Shadows of War

by Larry Bond

  Striped orange. A tiger.

  Jing Yo could feel each shift of the animal’s weight against the ground, the slow dance toward him.

  Jing Yo rose from where he was sitting. He had faced the tiger many times in his training. It was the spirit of his fears—the enemy within.

  As a young trainee, Jing Yo had been exhorted to face the tiger as the dragon—to assume the power of water, endlessly mutable, energy ready to be channeled at a moment’s notice.

  The tiger saw him and stopped.

  “What are my fears today?” Jing Yo said to it. “Failure. Disgrace. Ego fears—fears of the temporary. I am of the eternal. I am the dragon. You are only a creature of the earthly moment.”

  The animal moved its head, warning him to retreat. But that was just a tactic—show the slightest weakness, give even an inch to fear, and it would overwhelm you.

  Jing Yo spread his fingers and pulled back his arms. His muscles flexed, then stiffened, ready for the attack.

  Confronting the tiger did not guarantee victory. But it was nonetheless the necessary course.

  “Ha-ah!” said Jing Yo, moving his right foot forward as he brought his arms up into attack position.

  The tiger growled. Its shoulders pushed back, gathering strength for a pounce.

  “Ha-ah!” said Jing Yo again.

  The tiger growled, lower this time, then leaned to its left. In an instant, all of its weight shifted—and it slunk backward through the grass, retreating.

  Fear could be controlled; that was the lesson today. It was a lesson he had learned many years before, and had relearned many times since. It was a lesson he would learn many times in the years to come.

  A voice shook Jing Yo from his meditation.

  “Incredible—you scared the damn tiger away!”

  Jing Yo turned to find Sergeant Wu squatting on the ground, a few feet away. Wu rose slowly, trembling.

  “I thought one of us—I thought one of us was going to be its breakfast,” said Wu. “You stared him down. I can’t believe it.”

  “Why are you without your weapon?”

  “I came looking for you,” said the sergeant. “Colonel Sun wants to talk to you.”

  “Check on the sentries,” said Jing Yo, walking backup the hill. “Make sure they are aware there is a tiger in the jungle.”

  “Of course.”

  One of the helicopter’s crewmen was waiting with the chopper’s secure radio. Jing Yo took the handset and held it to his ear.

  “What are you doing, Lieutenant?” snapped Colonel Sun. “Sleeping?”

  “Meditating.”

  “Do your meditation later. The attack time is moved up. The tower must be taken within the hour.”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “Don’t fail in this, Lieutenant.”

  You are a fearful man, thought Jing Yo as he handed the handset back.

  The men were groggy but did not complain when Jing Yo woke them. They donned their fake Vietnamese uniforms and filed toward the helicopter at a deliberate pace; no one ran, and no one lagged behind. They were veterans now, Jing Yo thought; they were just beginning to understand who they were.

  It took three battles to test a man. His action in the first could not be counted for anything. War was too confusing to be sorted into categories the first time it was experienced; keeping your balance amid the blows was impossible until you understood where those blows might come from, let alone how much they hurt.

  The second battle was almost always a reaction to the first. A man who had frozen might do the opposite, making a grave mistake. A person who had acted like a hero might be filled with the dread he had ignored during his first battle and be overwhelmed. There was no predicting.

  So the third battle was the real test. By the third battle, the sound of gunfire, the rumble of the earth as a bomb went off—neither of these things was new. The soldier had survived two encounters, as a hero or a coward, or more likely as something in between. Stripped of his illusions, a man would face himself.

  Jing Yo’s third battle had come long ago. So had Wu’s—a good sergeant, competent and loyal, in his way, Jing Yo decided. For most of the rest of the squad, this would be only the second.

  Much room for error.

  “We are being queried by their air traffic controller,” said the pilot five minutes after they were airborne.

  “Very good.” Jing Yo turned to his men. “Be ready.”

  They were quiet. He couldn’t read their faces in the shadow-laced interior, but he didn’t have to; he knew their expressions would mix fear, anticipation, and even joy. He gripped the hand strap on the metal framework between the cockpit and crew compartment and began breathing slowly, pushing his ribs against the armored vest, easing it outward and then pulling it inward. The pit of his stomach was empty.

  “They’ve accepted us,” said the pilot. “Three minutes to the airport.”

  Jing Yo looked over and caught Sergeant Wu’s eye. He nodded.

  “Prepare!” yelled the sergeant.

  The commandos rose as one from the benches. Weapons were readied, belts cinched.

  Jing Yo saw the airport runway through the window as they began to bank into a landing pattern. A pair of MiGs—probably inoperable, according to the premission briefing—were parked in a tarmac apron area at the far end. A civilian aircraft was on the opposite taxiway, waiting to take off.

  There was a helicopter nearby. And a second one.

  Were they being sucked into a trap?

  Two helicopters? There was generally only one—it was a bit of deception they were counting on.

  Did the Vietnamese know they were imposters?

  Jing Yo twisted around and leaned into the space between the two pilots.

  “There are two helicopters at the airport,” he said. “Did they ask questions?”

  “No,” said the copilot. He was a Vietnamese language specialist, chosen specifically because he sounded like a native.

  Or had he been chosen because he was someone’s nephew? In China, one could never be absolutely sure, and Jing Yo’s Vietnamese wasn’t sufficient for him to judge the man’s abilities.

  “Lieutenant, we are almost over the runway,” said the pilot.

  “Proceed as planned,” said Jing Yo. He reached into his pocket for his earplugs, slipping them into his ears as he joined his men.

  The helicopter skimmed forward, exactly as it would do if landing on an ordinary flight. It then began to veer to the left, toward the designated parking area near the civilian terminal. At the last second, the pilot flexed his control, jolting the chopper upward. They flew another three hundred meters, hopping over the terminal building, past the security gate, and right next to the small parking area flanking the tower.

  When they’d rehearsed the landing, the lot had always been filled with cars. Today it was empty. That allowed the helicopter pilot to put down closer to the tower than planned, shaving precious seconds off the timetable. But as he hit the pavement, Jing Yo realized the lack of cars might mean there were no workers—it might really be the trap he feared.

  Too late.

  “Go! Go! Go!” shouted Sergeant Wu.

  One team raced for the building; a second, headed by Wu, ran to the auxiliary shack next door, taking out the phone lines that connected the base with the outside world. When that was accomplished, the second team would split up, half providing security at the base of the tower and the other half circling around the far side of the runway, aiming to take out two antiaircraft guns there.

  The point man for the tower group, Private Han, and Corporal Chen were already at the tower door. They had it open—no locks, no need for explosives.

  It must be a trap.

  “Move! Move!” shouted Jing Yo, the last one out of the chopper.

  The helicopter was already up. If it was a trap, they were doomed.

  The smell of burning metal hit Jing Yo’s nose as he pushed into the building. He hadn’t heard any gunfire yet,
but he could smell that too as he started up the metal steps that led to the control area. The building, opened only within the past year, was basically a staircase topped by a large glass-enclosed room where the flight controllers worked. There were no security checks at each landing, just more steps.

  Jing Yo slung his feet on the metal treads, jogging upward. He kept his head up, eyes darting. There were shouts above, but still he hadn’t heard gunfire.

  The earplugs were good, but not that good.

  Have I gone deaf? he asked himself. Did someone throw one of the loud grenades, a flash-bang, to get into the control room?

  No—he heard the voices around him, barely muffled by the plugs. And he heard his own steps, the slight rasp on the metal.

  The steps came up into the middle of the control room. Jing Yo saw the rail as he approached and put out 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 always late.”

  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, follo
wed 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 unleashed a string of curses at whoever was on the other end of the line.

  The shelling continued for a few more rounds, then began retreating to the west. Jing Yo heard the first helicopters approaching. Down on the far end of the runway, the team that had been tasked to hit the antiaircraft guns went to work on their secondary mission, marking the landing zone with red smoke, indicating that the helicopters would be landing under fire.

  The pain in Jing Yo’s right hand flared. He tried to force it away as he went back to the door. He stopped short at the threshold—the walkway had broken and was hanging down off the tower to the left. He leaned out to look for his two men, then threw himself back into the control room as bullets began hitting into the side wall.

  “We’re going to have to close that door,” said Sergeant Wu. “They get a grenade in here, we’re done.”

  There was no panic in Wu’s voice. There was no emotion at all. Closing the door meant stranding the two men outside, but Wu was right—unless the armor-paneled door was put back in place, they were all vulnerable. More important, their goal of keeping the tower intact would fail.

  Jing Yo went to the door and closed it himself.

  Red smoke drifted upward from the runway. The first helicopter was landing.

  The tower shook violently. There was an explosion below—inside the tower.

  “They’re coming up!” someone yelled.

  Jing Yo bit the bandage holding the ice packs onto his burned hand and then tore it off. One of the large windows shattered. The tower smelled as if it was on fire, the stench a sickly mix of metal and tar or very heavy plastic.

  Where was his rifle? Someone had taken it from him earlier, but he couldn’t remember where they had put it.

  Jing Yo saw a gun on the floor. He grabbed it, fingers screaming with pain, then ran to the stairwell.