by Simon Wood
Nui Ba Den, Vietnam, 1969
This is not war, he thought; it’s murder.
The first killer crouched silently along one side of the well-worn trail. His face was painted dark green with intersecting black lines to blend into the jungle. He had a razor sharp SOG Bowie knife, which he held at his side in his right hand, just slightly out in front.
The warm air was heavy with humidity. There were intermittent clouds letting through only occasional star and moonlight. A gray mist was discernible swirling lazily in the darkness about a foot or two off the ground. The whole area was shadows, dense with jungle foliage.
There was a small village up ahead about a half kilometer from his location. He could smell the wood smoke from the morning cook fires mixed in with stale odors of cattle dung and swine wallowing in their pens. He had been in-country for two tours now, much of that time spent out in the bush, and to him the smell was not unpleasant—was in fact comforting.
He concentrated on the sounds around him, the buzzing of insects and the calls of birds, the occasional howl of monkeys waking off in the distant trees.
It was early morning, probably somewhere between 3:30 and 4:00 AM. He could feel the temperature beginning to climb even though the sun was still at least a full hour from starting its rise. His fatigues clung to his body, heavy with sweat and dew from the plants he had brushed against as he moved slowly and quietly through the jungle.
He heard a soft, sharp hiss from just up ahead on the other side of the trail. It was a signal from the other killer, who also waited crouching silently in the dark.
Someone was coming.
He slowed his breathing and looked down at the ground, not wanting any light from a break in the dark clouded sky to reflect off his eyes.
He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut tight for a second and tried to concentrate on the three essential elements that could mean the difference between life and death.
Speed. Precision. Surprise.
Faint footsteps approached in the distance. The target was supposedly a VC courier that the spooks had identified. This was his preferred route, the time and day supplied by informants.
A supposed VC courier.
Shit. He tried to clear his mind.
The steps were rhythmic and measured. Not hurried at all, but not exactly cautious either. Not yet at least. Probably thinking he was still safe this close to the village.
The killer’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his knife.
This is not war; it’s murder.
That thought again, the words like a whisper echoed softly in his head.
The footsteps became more discernible as the man approached. The killer could sense more than hear the soft padding of sandals on the jungle floor, the occasional rustle of vegetation being gently pushed aside.
He had done this before. He had killed from ambush, up close and personal, with his hands, his knife, silent and deadly. He was good at it. He had done it willingly, with no remorse or regrets, understanding that it was necessary. Had even trained other men to do it.
But things had changed.
The target was getting closer.
He stood slowly, careful not to make any sound, and nestled up close to the trunk of a large Hopea tree that sat right in front of him just off the trail. He could now clearly hear the footsteps, and he put his face close to the tree, his nose almost touching, eyes open. He could smell the damp, living wood, see small ants and other insects crawling along its bark in the darkness.
The footsteps stopped. The target was standing perhaps ten or so meters away. Why had he stopped? Did he see or hear something? Could he intuit the danger he was in?
The killer waited, not breathing. He had a sidearm, his M1911 if needed, but that would alert the whole village making their evac from the area dicey. He was not alone; the killer had a small team of men to think about. He would rather eliminate the target by hand.
There was no sound for perhaps ten seconds; ten long seconds. The footsteps began again, one tentative step, then another, and then one after the other more rhythmically, though certainly more slowly than before.
He waited, still not breathing, for the man to pass. Then, in one quick motion, he stepped out from behind the tree, reached around the man’s head and cupped his left hand tightly over the smaller man’s mouth, pulled back hard and drew the blade of his knife across the man’s exposed throat.
The man kicked and tried to scream, but the killer held tight to his head, pulling it hard to his chest, squeezing his face to muffle the noise. He could feel warm blood squirting onto his hand; hear it as it splattered like gentle raindrops on the leaves and trees and bushes all around him. He had a sudden recollection of the very first person he had killed like this, another small man in black pajamas along another trail. It had been daylight that time and he was amazed at how much blood there was, how it had squirted like a small fountain as he watched it splattering the trees several feet from where the man had fought and died there in his arms.
The struggle didn’t last long. He slowly brought the man down to the ground, blood gurgling and streaming down his chest still, but no longer squirting as it did before. He kept his hand over the man’s mouth but began to relax his grip.
He heard another soft, sharp hiss from up the trail. He sheathed his knife and quietly drew his sidearm from the holster at his side, never fully letting up the pressure on the target’s mouth.
He was in the trail, right in the middle of it, and someone was coming. The footsteps approached quickly, like someone running, no regard to avoiding the branches and leaves along the trail, not trying at all to move silently through the jungle.
He kept one hand on the dying man’s mouth and raised the gun with the other, sighting it down the trail from where the noise was coming.
Clouds were moving overhead, and a small break allowed moonlight to shine through. The trail was suddenly illuminated in a soft glow.
Shit.
Too late to move and nowhere to go. He waited.
A small child suddenly appeared, a little Vietnamese girl. She ran along the trail directly toward him, head up. She saw the killer, gun straight out and pointed at her small head. She stopped dead in her tracks.
He heard a gasp, a sharp intake of breath. The child’s eyes were shining; he saw them sparkle in the moonlight. She opened her mouth, perhaps to scream, and a hand shot out of the jungle grabbing her hair, pulling her small head back. Another hand, quick, a flash of shiny metal, and then she stood there, wobbling slightly, making a gurgling sound as blood began to sputter out her throat, around her chin, running down her small chest saturating and staining her blouse dark black in the moon’s pale light.
A man stepped out of the jungle. He carried an M16 rifle in one hand, a knife in the other. It was his partner in the killer squad. He stepped carefully past the bleeding child. He turned and faced the first killer. The man with the M16 smiled and nodded, knelt down and slid the bloody knife back into the sheath on his right leg and then turned and faced back down the trail, his M16 at the ready to guard their evac out of the area.
The killer held the gun steady, still pointing down the trail.
The child swayed once, then fell face first onto the trail.
This is not war, he thought; it’s murder.
Without thinking, he took careful aim at the man with the M16 guarding their flank. Then he pulled the trigger.
RECOLLECTION
New Jersey, Present Day
Bill watched his Uncle Frank, standing there a few feet away wearing jeans and a black, short-sleeved T-shirt. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon in early April, the sun was out, and the temperature hovered right around 60 degrees.
Jacket weather thought Bill absently, not T-shirt weather
“Why don’t you put that gun down, Uncle Frank? There’s a rack right over there. Come and sit down for a few minutes. We’ve got to wait for these guys to finish up.”
Uncle Frank stepped a little closer to where Bill sat, the old Fox double barrel shotgun hanging business end down in his left hand.
“I’m all right holding it, Billy. You know I don’t like to put my weapon down.”
“Why, you think someone is going to take that old shotgun home with him?” He said it with a smile.
Uncle Frank shook his head slightly, and then looked out at the other shooters taking their turns on the line.
“Aren’t you cold? I’ve got an extra sweatshirt in the truck.”
Uncle Frank took a small step closer to Bill. “Where I live, this is like summer. You never came up to visit us too close to either side of winter. When I left home three days ago, it was 16 degrees in the sun, and that’s no lie. Had what we call a warm spell. This, heck, this is downright balmy. I’m going to head home all tan and tell people I just came back from a tropical vacation.” He smiled his easy smile, and it made Bill feel good to see it.
Bill didn’t see his uncle often. Less and less it seemed, as they both got older. Frank was nearing 70, though he could pass for 10 years younger. He was tall, about six-one, with broad shoulders, salt and pepper hair that was still relatively thick, and arms that looked fit and strong. He had the beginnings of an old-man paunch around the belly that Bill was sure was a testament to his aunt’s hearty cooking. Well, his late aunt. Bill, now in his early 40s with a wife and two growing boys, just didn’t have the time to travel up to Maine, where his reclusive uncle seemed to have always lived with his wife.
Frank’s wife of more than 45 years had passed away several weeks earlier. No one knew she had died until Uncle Frank called Bill two days after she was put in the ground. Said he didn’t want a big thing made of it, people driving or flying up to that little town where he lived up in the wilds of Maine. He had asked Bill to let the rest of the family know that Aunt Sadie had passed, explain how things were, ask folks not to call him for a while, let him settle in. Bill had offered to drive up with his wife and the boys, stay with him for a few days, but Uncle Frank had declined. Said he needed a little space and some time alone to get used to things. Said not to worry, he was fine.
But Bill had worried.
The loud reports of the shotguns stopped abruptly. The five shooters began picking up their spent plastic shell casings and dumping them into buckets scattered along the shooting stations and then made their way back off the trap field to where Bill and his uncle waited along with three other shooters they did not know who would round out their set.
“Looks like we’re up, Uncle Frank.”
Bill slipped a box of 25 neatly stacked target loads into a small ammo basket that he had purchased at a Dick’s Sporting Goods store last year. The little basket was made to hold one box of shotgun shells and had a belt loop for securing it tight to your waist making it easy to reach and to reload. He watched with amusement as his uncle ripped open his box and began stuffing shells into the pockets of his jeans. When his box was empty, Uncle Frank’s pockets bulged to about bursting.
“You gonna be able to walk with all those shells stuffed in there like that?”
“You mind your own business, Billy Boy. It’s not the fancy gun or the pretty ammo basket knocks down those birds. It’s the man behind the trigger.” He gave a smile and a wink, and they headed to their positions on the shooting line.
They shot three rounds. Bill hit 17 of 25 on the first round, then 15, and then 19. Frank hit 13 the first round, then began feeling more comfortable with the old Fox as he got reacquainted with it and hit 22 and then 23 in the final round.
After picking up the spent shells and dumping them into the buckets, they went back to the bench. Bill laid his Beretta semi-auto in the rack and began loading his protective shooting glasses, ammo basket and noise suppression headphones into his bag. Uncle Frank stood a little ways off and pulled out the foam plugs he had stuffed into his ears with his right hand while holding onto his old Fox with his left. He threw the plugs into the large garbage can and stood watching the men who were shooting or milling about behind the firing lines waiting their turns.
When they had finished gathering their things, they walked over to the field house. Bill went inside to pay for the six rounds of trap they had shot. There were chairs and tables on the porch of the field house, and Frank waited in one of them watching their gear. When Bill returned from inside, he found a hot cup of coffee waiting for him. His uncle was sipping from a can of Coke. Bill sat down and sipped his coffee. It felt good going down, taking away some of the chill of the day even though Bill was wearing a thick sweatshirt. Frank seemed totally unbothered by the temperature as he sat with his big hand wrapped around his frosty can of soda.
“You really started knocking them down after that first round. What were you doing, using both barrels?” Bill looked over at Frank. Frank answered without turning to look back at him, instead staring straight ahead at the men shooting.
“I should have used both barrels. My eyes, they’re not what they used to be. That gun, the old Fox, it’s nice. I bought that before you were born. It’s gotta be over 50 years old now. Used to use it when I went hunting with your father, when we were young. Haven’t shot it in years. The old guns, they made them out of higher quality metal back then. That’s why they last.”
“It’s a beautiful gun. My dad used to tell me about that gun, about when you and he went hunting and sometimes you’d load up both barrels with double ought to take down a rabbit. Said there’d be nothing left but scraps of bloody fur.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Thought it was funny then, not so much anymore.”
“You still hunt?”
“No, I lost my taste for killing things a while back. Was pretty good at it for a long time though. Always enjoyed the stalking part, the tracking, the waiting. Never really liked pulling the trigger. But when I did kill, I tried always to harvest what I could. What we didn’t eat, we gave to neighbors or donated to those less fortunate.”
“Except those rabbits, I guess,” Bill said it with a smile.
“Yeah, except maybe those rabbits.” Frank didn’t smile back.
“I thought you still went on those trips with Aunt Sadie’s side of the family. Didn’t you tell me that you went to hunting camp with them last year? Geez, I remember going with you and Dad when I was just a kid.”
“Well, that camp has changed some since you were there. We built a cabin about ten or so years ago. Put up one of those prefab log jobs. Real nice, ran electric and everything, keep a small gas generator in back so they can actually heat the place, plug in lights and a radio and such. And yeah, I still go. But I don’t hunt. I keep camp; you know, do the cooking and make sure those boys don’t drink. Hell, it’s dangerous enough traipsing around in the woods with all of those tourists during the hunting season. I know you’ve read about them getting all excited and shooting someone’s cow thinking they’re bagging a moose or something. Those stories are true. I know some people paint the word cow on the side of their livestock in big white letters, just to let them know. Still lose animals every year.”
“Wow, that’s funny.”
“Pathetic more like it.”
Bill noticed that even though his uncle was talking to him, his eyes were on something or someone out in one of the trap fields.
“What are you looking at? You see someone you know?”
Uncle Frank stood up, grabbed his shotgun off the rack with his left hand, and then reached over and grabbed Bill’s shotgun with his right.
“Let’s head back, Billy. I just got a chill.”
Without another word, he turned and began walking briskly toward the steps that led to the lot where Bill’s 2011 Jeep Cherokee was parked.
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Northern California, sometime around 2010…
CHAPTER ONE
Kyle saw the opened school envelope on the counter as soon as he stepped inside the trailer. He wasn’t surprised. Once Ronnie said Deke was looking for him, he knew he was in trouble. The only time his cousin Deke ever looked for him was when he was in trouble, which seemed to be more and more of late. Fist fights. Meetings with counselors. Write-ups and detentions. Since he stopped going to school, Kyle had been smart enough to sneak back to the trailer and get the mail before Deke did. Today he’d gotten distracted, too stoned on the Highway. Of course the first day he missed the mailman, the letter would come. Just his luck.
For the past three weeks Kyle had left the trailer every morning like he was going to school. Didn’t matter if Deke was already gone for the day or that neighbors up here didn’t talk to each other, the little shacks and sheds buried among the Northern California redwoods spread too far apart to invite much company. Kyle wanted to keep up the routine. Wake up, brush teeth, eat cereal, put back the milk. Then he’d disappear into the woods to pedal his old bicycle down to the Highway. Sell a dime bag from Deke’s stash at the Ironside, the biker bar up the road, hang with the older skater dudes behind the strip mall, wait till Ronnie got home from class. Kyle knew everyone would blame his recent behavior on the pot. But pot really had nothing to do with it. Up in Humboldt County everyone started smoking the stuff. Eventually. And smoking wasn’t the cause of his problems—smoking was the result of his problems, a way to cope—he remembered that from an assembly last fall. The truth was something inside him had broken. Just short of his sixteenth birthday, Kyle couldn’t explain what that something was, not to teachers or Ronnie, certainly not Deke. Kyle’s life had been rough since his dad dropped him off on his cousin’s doorstep. Kyle had always been moody; at least that’s what Deke called it. If having two emotions—sad and angry—constituted moody. If Kyle didn’t say anything, kept his head down, he could withdraw deep into himself. Survive the day. Which was the better of the two options. Because anytime he tried to express himself, these feelings he had, it ended bad. Pushed hard enough, he’d lash out. Because Kyle wasn’t a big kid, that usually ended up with his ass kicked. But he wasn’t chickenshit or scared to throw a punch. That’s the one thing living with Deke had taught him. Better to get pounded than be thought a coward.
