do everything that needed to be done.
Jing Yo turned on the phone. Like the others, it required a PIN. He tried a punching a few buttons in sequence—0-0-0-0, 1-2-3-4, 9-8-7-6—before getting a message saying he was locked out for too many failed ID attempts. Disgusted, he held the phone in his hands and snapped it in two.
Ai Gua whistled. Wu tried to hide his surprise with a frown.
The phone was small and well constructed, but snapping it in two was merely a matter of leverage, a parlor trick as far as Jing Yo was concerned. Any of the novices who had trained with the monks could have done the same in their sixth month there.
“Make sure the clothes are checked carefully,” Jing Yo said. “If there are any more phones, they must be destroyed before being buried. Anything with an identity must be burned.”
Jing Yo walked to the pile himself and began sorting through the things patiently, holding each piece for a moment as he considered what it told him before putting it aside.
Trousers—a fat, short man. Thick fabric—a man of reasonable means. Frayed at the heel—a man who held on to comfortable clothing, possibly out of frugality, but more likely out of habit.
“Are you looking for a new
wardrobe?” asked Sergeant Wu behind him.
“If you want to know a man, start with his tailor, then go to his laundress,” said Jing Yo.
It was a maxim one of his teachers had taught him, but Wu thought it was a joke and laughed. Jing Yo continued sorting through the pile. Each item varied from the others as its owners had varied in life, and yet they told a single story: Westerners, men of learning, trying to understand something in a country foreign to them.
It was regrettable that they had had to die. But at least their deaths had been swift.
The clothes told more. The scientists were well off, able to afford sturdy wear. They were also relatively well fed, thicker around the waist than even the older officers in the army.
So what the premier said in his speeches was true—the West was hoarding the planet’s food, depriving China and the rest of the world of its share. Jing Yo regretted the deaths a little less.
“Something wrong, Lieutenant?” asked Private Ai Gua.
“Maybe he saw a ghost,” said Sergeant Wu, laughing.
Neither private joined in. Both men, Jing Yo knew, were deeply superstitious.
“The Westerners are enjoying the fruit of our labors,” he told them. “They do not have to struggle as we do for food. This war will restore balance and equity. Bury everything well.”
12
Northwestern Vietnam, near the border with China
The huts had dried meat and some stores of vegetables, but the only food Josh trusted was the potatoes. He considered cooking them, but dismissed the idea as too dangerous. They tasted horrible raw, but he ate them anyway, devouring them as he walked up a path that started at the field above the hamlet and cut north, paralleling the road at the valley’s base. Going north made the most sense, he reasoned, because there would be soldiers at the border with China who would be able to help him. The border was only a few miles away, a day or at most two of walking.
The winding trail moved in and out of the jungle, cutting back against the slope as it went. Josh thought he would find a vantage at the top where he could look out over the surrounding countryside and get his bearings, but he was disappointed; the hill was dwarfed by its neighbors on all sides except the east, and there the trees were too narrow to support him as he climbed. After a few minutes, he couldn’t even see down to the village, let alone the road below.