Shadows of War Read Free Page B

racing from the dragon’s claws.
    An odd man, to be able to move so quietly, under such control at one moment, only to panic the next. Jing Yo could understand both control and panic, but not together.
    His own failing, perhaps. A limit of imagination.
    Sergeant Fan fired again. Jing Yo turned to confront the sergeant. This time there was no reason not to speak freely; on the contrary, the circumstances called for it, as the sergeant had not only been careless but disobeyed his direct order.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” demanded Jing Yo.
    â€œI had a shot. He’s going—”
    Jing Yo snapped the assault gun from the sergeant’s hand. Stunned, and wheezing from his exertion, Fan raised his hands, as if to surrender.
    â€œSergeant, when I give an order, I expect it to be followed. We want the man alive. I said that very specifically. When we return to camp, you will gather your things and report to division. Understood?”
    Without waiting for an answer, he spun back to the pursuit.
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    Josh didn’t hear the water until he was almost upon it. His first thought was that he would race through it—the soft sound made him picture a shallow brook coursing down the side of the mountain. Then he thought he would wade down it, throwing the men off his trail.
    With his second step, he plunged in above his knee. Josh twisted to
the left, but he’d already lost his balance. He spun and landed on his back. Everything was a blur. This was no gentle, babbling brook. Josh fell under the water, bumped back to the surface, then found himself swirling out of control in the current. He flailed wildly, rolling with the water, spinning and alternately sinking and rising up, thrown into a confused maelstrom, gripped by the ice-cold water. He felt dead; no, beyond dead, sent to the frozen waste of some Asian afterlife as a doomed soul forced to endure eternal tortures.
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    Jing Yo pulled his handheld from his pocket and punched the GPS preset. The stream did not exist on the map, the cartographers not able to keep up with changes wrought by the rapid climate shifts. Snow in these mountains was a rare occurrence as late as 2008, when a one-inch snowfall in February made headlines. Now the mountain averaged nearly a foot and a half in winter, most of it in late January, a product of shifting wind, moisture, and thermal patterns. The snowmelt produced the stream, and Jing Yo supposed that the streambed would be rock dry or at best a trickle within a few weeks.
    Right now, though, it was as treacherous as any Jing Yo knew from his native province of Xinjiang Uygur, where such seasonal streams had existed since the beginning of time.
    â€œHe fell in,” said Ai Gua. “He is a dead man.”
    Between the swift current and the frigid temperature, Ai Gua’s prediction was probably correct. On the other hand, it was just possible that he had made it to the other side.
    Jing Yo turned to Sergeant Fan. “Sergeant, take Ai Gua with you and head upstream. See if you can find a good place to cross. Then come back west. Private Po will come with me. This time, do not fire except under my direct order. No one is to fire,” Jing Yo repeated. “No one.”
    Jing Yo began walking to the west, paralleling the bank of the stream. The water cut a haphazard channel, at some points swallowing trees, giving them a wide berth at others. It moved downhill, curving into an almost straight line within thirty meters of the spot where they believed their target had gone in.
    Jing Yo took the rifle from Private Po, then stepped into the current where he could get a good view downstream. Ignoring the chill that ran up his legs, he moved carefully in the loose stones and mud. Within three steps the water came to his knees. Its pull was strong, trying to
push him down; he tilted his entire body against it as he raised the rifle and its sight to see.
    The heat of a body should show up clearly if on the