Free Shadows of War by Larry Bond Page A

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.
    â€œMake 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.
    â€œAre you looking for a new wardrobe?” asked Sergeant Wu behind him.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œSomething wrong, Lieutenant?” asked Private Ai Gua.
    â€œMaybe he saw a ghost,” said Sergeant Wu, laughing.

    Neither private joined in. Both men, Jing Yo knew, were deeply superstitious.
    â€œThe 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.
    Josh found another path heading east at the top of the hill. As he began down it, a large animal darted to the left, running