Black smoke rose in a tight curl from a small transformer shed near the far end of the runway. Jing Yo's men were supposed to move into that area after laying down the smoke, but he couldn't see if they were there or not.
The artillery shelling had stopped to allow the helicopters to land. As soon as the first wave of choppers was off, it began again, concentrating on the barracks area and the defensive positions near the highway. The barrage was intended to make it hard for the Vietnamese to rush their troops over to the runway area, preventing them from reinforcing the men who were protecting the hangars and the aircraft. But the firing was less than precise, and the main effect of the shells was to add to the monumental sense of chaos and confusion.
A big part of the problem was the lack of team radios and the insistence that all information be funneled through the division communicators, a remnant of old army doctrine modeled on the centralized Soviet concept. In modernizing the Chinese army over the past decade, the general staff had picked the early stages of the second American war in Iraq, the so-called Shock and Awe phase, with its lightning attacks and generous use of tanks and airborne elements. But the generals were reluctant to loosen their grip on the lower commanders, diluting the relative effectiveness of the attack by making it difficult to coordinate its elements.
“They're coming again!” yelled Wu from near the stairs. “I need more grenades!”
Jing Yo jumped from the console and took a grenade from his vest with his left hand. He hopped down the two steps to Wu, put his right hand around his shoulder, then dropped the grenade. As soon as it left his hand, he pulled backward, yanking the sergeant back as well.
The grenade bounced down the steps, rebounded off the wall, then exploded in the stairwell. The firing below immediately stopped.
Jing Yo felt Wu's weight as he rolled off him. The sergeant grunted, then helped him up.
“They're concentrating their attack here,” said Wu. “If we don't get some relief, we'll run out of ammunition eventually.”
They had practiced the operation countless times. Jing Yo always understood that his men would be hard-pressed if the assault did not go well. But he had also believed that once the helicopters were landing, the enemy would either concentrate on them or retreat, leaving the tower alone.
He'd been wrong.
The problem was to pressure their attackers somehow. He needed someone to hit them from the side or behind, take their attention away.
Jing Yo hoisted himself back up onto the console. The assault team was fanning out at the southern end of the complex. There were several knots of Vietnamese between them and the tower; he could not expect them to reach him very quickly.
They would have to supply the counterattack themselves.
“Private Wing, help Sergeant Wu,” said Jing Yo. He opened the med kit on the floor and rewrapped his burned hand in gauze and tape, leaving his finger free to fire.
“What are you going to do?” Wu asked.
“Provide a diversion. Open the door to the catwalk for me.”
Wu frowned, but followed him to the side and put his hand on the handle.
“I hope you aren't thinking of jumping,” said Wu.
“Not today.”
Rifle slung over his shoulder, Jing Yo put his left hand on the side of the frame and steadied himself. If he'd had two good hands, he would have climbed upward and used the roof as a vantage point. But with only his left hand really able to grip, he could only work with gravity, not against it. He swung his weight to the side, then let go of the frame.
The catwalk gave way as Jing Yo landed, swinging down as it tore two more of its anchors. He grabbed hold of the rail with his left hand and the trigger finger of his right, scrambling forward and up. Jing Yo managed to push along the grate for about three meters before reaching part of the deck that was still level. Then he crawled toward the ladder that ran down the side of the tower.
As he neared it, a head popped out from around the bend. Thinking the Vietnamese had come up with roughly the same idea he had, Jing Yo
swung his rifle up to fire. He stopped at the last second, recognizing Ai Gua.
“Private!”
“Lieutenant!”
“Where is Han?”
Ai Gua pointed up toward the roof. After the catwalk had failed, the two men had climbed up onto the roof, trying to hold off the Vietnamese from there. Seeing that wasn't working well, Ai Gua had just climbed down the work ladder, hoping to attack the Vietnamese from the side.
“Good idea,” Jing Yo told him. “Come on.”
“Your hand.”
“I'm fine. Let's go.”
As they started for the ladder, the tower rocked with a pair of small explosions. Han had tossed a pair of grenades down to the ground, hoping to give them some cover.
Any relief the explosions had provided was temporaryâbullets began slicing into the tower skin when Jing Yo was about halfway down the side.
It was too high even for Jing Yo to jump. He continued downward, another four or five rungs before one of the bullets caught him in the back, slamming into his bulletproof vest.
While the vest absorbed the bullet and much of the impact, the force felt like a horse's kick in the ribs. Jing Yo's grip loosened on the rungs. Feeling himself falling, he pushed out with his legs, centering his balance as he plummeted the last twelve feet to the ground. He hit evenly, legs and spine loose as he had been taught, and rolled off to the side, tumbling over and coming up on his knee.
Ai Gua was in the grass nearby, firing toward the other side of the parking lot. Shaking off the shock of the impact, Jing Yo got up and ran to him. He tapped him on the head, indicating he should follow, then ran to the side of the tower, beginning to circle around toward the door area.
An armored personnel carrier moved down the access road toward the tower. Jing Yo fired a few shots at it, trying to hit the gunner sitting in the upper hatchway. His aim was off, and all he succeeded in doing was drawing the gunner's attentionâthe man swung his heavy machine gun around.
As the first bullets began to rake the concrete, white smoke blossomed from the gun. There was a white flash, followed by a volcanic eruption of fireâHan had hit the APC with a rocket-propelled grenade from above.
Jing Yo took two steps out from around the side of the building. Men lay everywhere. A few moved. Others were frozen in position, dead.
On the access road, soldiers filed beyond the APC, two abreast, trotting toward the building. He laced them with bullets, sweeping his automatic rifle front to back. The men twirled and fell like rag dolls, caught completely unaware.
As the APC smoldered, Jing Yo ran to it, crouching at the side as he fired into the small wedge of men near the door to the tower. One or two managed to get off shots at him as they fell; most simply went down. He tossed his magazine and continued to fire until no one moved.
Ai Gua ran up behind him.
“Two more APCs coming up the road,” said the private.
The two vehicles crossed through a field of high grass. Their machine guns were already zeroed in on the tower.
“Come on,” he told Ai Gua, jumping up. “Quickly.”
They made it across the parking lot without being shot at. Once in the grass, Jing Yo began circling to the left of the approaching armored vehicles. The soldiers who had been mounting the attack on the tower knew they were there and, apparently realizing what they were up to, began firing into the field. But the grass hid Jing Yo and Ai Gua well enough that they realized it was a waste of ammunition.
The APCs, meanwhile, continued in a long arc designed to take them around to the Vietnamese; once there, they would undoubtedly lead another attack on the building. Both vehicles were only equipped with heavy machine guns, but they would provide plenty of cover for a new charge.
Jing Yo got to within twenty meters of the lead carrier when he spotted a soldier running alongside it. The lieutenant stopped in the grass, watching as other soldiers appearedâthere were at least a half dozen, moving alongside the vehicles.
“What do we do?” whispered Ai Gua.
“Go that way.” Jing Yo pointed to his left. “Get around to the other side that they're taking. In sixty seconds, I'll begin firing.”
“Against all those men?”
“We only have to slow them down until the landing teams can fight their way here,” said Jing Yo. “We just have to get their attention.”
Ai Gua looked dubious.
“Go!” Jing Yo reached out his arm and pushed the private. “Go.”
Ai Gua shoved away, crouching as he ran. Jing Yo hoped to get the Vietnamese in a crossfire, but even if he succeeded, he and his private
were badly outnumbered. They were down to their last rounds, without any more grenades.
The most they could hope for was to delay the APCs. Every minute they won would increase the odds that the men in the tower would survive.
Jing Yo moved slowly, paralleling the vehicles. He began counting softly to himself, measuring Ai Gua's pace, waiting for him to get into position.
When he reached one hundred, he raised his rifle and fired.
The soldiers near the APCs, at least those he could see, went down.
But the vehicles didn't stop moving.
Bullets began flying around him. Jing Yo hugged the ground, then began squirming around to his left.
Maybe he could sneak up on one of the Vietnamese soldiers, take his grenades, then force open the hatch.
The idea formed in his head, not yet a plan. He rose to all fours and changed course, thinking he might have an easier time taking one of the men from the rear. As he got up, a long, shrill whistle vibrated at the back of his skull. Jing Yo threw himself forward instinctually, his muscles reacting before his brain could give the command.
Incoming!
The first artillery shell landed almost directly on the APC. A second and third bracketed it, spraying clods of grass and dirt through the air.
The shells began to fall in a thick rain. Some of the Vietnamese soldiers who had been with the vehicles began to run back in the direction they'd come, trying to escape. Jing Yo watched as they ran through the steady downpour of bombs. For a few seconds, it appeared as if they might escape the onslaught. Then a shell struck near the lead runner. A swirl of dirt enveloped him, and he disappeared like a magician escaping in a cloud sent by heaven. The man closest to him continued to run, apparently unharmed.
Then the next shell hit. This time, the air seemed to turn red. Four men fell. Another flew into the air, tumbling over like an acrobat as a series of explosions pummeled his lifeless body.
The artillery fire increased. Belatedly, Jing Yo realized he was in just as much danger as the Vietnamese. He began backing away through the grass, staying as low as possible as the shells continued to fall.
Several of the Vietnamese soldiers who'd been waiting for the APCs to appear were mesmerized by the shells. They stood watching them land in the field, oblivious to the gunfire a few hundred meters away.
He had only one magazine left, the one in his gun. Shooting them was a waste of bulletsâthey were out of the battle, out of the war. They were useless as soldiers, little more than dead men waited to be buried.
Jing Yo almost wanted to warn them, to tell them to get down. One by one, they started to go down. At first, Jing Yo thought they had been caught by stray bullets. Then he saw Han firing from the top of the tower, squeezing off single bullets.
A Vietnamese soldier lying in the field a few dozen meters away rose, bringing up his gun to target Han. Jing Yo aimed his own weapon, taking the enemy soldier in the side of the head.
Blood spurted as the bone shattered like a piece of overripe fruit.
The shelling stopped so abruptly that Jing Yo didn't realize at first what had happened. He turned back, disoriented. Then he remembered Ai Gua. Fearing the worst, he began moving cautiously in the direction where he'd last seen him.
Someone shouted to him on his left.
“Halt!”
The command was in Chinese.
Jing Yo turned. Four men, guns ready, were standing ten yards away.
“I am Lieutenant Jing Yo,” he said loudly. “Chinese commandos.”
“Lieutenant!” Ai Gua rose and waved on his right.
The four soldiers eyed him warily.
“We have taken the tower,” he told the men. “Get your commanderâthe tower is secure.”
Bangkok
Peter Lucas had met Jimmy Choi
only once, and then for only a few minutes in an airport lounge, but the meeting had burned an indelible image of the South Korean mercenary into his brain. He saw him now as Jimmy spoke over the phone, his voice a sharp rasp, his English clipped and slangy. In Lucas's mind's eye, Jimmy had a gold buzz cut, a day-old beard, a gold chain dangling over the dragon's claw tattoo at the apex of
his breastbone. He was dressed in a precisely tailored black suit, with an open white shirt, tails out. He was slouching and grinning.
Jimmy
was
chewing somethingâprobably a cigar, given his affection for Habanos. He was drinking something tooâLucas had finally tracked him down in a bar in Mandalay, Myanmar.
“Peteâwhat can I do to the CIA today?” asked Jimmy.
“I need help in Vietnam.”
“Bad place to be right now,” said Jimmy.
“What are you drinking, Jimmy?”
“Shirley Temple. Yes?” The mercenary laughed.
“I have somebody I need to get out. They're far north, near the border.”
“Ho-hoâvery expensive proposition.”
“Can you do it?”
“Where we go?”
“Up near the Chinese border. Somewhere near Lao Cai. I don't know exactly where yet. I'll have the information in the next twenty-four hours.”
Jimmy didn't answer for a second. Lucas heard the ice in his glass clinking.
“Lao Cai very interesting place,” said Jimmy, exhaling as he smoked his cigar. “Too much interest for me.”
“The person I need to get is not in Lao Cai. He's in the area near there.”
“Even
more
interesting. Ho-ho, Uncle Pete, you have one very expensive problem on your hand.”
Lucas decided to try a different tack. You couldn't threaten a man like Jimmy Choi directly; he would surely stand up to anyone who seemed to bully him. But you could hint that his future would become, as Jimmy liked to put it, “interesting” if he didn't do what you wanted.
“What are you doing, Jimmy? Working for that drug dealer again?”
“Ho-ho, I am on vacation.”
“Yeah, right. Mandalay is quite the vacation spot. Who were you hired to assassinate?”
“Ha-ha, Uncle Pete, you are so funny. You should come here and keep me company. The tables are hot.”
“Since when do you gamble?”
“I gamble every day. Not with money.” Jimmy laughed at his joke and took another draw on his cigar, a long one. Lucas saw him smiling.
“I can get a plane to meet you in Laos,” offered Lucas.
“Ho-ho, no thank you. I do my own transportation. I own two planes now.”
“Business is that good, huh?”
“Oh, you pay for it. Always pay.”
He might have added,
through the nose.
When they got to the point, it turned out Jimmy wanted five million dollars.
Park had authorized five hundred thousand.
“I might be able to swing one million,” said Lucas. “But I don't know.”
“One millionâha! I cannot find Vietnam on a map for one million dollar. Let alone Lao Cai.”
“What if we paid it to one of your Chinese bank accounts?” said Lucas. “Denoted in Chinese currency?”
“China money not very good. Much inflation. Maybe we try euro?”
“Inflation is never a problem for a man like you, Jimmyâyou spend it before you get it. The equivalent of one million dollars, in yuan, ten percent up front, the rest on delivery.”
Jimmy Choi laughed. “You hack into account and steal it when we done?”
“If I did that, Jimmy, you'd never let me sleep in peace.”
“You got that right, buster.” Jimmy laughed.
They negotiated a bit moreâthe mercenary wanted the money figured in euros and deposited in a South African bank, not even admitting that he had accounts in China. He was not particular what currency the transaction originated in, as long as the fee was sufficient to cover any currency charges.
“And expenses,” said Jimmy just as Lucas was about to conclude that they had a deal.
“Screw you. Your expenses come out of your share.”
“Gas very expensive today,” said Jimmy. “I see markets going crazy as we speak. We work out compromise. You give Jimmy your credit card number and everyone relaxes.”
Â
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Convincing Park to okay the one million dollars
wasn't easy. Lucas wasn't sure whether he was really worried about the moneyâwhich would have been uncharacteristicâor if he was having second thoughts on the whole enterprise. Finally, his boss agreed.
“But no results, no money.”
“That's why I'm only paying him ten percent up front,” said Lucas.
“What's going on in Hanoi?” asked Park.
Two of the agency's three officers were in Saigon; the other was filing reports every half hour. Their statusâmore specifically, the question of who was leaking information to the Vietnameseâhad been put on hold temporarily. But Lucas was still being very careful about what information they would receive: they hadn't been told about the mission, and wouldn't be.
“I expect that they'll find out at some point,” Lucas told his boss. “We may never really know the entire story there.”
Park said nothing. Lucas knew he was in the process of setting up an elaborate and time-consuming trap to test each officer; it could take weeks or even months to figure out what was really going on. The alternative was to flush all three careers, which Park clearly didn't want to do.
“What's going on in the city?” he asked. “The airport is completely out of commission?”
“There were still fires burning there fifteen minutes ago. Power is still on, there and down in the capital, but the landlines are down. The cell system is still up; the military is using it as an alternative. They've shut down all the servers they know aboutâthe last independent blogger went offline just before I called.”
“Do you think they can stop China?”
“How do you stop the ocean?” said Lucas.