by Barry Sadler
The feel of the cool bronze beneath his aged and wrinkled hands gave him comfort, and, slowly rocking back and forth as children and old men will do, he dreamed of centuries gone, of empires risen and fallen. For the old man, this dream never ended, and almost without knowing it, he joined his memories.
Late in the afternoon of the same day, Shan received word that the equipment from America had arrived at the airport on base. Picking up the direct line to the safe house, he called Casey. The phone rang twice before George picked it up, mumbling something unintelligible in his native dialect. Shan swore at him in English, and George laughed.
"I didn't know that you spoke Bihar, Chinaman." Shan retorted, "I don't, you dog!"
George chuckled and replied. "Then how could you repeat exactly what I said to you, Major?"
Major Shan turned livid with rage.
"Wait one minute, Major. Here is Trung Si Casey now." After handing the phone to Casey, George fell over laughing.
Casey could still hear Shan cursing over the phone. He held the receiver away from his ear and yelled in to the mouthpiece. "Stop yelling, Major. It's me, Romain."
Major Shan's voice toned down to a muted choking. "Mr. Romain, I have had about all I can endure of you and your men's vulgar behavior. This is your last warning. Contract or no contract, if you or one of your beasts gives me any more trouble, you will not have to worry about getting into Cambodia, for you will never leave Taiwan. Do I make myself clear to you, absolutely clear? Mr. Romain, do you understand me?"
He was almost screaming now, and his raving reminded Casey of Li Tsao's adamant rage and yelling, when she'd tried to offer her body for his secret of life. When he'd refused, she'd screamed at him in rage and had him buried alive. It was a page in his life that he'd tried desperately to forget. He had a great fear of tight places. What was it the Americans called it? Claustrophobia? That had been one hell of an experience.
Casey took a deep breath and got back to the business at hand. Boy, was the major pissed off! He adopted a conciliatory tone in his reply to the major's tirade.
"Take it easy, Major. You know George is too dumb to mean anything derogatory. He's just a poor ignorant savage."
Shan quieted down. "Perhaps," he said, "what you say is true. But what I just told you is true. Do not try my patience any further, either of you." The flat tone of Shan's voice told Casey that the man was not fooling around. It would be best to cool it.
"Okay, Major, no more games. All business now. What do you want?"
"Your equipment has arrived, Mr. Romain. It shall be delivered to your location this evening. As soon as I hang up the phone, I will dispatch the signal plane toward Sou Phang's headquarters. When they are within his range, they will transmit the signal to warn him of the departure. It would appear to me, Mr. Romain, that you and your whatever they are can plan on being in the air and out of my sight within ten days' time. I do not have to tell you the results if you fail in this mission, do I? The Khmer Rouge are exceedingly unpleasant to unexpected guests."
"Very good," replied Casey. "I read you five by five. No mistakes, and no ties whether win or lose. Anything else, Major?"
"No, Mr. Romain, that is all. Good night."
Casey hung up his end of the phone and turned to Van and George. "Gentlemen, it's a definite go. The equipment has arrived from the States and will be here shortly. We crap out early tonight and get an early start tomorrow."
George and Van offered no comment. Without anything being added, they knew the party was over. From here on out, the name of the game was professionalism.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dawn rose gray and foggy, with a light mist chilling the air. Casey roused his men. A light breakfast of rice and boiled duck eggs started their day, along with coffee and tea: good Chinese tea so hot that it almost scalded the mouth if one was not careful.
Chow finished, each man went to his room and took out his own equipment. Casey's instructions upon the arrival of Shan's cargo from the States had been to check their individual gear prior to checking the skyhook rigs.
Van opened a custom made case and removed a German made G 3 assault rifle, 7.62 NATO, semi or fully automatic. It was capable of four hundred fifty rounds per minute and extremely accurate for a military weapon, firing from a closed bolt. It was an extrapolation of the World War II German MP 44 45 assault rifle, the Sturmgewehr. A small attache case held not only the telescopic sight for the piece but also a special attachment that had cost dearly, a silencer stolen from the Spanish secret police, who also used this rifle but manufactured it as the Cetme. Van had bought the weapon last year from a defecting Spanish agent who held no love for the current regime and needed some travel money. Casey had schooled him well in its use. Van was still puzzled at Casey's knowledge of weapons of German origin. Where had the man learned so much?
In the adjoining room, George was busily cleaning his own piece, a Savage automatic shotgun, the type used by most prison guards in the United States, Casey had informed him. But this one had a perforated cooling jacket around the barrel and a bayonet attachment. George had become fond of this type of weapon while serving with the Special Forces up in II Corps. The effect that the 12 gauge double 00 buckshot had on the human body was amazing. Coupled with the special twenty round magazines Casey had made for him, it gave the weapon a personality of its own. You could hit an elephant in the ass with it and knock his brains out. This piece, and the modified machete, or short sword, depending on how you looked at it, made this small, wiry combination of sinew and cartilage as deadly as a tree cobra.
Casey Romain laid out his gear carefully, separating each piece, examining it in turn, and setting it aside: a Swedish "K" submachine gun, 9 mm caliber, ten magazines of ammo, an additional two hundred fifty rounds in boxes, one bayonet, and a survival kit. Rations consisted of dehydrated chow and soups. These, along with a small sack of rice, would last a week and weighed no more than three pounds. Two collapsible canteens, each with a two quart capacity, for one got very thirsty in the jungle. Changes of socks, since a man's feet could start to rot in three days if he wore the same pair without changing. Boots, the canvas sided GI jungle boots from Nam with the steel plates removed from the soles. They gave him blisters, and besides, he didn't think there'd be a problem with mines or punji stakes at this late date.
Casey took out his pride and joy from the final box: a WWH Kraut MG 34 light machine gun, lightweight and with a cyclic rate of fire as yet unmatched as far as he was concerned. It could fire from both belt and a side mounted drum. A beautiful gun no wasted metal and as accurate as anything ever produced. He would carry this one on the mission. It had been re-chambered to the ammo of the NATO 7.62; that way, Van's ammo and his machine gun would be as one. The LMG and the box of rifle grenades were his heavy armaments. He recalled his first introduction to the piece he was holding, or at least one identical to it. His name had been Langer then, and it had been four decades ago. Instead of Van and George, his comrades in arms had been called Teacher and Gus. Damn, he still missed them at times. He could still see Teacher's face in his memory now: the waxy paleness, the trembling of his hands as he had unslung the Schmiesser and said good bye to Langer, staying behind as he desired and throwing his life into the destruction of the hated SS killers. And Gus? He'd disappeared in a village near Johannesburg during a hellish barrage of Russian artillery. Gus Beidemann. He looked more like a panther than a man, could fart on command, and could drink Russian vodka faster than the bastards could distill it. It had been good to find him still alive and kicking at the training camp in Sidi Slimane, serving with others of the Reich who had taken refuge in the legion. Only once more after the legion had they fought together on a private mission, but even that seemed a long time ago. He placed the memory back where it belonged and returned the LMG to its container.
Shortly before noon that day, each man had finished going over his gear. Everything had been checked out, cleaned, and put in readiness. Lives had been lost, th
ey were all aware, because of broken shoelaces. Nothing could be left to chance.
Van and George entered Casey's room when he called. Smiling, he gave each a supply of quarter grain syrettes of morphine. "Don't use these unless absolutely necessary, or I may have to get more from our favorite dope pusher, Mr. Ling."
Van grinned slyly. "Trung Si, when this one is over, and before we retire, if we do, you do know that one of us is going to have to kill Ling K'ai, don't you?"
Casey nodded as Van continued. "I would consider it a great honor and a personal favor if you would allow me the pleasure of terminating the existence of that piece of filth."
Casey looked closely at his friend. "I know you're right, Van, but I had planned on snuffing him myself. But why should I have all the fun? Okay, he's yours when we get back, under one condition. You take George along, and you try nothing tricky. You just take him out. The bastard is smart, and if you should miss, he'll be on our asses like ugly on an ape. So don't screw with him. Is all your gear checked out?" He looked from one to the other, and they both nodded. "Good! Let's take it easy for the rest of the day; then we'll start checking the pickup equipment in the morning. It's too damned hot out in the garden to do it this afternoon. We'll have to spread the balloons out and check them for leaks, the pressure on the helium, and all that crap. We got our work cut out for us while Phang moves his men up the Mekong. Now, out of my room, you heathens. I got me some sleeping to catch up on."
They returned to their rooms. Casey lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Pre-mission butterflies and excited anticipation kept him awake.
Well, this was the big one. No more shoot 'em ups for a while after this one. He was going to lie in the sun and stuff his carcass with baked baby pig, roasted bananas, and toddies. Lots and lots of toddies. But it wouldn't last long, he knew. The urge for action would strike again. War and fighting were too deeply instilled in him, and inactivity was not one of his strong points. He was a doer, a gladiator, a soldier. Finally, he fell into a light and troubled sleep, fighting over again the battles and places he wished he could forget. The arenas of Rome, the white snow covered fields of Russia, the heavy dampness of the jungles in Nam, Hitler's bunker and the odor of cyanide. Throughout the dreams, as if superimposed cinematically, the sad face of the Jew, Jesus, supervising all scenes.
Watching ... waiting ... For as you are, so shall you remain until we meet again. The great circle ... circle... circle. Was there no end for the soldier Casca Rufio Longinus? Was what lay ahead to be identical to the past? He tossed fitfully in his sleep.
The following morning, after a quick breakfast, they commenced a thorough checking of their skyhook equipment. Other than storage fatigue, it all was in perfect order. All was ready now, and the following days of waiting passed, seeming to creep now, as sunrise turned to sunset and his friend, Phang, with his hunters, moved just as slowly up the Mekong, making their way to the designated point of rendezvous. They waited. Impatient but determined, they waited.
Early on the afternoon of the eleventh day, Casey again lay tossing in haunted sleep. He was now in a Caribou aircraft waiting to make a jump. The tailgate was down, and the trooper was counting off. One, okay. Two, okay. Stand in the door! The warning bell sounded. Casey opened his eyes, lost for a moment, and then reached for the phone that had pulled him away from his dream.
"Hello! Yes. All right. In ten minutes. Right, we'll be ready." Hanging up the phone he called, "Van, George, we leave in ten minutes for the hangar. Get your shit together."
Right on the button, an American deuce and a half truck pulled up in front of the safe house and blew its horn once. Casey and his men began moving their gear outside and loading it aboard the truck. The driver offered no help. If he had, it would have been refused. At this point, no one would be allowed to touch their equipment but themselves.
When all was loaded, the three men jumped inside and seated themselves against the canvas siding; the hard wooden slats made their presence known. The driver dropped the tarp in the rear, leaving them in shadowed darkness, with bright flashes of light breaking through now and then in the openings of the canvas.
The driver slowed at the entrance of Taiwan Airbase, flashed his ID and was admitted without search. Shan had done his job well. As they passed, the guard had already moved to the phone, calling security to relay the message that the truck had arrived.
Shan's office was closer to the designated hangar, and he arrived before the truck. He swung the doors open wide just as the vehicle pulled in. He motioned them inside the hangar, closing the double doors immediately behind himself. The driver jumped down quickly, slinging his M-16, and moved to the front of the hangar, mounting guard.
Casey and his men jumped from the rear of the truck, their eyes adjusting slowly to the well-lit interior. Shan turned to Casey, his voice sharp and authoritative.
"You will remain here until departure. Leave your equipment on the truck until it is time to move it to the plane. Word has been received that Phang is in position and ready. I will be leaving you now; there is much for me to do. I will return one hour before departure time. There is food and drink over there by the workbenches. Do not, I repeat, do not venture outside this building. It is at your own peril if you do so."
With that cheerful note, Shan walked away, returning to his office across the flight line, having to slow before crossing while a C 130 landed.
Inside the hangar, the metal roof magnified the outside heat of mid-afternoon. The first to remove his shirt was Casey. Then, as the sweat flowed, the other two followed suit. The sight of Casey's upper torso, the scars that were too many to count, one so deep that no one could hold doubt that it had been meant to be fatal, never ceased to hold Van and George in awe. He appeared to them as if he'd been standing in the direct path of a 155 mm round when it had gone off and had caught every piece of shrapnel it had contained.
They moved to the workbench and made sandwiches, the heat forcing them to chase the food with salt tablets. Casey raised his paper cup of water in toast.
"No beer, no whiskey, and no toddies for the bodies, boys, until we get back. Let's hope this one is an easy one. Kompai! Kompai, you bandits!"
After eating, they changed into jungle camouflage, adjusting their webbing, and filled one canteen each. Again they waited.
Van and George lay amid a pile of parachutes when Shan entered the hangar. Casey studied the maps.
"It is time, Mr. Romain. Is all in order?"
Casey nodded as the major pointed and spoke again. "Unload the pickup equipment in that corner. It will not be touched until time to bring it in to your drop zone." He turned to walk off. "Come with me, Romain."
Casey followed, grinning and noticing that the major had dropped the "mister." Van and George loaded the chutes and drop bags back aboard the truck.
"Look, Major, I know you don't care much for us, but we've always done you a good job in the past, and this time will be no different. Like we agreed before, it's all business, no games. After this one, though, it's quits for us. Agreed?"
Shan quickly agreed, seeing no reason not to. After all, he was the one in control and could do what he wished later.
"Agreed, Mr. Romain. When this is over, we go our separate ways. Now get your men on the truck. We've no time to waste."
The guard, after a motion of Shan's hand, opened the doors wide and returned to his truck. Assuring himself that the men were loaded, he pulled out of the hangar, with Shan's sedan bringing up the rear. With the lights on dim, they traversed the runway to the far end of the field. It was dark now, the area lit only by the runway landing lights. Flames were shooting out of the cowlings of the old C-119, which was now warming up and waiting for the three passengers. The tailgate was dropped, inviting the comment of George as they climbed out of the truck how much it reminded him of a female water buffalo from the rear. Ready to be mounted.
They wasted no time transferring their gear to the waiting plane, heedi
ng the cargo master's instructions as to where he wanted it stowed. Van and George were fastening their seat belts as Shan turned to Casey outside the plane.
Shouting to be heard over the frantic roar and blast of the aircraft's props, Major Shan spoke.
"Everything is done, Mr. Romain. Have a safe journey. Perform your task well, and we shall both be wealthy men."
Casey smiled. Shan had finally admitted that he too was turning a good buck from this venture.
"The pickup aircraft, I assure you, will be at your drop zone on schedule and waiting for your signal to drop the skyhook gear. From here on, it is all in your hands. Good luck, Mr. Romain." Again he didn't offer his hand.
Casey nodded and entered the plane. The tailgate closed. The interior of the C-119 was lit only by a single red light that cast an eerie glow over the faces of those inside. The cargo master, a tough looking little man, motioned for Casey to find a spot and sit down. Over the entrance to the cockpit, the "No Smoking" light blinked in English and Chinese. The throbbing roar of the engine nestled around them as the plane gave a series of small jerks that told them it was beginning to turn and head for the apron in preparation for take-off. The old bird taxied a short distance and settled down momentarily, with the pilot waiting for clearance. When he got the word, he gave the gas to the air relic and locked her brakes. Throbbing and shaking, she settled back like a sentry dog getting ready to leap. He released the brakes then, and the aged machine lunged forward, lurching, gaining speed, wheels humming along the asphalt and concrete runway past the lights of the control tower. Suddenly she was up. The throbbing eased somewhat, not loud or severe now without the ground to reverberate from. The buoyancy felt good to Casey. This was the real him action, doing. This was his life.
