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

by Eric Helm

  Gerber dusted his hands together and then pinned a map to the acetate-covered board behind him. He pulled a string on the lamp that hung over the board and then faced the men. “This will be the predeployment briefing for this mission. Any questions should be answered tonight. We’ll begin with Sergeant Kepler’s intel update.”

  Kepler moved to the front and said, “I guess I don’t have to tell you that this is secret or that it’s not to be discussed outside the confines of this bunker.”

  “That include the woman?” asked Bocker.

  Gerber looked at Emilie and then at the communications sergeant. “Yes, Galvin. It includes her. She’s our Kit Carson on this one.”

  “Well, then, by all means, let Kit stay,” said Bocker. “I just wondered.

  Kepler hesitated, watching the woman for a moment, and then launched into his briefing. He covered the suspected locations of the enemy forces they might encounter, probable weapons those forces would have, terrain features that could affect the mission and the best escape and evasion routes, if those were needed.

  Gerber thanked him and said, “Master Sergeant, you have a route of march?”

  Fetterman moved to the front of the room and leaned across the table. He marked a couple of places in grease pencil on the acetate map. He had to move the one that Gerber had tacked up. “Sergeant Bocker’s arranged airlift for tomorrow at 0700 hours. I’ve found an LZ west of Tay Ninh City between the Suoi May and the Song Vam Co Dong, which is called the Prek Tate in Cambodia. That means we’ve only got one river to cross. And since it marks the border, we’ll know when we’re in Cambodia.”

  He turned and drew a long line on the map. “Now this is the approximate location of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Using the secret topographical charts and the aerial photos provided by Derek, I’ve located a number of good spots from which to observe the Trail. Of course, working from a map means we might have to remain flexible once into the AO, since some of our maps are unreliable.”

  “You check this out with Kit?” asked Gerber. As he said that, he realized that she had acquired a nickname, and it was easier to think of her as the Kit Carson rather than Emilie.

  “No, sir. Didn’t have time. I thought I might check some of it out with her later.”

  “Proceed.”

  Fetterman outlined the route and approximate locations for overnight camps. He also suggested the supplies that would be needed for a week-long patrol.

  When Fetterman finished, Tyme briefed everyone on the weapons, who would carry what and the breakdown of the spare ammo for squad weapons, who would carry the grenade launchers and which personal weapons should be taken. Although he wasn’t sure about the reliability of the M-16, he suggested that they all be equipped with it because of its lighter weight and the smaller size of the rounds. The men could carry more ammo for it. And if they all had the same type of weapons, they could share the spare ammo, if the need for that arose.

  Bocker talked about the radios, and Washington made a couple of suggestions about ways to remain healthy. He told them to take the malaria pills, knowing that they wouldn’t because the pills gave everyone diarrhea, and the last thing anyone needed was diarrhea in the jungle. Anderson had nothing to say about demolitions, and Kit just sat there, almost as if the briefing had put her to sleep.

  “Now, are there any questions?” asked Gerber.

  “Just one,” said Fetterman. “What about Miss Morrow? She’s going to be very interested in our activities.”

  “A good point,” said Gerber. “Obviously we can’t tell her a thing about it because it’s a clandestine operation.”

  “And you’re going to be hard-pressed to keep her out of it, since we’re taking a woman with us,” added Fetterman.

  “She has to know that something is up,” said Gerber. “Hell, we’ve had meetings, and she found us in Saigon coming from briefings.” Gerber shrugged. “I guess we’ll, or rather I will just order her to stay here if it comes up.”

  “Good luck,” said Fetterman.

  “Yeah, good luck,” repeated Gerber. “Anything else? No? All right, gentlemen, we have work to do. Let’s get at it. Kit, I’d like to talk with you and Sergeant Fetterman as soon as we’re done here. The rest of you can leave.”

  When the men were gone, Gerber sat down with Kit and Fetterman to check the map and make sure the routes were going to do what they wanted them to do. Kit nodded and studied them but had little to say.

  It took them an hour to work through everything, but when they were done Gerber suggested they head over to the team house and he would treat them to a quick beer before they turned in for the night. He told them to go on ahead of him because he had to find Captain Minh and brief him, alone with Lieutenant Mildebrandt and Sully Smith.

  When Gerber broke off to head to Minh’s hootch, Fetterman gently steered Kit to the team house. They entered, and he held out a chair for her.

  “You don’t really have to drink a beer if you don’t want one,” said Fetterman.

  She sat down and slowly crossed her legs. “No. A beer will be fine.”

  Fetterman got two from the refrigerator, opened them and set one in front of Kit. “Be careful, because it’s very cold. Do you mind if I call you Kit?”

  “No.” She laughed. “You Americans are so fond of nicknames. Everyone seems to have one.”

  “You have to admit,” said Fetterman, “that Kit is handier than your real name.”

  “If you insist,” she said.

  Fetterman sipped his beer and stared. Finally he asked, “How do you like your accommodations?”

  “They are just fine. Very comfortable. It is nice to have a bed and not a handful of straw. Not as nice as Saigon, of course, but still nice.”

  “Well,” said Fetterman, “I think it’s a cot, not a bed, but it’s definitely better than a handful of straw.” He hesitated and then said, “I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but you’re not pure Vietnamese.”

  She looked at him over the top of the beer can and set it down deliberately. “Are you suggesting…”

  “Oh, no,” said Fetterman. “I phrased that badly. I was just wondering about your background.”

  “A personal question or professional?”

  “Kit, you’re here on the orders of a higher authority. They have faith in you, and I have no reason to doubt you. So, the question is personal.” What he didn’t say was that he had no faith in the higher authority and had every reason to doubt them. They would take too much at face value, rarely looking below the surface, because that would cut into their time in the club. They were easily fooled because they wanted their record to look good, and the more of the enemy who defected, the better they looked. Never mind that the defecting enemy might really be a VC spy.

  “Then I’ll be happy to answer,” said Kit. “My father was a French paratrooper who was here during the Second World War. After the war, he went home, but then he came back for my mother. He was killed in our war.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Fetterman.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “But it did some good for me. Not his death, but the fact that he was French. I received some schooling that I would otherwise never have received. I learned things that I would never have known, and I was allowed to do things that a good Vietnamese girl would never do. By that, I mean I was allowed to leave the village for my schooling. I do not have to live in a village that belongs in the Stone Age at best, hoping to one day have an electric lamp. I have seen some of the world and know what’s out there. I’m not like the other girls of my village who have no idea what is beyond the next tree line.”

  Her voice took on a bitter quality. The knuckles of her hand grew white around the bottle, and her eyes were locked on the edge of the table.

  “Then you have been quite fortunate?” suggested Fetterman.

  “Fortunate? Yes, I suppose I have been. But then I’ve paid the price for my luck. I have lost my husband and
my father in a war that neither wanted to fight.”

  “That is the way of the world,” said Fetterman, knowing that the words were inadequate. Her emotions sounded genuine. She seemed to be just what she said, but Fetterman was concerned about it. He wished he knew more about her.

  “Yes, the way of the world.” She shook herself and said, “Your Captain Gerber seems to be a man of great compassion, however.”

  Fetterman didn’t speak for a moment. Something had suddenly changed, and he didn’t know if she had shifted the subject because she was unsure of her ability to carry off her act, or if she was interested in Gerber.

  Then, before he could say anything, Gerber appeared in the doorway. He glanced at the beers they both held, got one for himself and dropped into the chair next to Kit. “I see that you two couldn’t wait.”

  “Didn’t think you’d mind, Captain,” said Fetterman. “I was learning a little about Kit.”

  “Then don’t let me stop you,” said Gerber.

  “Actually,” said Kit, “we were talking about you.”

  “Oh. I’m not sure I like that.”

  Fetterman decided it was time to change the subject again. He said, “Kit? You look very nice, but do you have some other clothes for the mission?”

  “We could get you some fatigues if you need them,” said Gerber.

  “No, I have some clothes that are suitable for the field. I also have my own pack and canteen. Everything I need. I shall be fine.”

  Gerber caught Kit staring at him, and for some inexplicable reason he suddenly remembered the letter from Karen in his pocket. He let his eyes slide away and then said to Fetterman, “We’d better wrap it up here. Get some sleep.” He stood, “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few last-minute details to take care of. See you in the morning.”

  Fetterman escorted Kit back to the hootch that she was to share with Robin Morrow. She thanked him and then turned, stepping up into the hootch. As she entered, she saw that Morrow was sitting cross-legged on one of the bunks, a camera in one hand and a tiny brush with a red bulb in the other. She wore only a pair of flimsy panties, but she didn’t look particularly cool.

  Kit cast a glance around the room. Her gaze came to rest on the metal locker sitting against the wall, on the pile of gear in front of it, the dresser on the other side of the room and the other locker there. The floor was dirty, and a soiled canopy from a parachute flare was draped over the rafters. An ancient ceiling fan hung through the center of the canopy, but it wasn’t turning. From one corner a naked light bulb glowed, and a Coleman lantern sat on a metal chair near Morrow.

  “Hello,” said Kit.

  “Hello,” responded Morrow without looking up.

  Kit opened the locker and took out a hanger. She unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off. Then she took off her skirt and hung both garments in the locker. With just her underwear on, she moved to her bed, watching Morrow. “You have something going with Captain Gerber?” she asked point-blank.

  For an instant, Morrow froze, jolted by the directness of the question. Then she started working on her camera again as if she hadn’t heard a thing.

  Kit watched her and then said, “The captain is a very nice man.”

  Morrow set her camera down and turned so that she faced Kit. “He is indeed a very nice man. He is kind to everyone, yet ruthless in battle. He can be very nice. And to answer your question, we have a kind of an understanding.”

  “Yes, an understanding.” Kit lay back on her bunk, her hands under her head as she stared up at the ceiling.

  Morrow slid her camera away, stood and walked to the dresser. She stopped and turned. “What do they call you? Emilie? Soo Ta?”

  “The men here have started calling me Kit. That seems to fit nicely.”

  “Why Kit?”

  “I am Kit Carson scout for them.”

  Morrow moved back to her bunk and sat down looking at Kit. “I thought the Kit Carson scouts were all VC who had changed sides.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  Kit sat up and looked at Morrow through the mosquito netting, supported by two long poles on the right side of her cot. “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “Not at all. I just find it interesting. Very interesting.” She looked at her camera bag and the reporter’s notebook that was sticking out of it. “Say, this might make an interesting story — what it was like to be a VC, why you changed your mind. Pictures and everything.”

  Kit rolled to her side so that she didn’t have to face Morrow. “I don’t think it would be such a great story,” she said.

  “Why not?” asked Morrow. “Your picture in the paper all over the world. You’d be famous. The heroic female fighter for democracy.”

  “No,” said Kit quietly. “I don’t think so.”

  Next morning Gerber found Fetterman sitting in the team house, eating a breakfast of cold cereal in warm milk and orange juice that was darker at the bottom of the glass where the powder had settled. The toast was dark brown in the center and nearly black at the edges.

  Gerber slipped into the chair opposite Fetterman, took a slice of toast from the plate and made a face at it. “I don’t suppose we have any jelly?”

  “A little,” said Fetterman. He slid a flat can from a C-ration meal at Gerber. “This is the best I can do.”

  “Well, thanks, anyway.” Gerber ate the toast dry. When he finished, he said, “We’ve got another problem. I want you to take the lead aircraft off ahead of us and show the pilot the LZ. That’ll give them a chance to arrange an arty prep.”

  “What do we need an arty prep for?” asked Fetterman. He dropped his spoon into the now-empty cereal bowl.

  “I doubt that we do, but the way the army has been running their combat assaults dictates an arty prep. It’s more of an exercise for the cannon cockers and to detonate any booby traps that might be scattered in the LZ. If we want this to look like a normal mission to anyone who’s watching, we’ll need the prep.”

  “Okay, Captain. I’ll take Boom-Boom to coordinate the artillery.”

  “That’s not necessary. Oh, you can take Tyme if you want, but once you’ve shown the pilot the LZ, he’ll coordinate the arty with his C and C.”

  “When’s the aircraft due in?”

  “It’ll be coming with the others. We’ll just sit on the strip for ten, fifteen minutes, giving you a head start. We won’t need much in the way of artillery.”

  At that moment, Tyme stumbled in, looking as if he hadn’t slept in a week. His fatigue shirt wasn’t buttoned, his belt wasn’t buckled and his boots hadn’t been laced. He had a soft hat jammed onto his head and carried a towel over his shoulder as if he was coming from the shower, although it didn’t seem as if he’d taken one. As he entered, he yawned and scratched his belly. “We got any breakfast?” he asked.

  “Jesus!” said Gerber. “We’re going to war with this?”

  “Don’t worry, Captain, I’ll be ready by the time we get out into the war,” said Tyme.

  “I’m not worried,” said Gerber. “You see the others?”

  “Yes, sir. Galvin’s in the commo bunker, playing with his radios and eating a monstrous jelly roll, but he won’t tell me where he got it. Kepler and Washington are in the dispensary doing something. Maybe drinking all the medicinal brandy or something. I didn’t see Anderson.”

  “He had the last watch on the girls’ hootch. Probably still out there watching it,” said Gerber.

  Fetterman checked the time. “I make it about twenty minutes before the aircraft arrive.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you swing by the Tai area and make sure that Krung has his people up and around. I’ll gather the rest of the men and meet you on the helipad in about fifteen minutes.” Gerber smiled. “That means you’ll have to gulp your food, Justin.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gerber, wearing his rucksack and pistol belt and carrying his M-16, stood at the gate to the camp. The road there led to the runway. He watched the
five army Hueys touch down in formation near the men who would make up the loads. The lead ship shot the approach to the cloud of yellow smoke from the grenade that Bocker had thrown, and as his chopper flared, so did the four aircraft behind him. His skids touched the soft peta-prime with the nose of the lead helicopter over the smoke grenade. The last two ships, caught in the turbulence created by the swirling rotor wash of the first three, bounced high as if the skids contained springs. Then they dropped suddenly. It wasn’t a pretty landing, but both choppers settled in a cloud of dust stirred up by the rotors.

  “I’m not sure I would care to fly with those guys,” said Mildebrandt from a position just behind Gerber.

  “It’s a lot harder landing in a formation than you’d think. They did a fairly good job.”

  “If you insist.”

  “Okay, Glen,” said Gerber, “there won’t be that much for you to do. Familiarize yourself with the camp, the defenses and the immediate area. Sully Smith will be a big help to you. Listen to him. I know I’m not doing you any favors, leaving all the new guys with you, but Captain Minh, my counterpart, is top-notch. He may be the best that the South has.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “You get into a situation you’re uncomfortable with, don’t be afraid to ask either Minh or Smith for advice. If you’re in a real bind, call on Colonel Bates at the B-Detachment in Saigon. He’s one of us and understands. They’ll all take care of you and help you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gerber smiled and held out a hand. “Good luck, and I’ll see you in about a week.” Gerber left then, heading for the second aircraft. He watched Fetterman, Tyme and two strikers climb on board the lead ship. A moment later the chopper leaped up, its nose tilted toward the ground as if the pilot was going to dive into the dirt. Instead, it raced forward, gaining speed but no altitude. Then it disappeared from sight quickly.

  Gerber walked to the second load. Kit stood there wearing black silk shorts, a khaki shirt, web gear with two canteens and a rucksack. She was holding an M-16. Her long black hair was piled on top of her head and hidden under a boonie hat.