“VC,” Tong screamed at the Americans.

Helen was on automatic, shooting f/8 at 250, everything inside her shut down, no fumbling, just cold, clear, and mechanical. She didn’t realize for the first moment-face behind the viewfinder, vision constricted-that now Tong was shouting and flailing his arms in her direction. He strode over and stood a few feet away from her, aiming his gun straight at her forehead. She fell backward, still in a crouch, framed the muzzle and his apoplectic face above it in the viewfinder, the gold incisors flashing in the sun, and kept shooting. Captain Tong, bent in half, waved the gun wildly in one hand, screamed, and the other Vietnamese soldiers ran over to form a half circle of menace behind him.

She heard Captain Olsen’s voice, a long-forgotten presence, behind her, yelling back at Captain Tong, each in a different language, neither understanding the other.

On a high, Helen kept shooting for what seemed like an eternity but was probably less than a minute. Captain Olsen, still behind her, still yelling over her head, took out his own gun. At that signal the American soldiers jumped up and formed behind him. Olsen took several steps forward, and in one bear-like swipe of his arm knocked the revolver out of Tong’s hand. The screaming continued, Helen kept shooting, frozen to the camera-the tendons in Tong’s neck bulging, his face purpled. The film ended, nothing to do but remain frozen on her knees, camera to her eye, afraid to move. If she removed the protection of the camera’s body so that it no longer shielded her face, she was sure she would be killed. In the far distance, the blowing of a water buffalo could be heard, which meant that Tong had finally quieted. He kicked at the dirt in front of Helen, sending dust flying into her face, spat at her, and turned away.

“Mother of Christ,” Olsen said, grabbing Helen by both arms, dragging her back. “Are you crazy? Trying to get us fucking killed? By our allies?”

All she could think was how unafraid she felt. How gloriously unafraid. “That old grandfather was not VC.”

“Radio for a helicopter now!” Olsen screamed to the radioman. “You are out of here.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” She was thrilled by what she had just done, and it was inconceivable that she would be dismissed.

“Everyone, move out front.”

Away from the Vietnamese soldiers and Tong, Olsen calmed down. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“It’s not fair to send me out.”

“Look, he’s a slimy little bastard. But he’s our bastard. You made him lose face. I can’t vouch that they won’t stage a little ‘accident’ to get you.”

Helen sat on the ground and held her head in her hands. Suddenly thirst was killing her. “Can I have a little water?”

Olsen slapped his thigh. “I don’t want my guys getting killed defending you.”

“Fine. Okay. Water.” The idea of going, against her will, didn’t seem quite as bad as a moment before. She had film to develop.

“Look, you’re one crazy bao chi, okay? You can come back out with me some other time.”

“Put it in writing.”

“I know.” He laughed. “I know you will.”

Despite the heat, Helen shivered, the skin on her arms full of goose bumps, as the helicopter flew her back to Tan Son Nhut. So drained from the patrol and her sleepless night that the danger of the incident with Tong still seemed unreal. Her fatigues were mud-encrusted and smelled; her hair a knotted ponytail; she was proud of herself.

The crew chief gave her a thumbs-up and passed her a flask, and she took a long drink of whiskey, drank it down like water, only the good burning sensation down her throat registering. They flew high above the jungle canopy, out of reach of danger, and Helen wished the flight would never end, that they would never have to come down and touch earth again.

When she got out of the helicopter, Robert was waiting for her in a taxi. “Tell me everything. Olsen already radioed the incident in. I’m writing the story while the photos are developed. The package needs to be couriered to Hong Kong ASAP. The censors will never transmit it out.”

She stood in the darkroom, the size of a closet, bumping her head on shelves filled with plastic chemical bottles, watching Arnie, the wire’s office manager, develop the film. He said it was too important to let her or the assistants do it. Arnie was potbellied and married, his wife and kids back home in London. The office’s assortment of freelancers were his misfit orphans. He had spent a lot of time explaining composition technique to Helen.

“You’re catching on, damn it!”

The pictures were properly framed and shot, a whole sequence from alive to dead villager, and then a muzzle below the outraged face of Captain Tong, the end of the gun pointed straight at the camera and the person behind it.

Looking at the pictures, Helen broke out in shivers again, seeing what had been invisible before, a devouring shade as if a cloud had passed before the sun-the mystery she was chasing, the one she’d glimpsed at MacCrae’s funeral. Now she understood what he’d said to her that night: that the mystery came in its own language to each person, and you had to decipher it on your own. She had been so scared at the moment she might as well have been blind.

“Too bad,” Arnie said. “This kind of work under pressure. Incredible. So good they’re probably going to throw you out of the country, and I’ll lose another promising photographer.”

“They’re good?” The tension in her body unspooling fast now.

“I wouldn’t have believed it without seeing them. But I talked to the office in New York, who said if they were half as good as they sounded, they’d think over offering you a full-time job with the wire service.”

“Are they half as good?” Part of the dread those last few months had been the fear that she was incapable of doing what she had come for, that she would be found lacking. As a freelancer, she could stay out as long as it took to get a shot. Captain Tong had just happened, her actions unpremeditated. Now would she feel the pressure to take such risks again and again?

“Two hundred percent as good. I might even have to give you a raise to thirty per shot. Don’t get greedy.”

She frowned. “They can’t throw me out now, can they?”

“They can. They’ve done it to others.”

“Okay.” That was enough for now.

“I agreed to share the pics with Life. If that’s okay by you. They can print the whole series in next week’s issue. That philistine, Gary, pays a bit more than we do. You can actually survive on what they pay.”

Helen nodded, unhearing, and left the darkroom for the office’s tepid air-conditioning and lumpy couch. She stretched out and plunged into a dreamless sleep.

That night Helen met Robert in the bar of the hotel. He was a little bit amazed and a little bit delighted but mostly afraid for her.

The tables were crowded, spilling out along the sidewalk. The city’s electricity had gone out, and the room was lit by oil lamps, opening out onto the dark street. After her night out in the rain, the city felt luxurious even in the dark in a way no city had ever felt before. Waiters floated between the tables with small flashlights. Everything seemed uniquely fine. She felt at ease, perfectly in the moment. The danger of the incident with Tong faded into the background, and all that was left was her shining invincibility.

A bottle of champagne appeared, and the old Vietnamese bartender in his white coat opened it with great ceremony, nestling it in a bucket on the corner of the bar. Robert and she toasted, and at her insistence, the bartender joined them for a glass. Ed and some of the other journalists came by and stopped to congratulate her.

Matt Tanner came and stood behind her. He was a recent ex-Marine who had re-upped so many times the joke was that the Marines had finally thrown him out. The rumor was that he simply loved war too much and brought his bloodlust along with him to journalism. He was always competitive when another reporter did well, as if they were stealing his chance at glory. When he was jealous and drunk, which he was at present, his face thinned to an even more wolflike aspect.