Casca 8: Soldier of Fortune

by Barry Sadler

  Van reported back that the interior of the temple was clear and uninhabited except for the usual guests: bats and rats. Some of the rats, Van said laughingly, were so huge that their cocks touched the ground, leaving five tracks everywhere they ran. Casey wasn't amused. He remembered some prior encounters with the dirty rodent bastards.

  "Okay," he ordered, "you can build a fire inside. Start the Kamserai to cooking. Phang, you keep a guard mounted. We will rest here for a while."

  He took Yu Li by the hand again, entering the darker shadows of the temple. A feeling of heavy quiet settled on them, with all wondering if they were the first to enter this sanctum in hundreds of years. Brushing aside cobwebs, they entered the larger inner chamber, past walls intricately carved with shadowy figures, dust and time obscuring them so that he could not make out exactly what they were or what they were supposed to be doing. He'd check them out closer a little later, when he had the time, after brushing them off for a better look.

  Arriving in what must have been considered the principal room of the temple, Casey chose a spot near the southern corner and dropped his gear. Yu Li began immediately to clear and clean the area, preparing to cook for him. He sighed defeatedly. I'm sunk, he thought. She's got me for sure now. Shaking his head in resignation, he left to check on the others.

  Van had taken up position above them, where he could see out and into the clearing that any intruder would have to cross to get to the temple. Casey considered it a damned good observation area and waved to Van, agreeing with his choice. The clearing, he thought, must at one time have been set with flat stones. Trees were growing, but only a few, and only in certain spots, as if they'd been planted for the purpose of providing courtyard shade. A few stones could also be seen here and there, twisted from their original positions by the growths, pushing their way upward between the paving stones.

  Van was almost high enough to touch the ceiling-like fog over his head. But the sky was still not to be seen. Casey watched as he settled himself, checked his G-3, and set it across his lap. He took one deep breath, sighed heavily, and fell asleep before the sigh had been completed.

  He grinned and went to check on George. He found him trying to interest the other Cambodians in a Montagnard gambling game that George was an expert at. But the Cambodian mercenaries were apparently wise to him by now and would have no part of it.

  When Casey was sure that all was in order outside, he returned to the temple. He wanted to check out the carvings a little closer before it was time to eat.

  Lon's lead troops had just reached the hummock of ground that Casey and his crew had vacated a couple of hours before. His Meo scout quickly informed him that they were not far behind now. Lon had slipped, losing his footing while climbing up and onto the bank of the hummock. Now he was sitting and having his boots cleaned of the mud and slime by one of his men. He digested the input of the Meo tracker while he ate. He called in his squad leaders.

  "They are close ahead," he told them. "Silence is the order of the day until I say otherwise. Woe unto anyone who fails to obey this command. You would all do well to remember the young fool who needed the cigarette so badly that it was worth his life."

  His squad leaders gulped at the memory, still fresh in their minds, remembering how the young trooper's eyes had tried to jump from their sockets as he was strangled.

  Lon donned his boots when the soldier had finished. He gathered his troops. With the Meo leading the way, Lon once again headed them all down the trail of whatever lay ahead. It irked him not to know who they were or what they'd come for. But the fact that they were here was enough to serve his purpose. That they were unaware of how close he was; gravy on the rice. The Meo trackers were his secret weapon. He'd have them in custody before too much longer.

  Shortly before nightfall, his point scout, the Meo he had threatened, came running to him, pointing ahead.

  "They are in a ghost house just ahead. They are here. I have seen them with my eyes, great one."

  Lon started to run ahead of his men. Then suddenly he checked himself. There was no use rushing things at this stage of the game, he thought. He had to get hold of himself.

  Calling his leaders to his side, he put them into a skirmishing line, reinforcing his edict of silence; telling his scouts to take a squad and circle wide of the enemy's location to cut off any attempt at retreat. He and the others would wait ten minutes before advancing.

  The minutes dragged by. The adrenal glands began to increase their output, which manifested itself in an increased heartbeat, causing heavy sweating beneath his armpits, already streaked white from the loss of body salt.

  It was time! The line advanced, weapons at the ready but fingers off the trigger. All of them were well aware of their fate should they fire a shot accidentally, warning their quarry of the advance.

  They made their way slowly, cautiously, through the trees and undergrowth. The fog, hovering over them like an ominous cloud of death, didn't make them feel any better. The Meo's words a short time before, telling their commander that the foreigners were in a ghost house, had stirred superstitions that lay just beneath their conscious minds, and had brought them easily to the surface.

  They all crept deftly closer. All eyes were on the lead Meo as he suddenly raised himself to an erect position, throwing his hands into the air. Wordlessly, he did not halt in that position for long. Instead, as if in slow motion, he fell straight backward to the ground. One of the Khmer Rouge ran quickly to see why he had fallen. As he reached the Meo, a small dot appeared in the center of his forehead and a much larger hole opened up the back of his skull, allowing approximately thirty percent of his gray matter to exit with the burst. He too dropped silently to the soft plushness of the ground.

  Still there were no sounds. The Khmer troops hit the ground and froze, eyes wide with fear. Death, silent death, was reaching out and striking them noiselessly. Could it be the spirits from the ghost house?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Whispered word of their arrival had reached Casey's ears inside. He moved quickly to the area below Van's position outside. Van's words were barely audible over the natural sounds of the jungle night.

  "Khmer Rouge! They are here. I just took two of them out. The reason they have been able to stay with us so easily is that they have at least one Meo scout. Correction, make that had one Meo scout. I just wasted him and also one Khmer with the use of my silencer. For the time being, I suppose they are confused. But that won't last for long."

  Casey nodded and motioned for him to stay put. Back inside, he gathered his gear and headed for the door, telling Phang to get his troops in position and ready. Hoisting the MG-34, he stood behind a column and fed a belt of ammo into the gun. He pulled the cocking lever and waited. Moving his head, peering around the ancient pillar, he ran his eyes over the trees at the edge of the clearing.

  "Okay," he whispered to all within earshot. "They're out there. Don't waste ammo. Let's see what we're up against first. Phang."

  Evidently the old man hadn't heard him. Casey whispered a little louder this time. "Phang!" He saw a nod of acknowledgment . "You and your men lay back for a little bit. No use in giving away our numbers. George, Van, selective fire. We don't want to let them know we have automatic fire until we really need it. Use full auto only if they rush us. Got it?"

  Each of them nodded. Lying down on his belly, Casey put the MG on selective fire, spread out the bipods on the weapon, and settled down behind it.

  Phang looked at the scarred monstrous torso of his friend Casey Romain, lying determined and deadly looking behind the machine gun. He was a leader, all right, and a good one. He wondered how eyes like Casey's, filled with grit and resolution of action ahead, could at other times hold so much love for men such as Phang himself or for a small Chinese girl. Those eyes, Phang reckoned, had seen more of everything, including hate and love, than their owner cared to admit. He loved this American or whatever he was. They would all make it through the night if only because
of this man, Casey Romain. He thought he saw movement by the trees then, and he turned back to other observations, reminding himself to one day talk more with this man. Maybe he would learn something about him other than the fact that he was a warrior and could be trusted.

  Lon started to move to the area where two of his men, including the Meo scout, had fallen. But he thought better of it. Obviously, it was a dangerous place to be right now. Dropping behind one of the trees, he wondered what it could be. He had hardly finished the thought when a crease appeared on the side of the tree covering him, throwing splinters in his face. He fell to his belly. Silencer! That's what it is. They have a sniper with a silencer on his weapon. No matter if we make noise or not now. They know we are here.

  Lon yelled for his men to take cover. It was a useless gesture of command. His men were biting the soil, wishing they could get even deeper. Then he talked to them quietly and reassuringly, telling them that the enemy had a silenced rifle. That was what had killed the Meo and their comrade in arms. There was no need to worry or fear the unknown.

  Slowly they raised their heads, looking at the clearing. They'd been foolish to believe in spirits. One by one they edged along on their elbows and stomachs until they reached the clearing. Their bellies quickly became soaked with moisture from the ground, which was covered carpet like with a combination of short grass and moss. They wormed their way forward.

  Casey let his eyes wander, thinking, Aha, there's one. They were edging their way up to the clearing; best to keep them from getting too close. He let his weapon settle on the figure lying in the short grass close to the base of one of the trees. He could just make out the outline of his face.

  He aimed, estimating the distance at one hundred twenty yards. Taking a deep breath, assuring himself that the man's face was sitting perfectly atop the sight, he released half of what he'd inhaled and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  The gun bucked once, riding almost straight back into his shoulder. The 7.62 mm round entered the Khmer's face just below the upper lip, blowing off his lower jaw and ripping its way lengthwise through the chest to explode the lungs. It continued on its deadly course, into the abdominal cavity, finally exiting just above the man's left hip. Inside, the man was left a mass of black jelly from the bullet's passage. The slug had set up shock waves in front of it as it passed through, building up pressure until everything in or near its path was smashed. When the bullet exited the man's body, it was twisted and flattened but flew on for another thirty feet before bouncing off a tree. There was not sufficient power left to penetrate the bark.

  Three down, Casey thought. Van got two, and I got one. That should put then on slow for a while.

  A burst of automatic fire came ripping back at him from the treeline. Like fireflies, the gun flashes winked at him from the short distance. Chips were blown off the old temple's columns and the aged walls behind him, falling here and there. Oh ho, he thought. I got into their shit that time. He heard a quick command in Cambode tongue barked from the trees beyond the clearing. The firing stopped. Well, well! So that's what their boss sounds like?

  Casey waved to his two comrades and his old friend Phang. Together they crept back into the interior of the temple for a short and quiet meeting. Phang's Kamserai had been placed in position to take over for the men inside. Casey noticed that Huan had taken the Swedish "K" and had placed himself on watch between the open doorway and his wife and daughter.

  "Phang, send one of your boys to scout the insides of this place. See if there are any exits we haven't found, ones that the Khmer Rouge could possibly find to get in before we could get out." Phang gave a short command from the doorway, and the same man who had set the grenades in position on the trail left his post and came inside, heading back into the unexplored section of the old building.

  Casey turned to Phang once again. "What do you think, wise one?"

  It was Phang's turn to smile. "Oh, so now it's the wise one, is it? Before, I was what you called a degenerate, I believe. But no matter, as I have often heard you say, my son. This time we are in a world of shit."

  Casey turned to Van. "Van, do you have any suggestions?"

  Van shook his head. "Not right at the present, I'm afraid."

  George, too, shook his sweaty noggin. Casey shrugged.

  "Okay, gentlemen. Then we wait. The next move is up to our friends outside. One thing we do know is how they were able to follow us. Those Meos are some of the best trackers in the world. I worked with them a short time in 1963, back in Laos. What surprises me is the fact that they are working with the commies. But they are damned good, no matter which side they're working for." He turned, throwing up his hands. "If we can get out of here, we'll probably have a good chance of throwing the bastards off our trail. Van has taken the Meo out. Let's hope they had only one. But regardless, for the time being, everyone on watch. Right? They may try to rush us. So far we hold the upper hand, merely due to our position. Let's play it loose and watch the suckers for a while."

  They returned to their individual positions outside the temple, each going through his own special and private preparations for combat. For some, it was prayer; for others, just getting their mental attitudes ready, psyching themselves.

  A voice called to them from the treeline, this time in English, clear but with a slight accent.

  "American? Do you hear me, American?" Lon's voice was loud. Casey grinned. That's my boy, the same voice he'd heard earlier. Their leader, no doubt. He knew there was an American involved. How? Someone had informed on them. Who? Ling. He would bet his ass that it was that bastard Ling.

  "Yeah, I hear you," he called back. "What do you want?"

  Lon grinned this time. Good, he thought. Now perhaps we can lure the rat from his hole. He cleared his throat before speaking.

  "American, I am the military governor of this district. If you and your men will surrender, no one will be hurt. We are aware that you have women in your party; signs on the trail told us that. They will not be harmed, I assure you. I want only you and the other foreign invaders of our peaceful land. I knew many Americans in Phnom Penh years ago. Americans always protect their women. I, too, am a protector of women. So therefore, if they are harmed in any manner, it can only be considered your own fault, your responsibility. Think about it, American. You have one hour. My men have the temple surrounded. There is no escape; and you are outnumbered at least seven to one. Remember, only one hour!"

  Well, well, Casey figured. So that's how many men he has. Seven to one. Not good for sure; but not as bad as it could have been. These Kamserai of Phang's are worth two of his men any time in a fair fight. That reduces the odds a little bit at least. Taking a breath, he called back to Lon.

  "Okay, I hear you, Governor. We'll think over your offer. You're right. I don't want the women harmed in any way. Call back on us in an hour."

  They could use the time, he thought. Slithering back into the temple, along with his men and Phang, he warned them.

  "Keep on the alert. I not only don't trust that bastard, I don't like his smooth tongue, either. He's trying all the tricks. They may try to rush us while our guard is down for the hour, so let's don't let it down. We need to get them to try and rush us, though, at least before the night is out. His men have to be tired and hungry by now. We haven't stopped long, so it's for damned sure they couldn't have. If we get them to charge us, the automatic firepower of Van's G-3 and my MG should make a hell of a dent in their numbers; at least slow them up till morning."

  He turned to the Kamserai chief. "Phang, any news from your man that's been checking out the rear of the interior yet?"

  Phang shook his head. "No, nothing yet. It will be soon."

  "Okay! Yu Li, you and your mother fix some chow. Check our water supply. I wouldn't want to drink that swamp stuff if we can possibly avoid it. Everybody take it easy but keep your ears and eyes open."

  Yu Li came to his side. She knelt down and laid her head on his shoulder. In a small voice, she asked, "
Is it bad?"

  "Bad enough! I thought we had lost them. The leader of those men out there knows what he is doing to have stayed on our trail this long. I don't want to make the mistake of underestimating him. We just have to wait and see what comes down."

  Putting his arm around her shoulders, he hugged her. "Yu Li, you go help your mother and get the medic kits out of all our bags. We'll probably need them before this is all over." He patted her on the butt. "Scat, woman."

  George waited, apparently unconcerned by all that had transpired. From the vantage point he'd selected near the entrance, he let his eyes move across the ground in front of him, resting his shotgun over his knees. As his eyes wandered, so did his mind. George? he thought. A strange name for one like me. But it sounds more familiar to me now than does my real name. Trung Si, or Casey, as Van called him, had started to call him George after they had worked together for several months. Probably because he'd never been able to get his given name right. George instead of Cheo Rawge. The trail he had traveled with Casey and Van had been a good one, and if it had to end here, so be it. What difference did it make where or when one died as long as one did it well? I have seen enough killing in my time that the thought of my own death does not excite me. Long years I have spent fighting in one place or another. For the Dour Broun (the French long noses) I fought before I had all my body hair. I was young then. By their reckoning they figured I was thirteen to fifteen years old. I couldn't have known actually. We people of the Bihar do not have calendars like all others. Neither do we care if a certain day comes or goes. It is enough for us that we are. . .

  The French had treated the people of the mountains as men. The French! He had not thought of them for some time, that was certain. That was when he'd started to become fond of big noses. Yes, they had treated us as men, not moi (animals), as did the Viets from the cities. We worked for the French because it gave us the opportunity to kill Viets and not be punished for doing so. Legionnaires. Vive le Legion Etrange! Three years with them. Strange men, those. They were never the same. The officers were French, the sergeants German, troopers .. . now, they'd been everything, North Africans, Sudanese, blacker than shoe polish, a few Italians, not many. And we of the mountains, who served with the Indigene.