The Kit Carson Scout: The Special Forces Squad has been sent to Cambodia (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 6)

by Eric Helm

  THE KIT CARSON SCOUT

  Vietnam: Ground Zero Series

  Book Six

  Eric Helm

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  ALSO BY ERIC HELM

  GLOSSARY

  “I HAD HOPED THAT BY NOW YOU WOULD THINK OF ME AS A FRIEND.”

  “That’s part of the problem, Emilie. The story of your past seems to keep changing, depending on whom you’re talking to. What you told Master Sergeant Fetterman doesn’t exactly fit with what you told me, or with what Jerry Maxwell told me about your past. Is there any truth to any of it?”

  “A little. Enough. What does it matter?”

  “Who are you?” Gerber practically shouted.

  “You know who I am. I have told you. I am Brouchard Bien Soo Ta Emilie. I was once a Viet Cong. Now I am a Kit Carson scout for you.”

  “And whose side are you on, ours, or the VC?”

  “My own, Captain. There is no other side worth being on.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “If you find that I am the traitor you believe me to be, you will then have to kill me, yes?”

  Gerber said nothing.

  “Suppose I were to walk away right now. Just disappear into the bush and never come back?”

  “Then I would have to kill you, ma’am, with much regret, of course,” said Fetterman, who had come up softly behind her.

  PROLOGUE

  THE HO CHI MINH TRAIL,

  NEAR PHUM REUL, CAMBODIA

  North Vietnamese Army Corporal Tran Minh Ngo sat in the nearly nonexistent shade of the devastated jungle, sweating from the heat and exertion of his march along the trail. In moist hands he held the diary that he had just started. He wanted to record everything that he saw and felt because he believed that the people of the North, the people who lived under the constant threat of American bombing attacks, or the terrorist raids of the Saigon government commandos, would want to know how their soldiers who were sent south lived. Ngo was determined that the North Vietnamese, his people, should hear the real story rather than propaganda speeches given by the political officers who knew no negative words.

  He leaned against the rough bark of a palm, wiggling his shoulders to kill an itch in the middle of his back, and read what he had written.

  We march in the forlorn gray of the jungle, along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, moving away from it and following paths that only our guides know. We march across land that has been stripped bare by the American planes raining orange death. Huge trees, their branches all naked, reach into an uncaring sky. We rest for a few minutes, seeking shelter under the few trees that seemed to have escaped, but whose leaves are beginning to shrivel, a sure sign that they will die. It is here we wait for the rain that will soak us and then never dry; for the sun to set so that the land will cool, but never does. It is here we wait for the Americans in their expensive war machines to find us and kill us.

  Ngo studied the paragraph, written in light blue ink on rough paper already yellowed with age. Sadly he lifted his eyes to look at the men of the platoon around him. They were young men, almost all drafted in an effort to keep up with the flow of Americans into the South. These youths, Ngo knew, wanted only to work their father’s rice paddies or vegetable gardens or cornfields, to chase and sometimes catch the local girls, and maybe make a pilgrimage into Hanoi. Many of them had never heard of America or the war in the South and cared nothing for the goals of the National Liberation Front or the unification of Vietnam. They only wished to go home and forget about the pain and suffering of the long march into the south.

  We held a big rally before we started, Ngo continued to write. There were many army officers, village leaders, important men there. They talked of the glorious fight in the South and our duty to the people of the South, caught by the American lackeys. I did not understand all of what the officers said, and I was confused by the number of men who had traveled to our village to speak to us. Each had something to say. There was talk about the great adventure on which we were about to embark. We were reminded of our duty and our courage and our sacrifice. All spoke to us, except one man who wore a strange khaki uniform and said he was a comrade from China. He had fought the Americans in a place called Korea, he told us, where the great might of the Americans had been unable to overwhelm the Chinese comrades.

  Ngo sat back, looked into the gunmetal sky and blinked rapidly, unable to believe all that he had just written. It had an unreal quality, like a photograph that was slightly out of focus, or something remembered from the distant past. But it wasn’t the distant past, only a few weeks ago. Still, it now seemed to be an eternity away.

  The NVA corporal turned his attention to the young men who had attended the meeting with him. Together, they had marched west, into Laos, and then south into Cambodia. They were armed with AK-47s, the assault rifle that the Russians had invented, then given to the Chinese, who in turn had passed it to the NVA for their war. Some of his fellow soldiers wore dark green fatigues, marking them as members of the NVA. Others wore black shirts and black pants that the Americans called pajamas. All wore large backpacks loaded with spare ammunition, extra food, medical supplies and a few small personal items, like the tiny black notebook that Ngo carried.

  The food wasn’t much. A couple of small sacks of rice, maybe a few fish heads mixed in, and a biscuit or two. These rations didn’t need cooking; smoke from a fire sometimes drew American planes. And the traffic along the main arteries of the Trail ensured that they didn’t need to carry much. Their officer could requisition food from the porters moving supplies on their bicycles. Or he could take them from the villages they passed, sometimes giving the headman a worthless receipt for the food.

  Ngo looked down at his notebook and added, They call this a Trail. The men in the North are proud of it. The Americans claim it is a highway to the South. But we march uphill all day, everyday, it seems. Always climbing, through jungle that tries to grab us and hold us. Ten, twelve hours a day, always marching, never talking, never joking, and listening to the buzz of annoying insects and the roar of American planes. Planes that fly over us day and night, searching with their electronic eyes but never seeing us.

  He read what he had written and knew that he had to write something more positive. The political officer, if he wanted, could take Ngo’s notebook and read it. Ngo didn’t want to be punished for his work, so he added, Around us is the destruction brought by the Americans. Trees scattered to the four winds by the imperialist bombs. Trees with trunks of gray that look like old farmers forced into their fields for one more day of work for the pleasure of the capitalists. A jungle paradise ruined as if we had somehow angered the gods and they had unleashed their fury on us.

  The lieutenant left his place of honor, under the largest tree with the heaviest foliage, and told the men it was time to move. As Ngo slipped his notebook into his pack, he was ordered to move forward with the local guide to help clear the Trail. Ngo shrugg
ed and took the machete from the man who held it. He looked at the sharp blade, which caught and reflected a bit of sun that found its way through the overcast sky.

  The corporal took his place next to the guide. The man pointed, and Ngo slashed at the vines, bushes and short, skinny trees, clearing them from the path as they moved into thicker, greener growth. This portion of the jungle had escaped the devastation of the Americans.

  The work, at first, was simple. The blade was so sharp that it seemed to cut through the thick vegetation on its own. But then the heat began to sap Ngo’s strength, and his arms became weary. Sweat poured down his face, staining his already soaked black shirt. He felt wetness under his arms, on his neck and down his back. His feet seemed to be awash in water. The ground was covered with rotting vegetation that absorbed moisture of a hundred monsoons and then released it when disturbed to make the trek harder and more miserable.

  It took only a few minutes for Ngo to feel worn out. His breath was ragged in his throat, and his mouth felt as if it was filled with dry leaves. His arms ached with the strain of swinging the machete, and he knew that he would soon collapse. Worse yet, the moment he fell to the ground, unable to move, he would be shot by their lieutenant, who despised them and thought of them all as peasants. Where was the celebrated Trail, Ngo wondered, that the Americans, with all their technological know-how and their great firepower, could not close? Where was the superhighway that would allow them to ride to the South in the trucks given to them by their comrades in the Soviet Union so that they didn’t have to struggle through thick jungle in the mountains?

  Just when Ngo thought he would drop and be shot by the political officer as a weakling and a coward, the guide stopped. Ngo observed that they were on top of a cliff and could now see down into the surrounding jungle. Portions of the Trail appeared far below them, cut into the virgin vegetation to leave red, gaping wounds that seemed to bleed a sea of mud. It crossed his mind that this was the way it must appear to the American reconnaissance aircraft that roared overhead. The clearly marked, rutted road was so wide that two Soviet ZIL trucks could pass side by side.

  And directly in front of him was the edge of a huge stone cliff that descended into the jungle — a steep limestone formation exposed to the sun and the sky. To the right, Ngo noticed crude stairs carved into the face of the cliff. Partially concealed by bushes growing from the rock, the stairs descended into the ocean of the jungle, lost from sight where they passed the top of the trees.

  It would be a long, dangerous climb down that could only be completed at night when the enemy planes wouldn’t be able to see Ngo and his platoon strung out on the cliff, perfect targets for the automatic cannons on the American fighters.

  The lieutenant called a halt and Ngo gratefully fell to the soft jungle floor. For a moment he was too tired to even fight the canvas cover of his canteen, but then thirst won out and he pulled it from his belt. He drank slowly, sloshing the water around his mouth before swallowing it. Having finished his drink, he fell back to the ground, lying there watching the heavy rain-swollen clouds boiling over his head, wishing that he was home, watching his child-swollen wife work the rice paddy.

  CHAPTER 1

  EAST OF THE HO CHI MINH TRAIL,

  NEAR PHUM REUL, CAMBODIA

  Nearly a klick away from Corporal Tran Minh Ngo’s platoon, on the eastern side of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, United States Army Lieutenant Jason Kincaid lay hidden in the thick foliage on the top of a cliff that overlooked part of the Trail. From his perch, he watched the traffic flowing into the South, recording the numbers of vehicles, bicycles and people that he saw. Behind him, six other Americans scanned their back trail, making sure that no one sneaked up the rear of the slope to cut their throats while they did their job. And surrounding them were four Vietnamese who knew the area and who served as scouts and riflemen.

  Kincaid was getting sick of it all. He had to lie in virtually the same position all day because the slightest movement could be detected by an alert enemy observer. Then there was the heat that baked him and the humidity that soaked him. On top of all that were the clouds of mosquitoes that came at dusk and left thick black smudges as he brushed them from his body when he could no longer stand the tickling of their tiny feet or the pricks of their snouts on his arms, neck and face. Flies hovered around his head during the day, some of them landing to bite him. Finally there was the chance that someone would make a mistake, which would bring the wrath of the entire army of North Vietnam down on them.

  Kincaid wanted to get a drink of water but couldn’t shift around far enough to get at his canteen. Actually he didn’t want water. He wanted an ice-cold beer, served by a waitress in a skimpy costume at one of the army clubs springing up around South Vietnam. He wished he could take a shower right now so he could get the sticky, smelly scum off his body that caused a bright red rash, which itched almost uncontrollably. In his mind he saw a bed with clean sheets and no insects, in a room that had air-conditioning; air you could breathe without the feeling that your lungs were filling with water. He had heard that there were men who spent their whole tours in such luxurious conditions, claiming to one another that war was hell.

  A tap on his foot by one of the other men warned him that someone was coming. Kincaid moved his right hand an inch and touched the black plastic stock of the M-16 that he had been issued before the mission. With his thumb, he snapped off the safety and then waited for the men behind to alert him to more danger.

  Far below, on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the traffic continued to move unabated. There was the rumble of a diesel engine from a ZIL pulling a long-barreled antiaircraft gun that Kincaid thought was a Soviet-made S-60. In the past few days he had witnessed that sight several times: Soviet trucks dragging antiaircraft equipment, ZSU-23s and S-60s, all heading south.

  He closed his eyes to concentrate on the sounds around him but could hear no one moving through the jungle close to him. He waited. There was a second tap, telling him that the enemy — an armed patrol — was moving in his direction and that it hadn’t spotted the American LRRPs or their South Vietnamese allies yet.

  Kincaid realized that he was holding his breath, and he let it out in a long, slow exhalation. Feeling the ache in his muscles, he tried to relax. The tension threatened to make him jumpy, and that was the last thing he needed. The enemy must have turned, because he got no further warnings.

  Suddenly there was a ripping sound, as if someone was tearing silk near his ear. Kincaid recognized it as a single AK-47 firing on full-auto. Around him, he heard the leaves being stripped from the trees and bushes as the bullets tore through the vegetation. When the firing stopped, there was a deadly silence throughout the jungle. The diesel engine had quit tumbling, and the roar of jets overhead had vanished. Kincaid heard a quiet rustling as a beetle dragged food across the dead leaves.

  A single, quick snap followed as one of the men fired a round from his M-16. A moment later a grenade detonated, showering the nearby vegetation with dirt and debris. A cloud of dust and smoke drifted through the trees.

  “To the south,” whispered one of the NCOs.

  Kincaid rolled to his left and stood up next to the smooth trunk of a teak tree. He saw one of his men kneeling by a bush, a claymore firing control in his hand. Another of his men had dropped back and was crouched behind a log. His weapon was aimed at something in the jungle, but he didn’t fire.

  For an instant everything remained in stasis. Kincaid could see or hear nothing of the enemy or his men. He waited, his weapon held at the ready, his eyes scanning the jungle. With an effort, he tried to swallow, anticipating return fire. The shooting had to attract attention. In the past two days he had seen several hundred enemy soldiers pass him. Now they could be running back up the Trail, hoping for a bit of the action while the American soldiers waited for orders from their NCO.

  Kincaid turned toward the west. Through a gap in the trees and bushes, he made out a section of the Trail. The activity seemed to have ground
to a halt as the VC and NVA scattered at the first sound of firing. Kincaid glanced at the ridge far to the west and thought he could see movement at the top of it, but then his attention was drawn back to his side of the Trail.

  One of the NCOs appeared in front of him. “Parker’s going to pop the ambush. Viets will cover the rear.”

  Kincaid nodded and pointed to the rear, to the south. “Get everyone else and go about a hundred yards or so and wait.”

  On turning back, he heard a series of explosions, loud, sharp bangs, as the claymore mines, which had protected the rear of their formation, were detonated. Firing erupted in the jungle, and muzzle-flashes winked in the half-light of the thick foliage, followed by the sounds of bullets snapping through the jungle around him.

  Just then Parker appeared, running in a crouch, his M-16 in his left hand. Kincaid pointed to the south and then turned to run. In a few seconds they found the first NCO.

  “Anything in front of us, Davis?”

  “No, sir. Jungle’s clear.”

  “Then get a point out and head due east. We’ll come to a hilltop that is fairly open. If we can make radio contact with base, we can use it for extraction.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Near the stream, divert to the south and then back east,” added Kincaid.

  Davis understood the plan. They had laid a second mechanical ambush, which they could use to slow down their pursuers in case they were followed. He dropped his pack that contained food, clean clothes and a few personal items, then took off, trotting into the trees, leaping over a fallen log and dodging around a rocky outcrop.

  As Davis disappeared into the trees, Kincaid threw his backpack into the pile and followed. Parker added his, directed the rest of the men to do the same and then stuck a WP grenade under them so that the enemy, when they found the packs, would trigger the grenade. Parker hoped that the white phosphorus would kill any VC who happened upon the gear and destroy everything they were forced to leave behind.