Walking Wounded td-74

by Warren Murphy

  He was wearing a T-shirt. It was black, like his pants. He looked around for his Marine uniform. There was nothing in sight. He had no pack, no canteen, no boots. He was dressed for shooting pool back in Newark, not for Vietnam.

  Stiffly, apprehensively, he stumbled toward the front half of the bus. He clambered in through its gaping rear, which was tilted like a ramp. He found a Russian Kalashnikov rifle on the buckled floor. He checked the bolt. It worked. There were no bodies in the seats. Remo wondered where the driver was. His head throbbed. His ears felt like they had on the day he first landed in Saigon. It had been his first airplane flight, and during the descent, his eardrums had built up pressure until they ached. He hated the feeling and it hadn't gone away until he'd stepped off the plane with the rest of his company and the first trucks containing the aluminum coffins of dead American servicemen arrived to be loaded for the return flight. The shock had cleared his ears.

  Remo felt like that now. He worked his jaw to clear his ears, but they remained stuffy, like blocked nasal passages.

  Someone groaned. Remo ran to the other half of the bus. He pointed his rifle into the dark, tangled interior. Little steely glints like feral eyes winked back at him. "Who's there?" he challenged. Another groan.

  With his rifle barrel Remo knocked aside still-smoking seat covers. He stepped in gingerly, not trusting his light shoes. Again he felt the lack of boots as a dull fear in his gut. A man without boots in the jungle might as well shoot himself in the head and save himself a lot of unnecessary trouble.

  Remo found a young girl, her face in shadow. She wore the black pajama uniform of the Vietnamese farmer-or the Vietcong. Probably a prisoner being transported, he decided.

  Remo nudged her with the stock of his rifle. Her eyes snapped open and Remo was shocked by their color. They were green.

  Ever since she was a child, Thao Ha Lan had had one dream. That the Americans would come back to Vietnam and crush the Hanoi regime. At night she dreamed that it would begin with the clatter of their helicopter gunships coming in low over the South China Sea. They would take Ho Chi Minh City first. And one special helicopter would come for her. Her father would be the pilot. Lan didn't know if her father had flown helicopters during the war. She only knew that her father was an American soldier. And American soldiers could do anything.

  It was a dream her mother had impressed upon her. Her mother had loved an American serviceman. The American had died, her mother said. Lan did not believe her. She knew he lived in America, where there was no war, no fighting, no Communists. She hoped to go there one day. The dream survived the day her mother was taken away to a reeducation camp and even after she herself was taken off the Ho Chi Minh City streets.

  The dream had flared anew at the arrival of the lone American with the dead, flat eyes that held no fear. The man had American features. Like her own. The only American features Lan had ever seen belonged to the other bui doi who shared her work barracks.

  It had been a crushing disappointment for Lan when the American had ordered them off the bus in the middle of the Cambodian jungle. She could not believe it. So when the American had finished putting gasoline in the bus, she slipped back aboard and hid in the darkened interior where she wouldn't be seen.

  Lan was determined to go with the fearless American wherever he went.

  Lan woke suddenly. She remembered the red flash. She felt herself tangled among broken bus seats. Then she saw the American. He was pointing a rifle at her face. He looked angry.

  "Don't shoot. It Lan. Lan."

  "Don't move," the American said. His voice was cold. Lan knew he was angry. She had expected that.

  "I no move," Lan said. She folded her hands together to show they were empty. "I no move. Okay?"

  "Where is this place?"

  "Kampuchea. "

  "Never heard of it. You VC?"

  "No. Not VC. VC all gone."

  "Bull. Get up. Slow."

  Still holding her hands together, Lan struggled into a kneeling position and bowed once to the American. She hoped Americans understood bowing.

  "Skip that crap," the American told her. "On your feet. "

  Lan pushed herself to her feet. She took care to stand with her head bowed. She hoped the American would not send her away alone.

  "Now, answer my questions, bien?" he said curtly. "Who was on that bus?"

  Lan hesitated. She did not understand. The American glared at her. "Lan on bus," she said at last. "Who else?"

  "You. No one else."

  "Who was driving? And don't tell me it was you."

  "You drive. You drive to find American friend. Prisoner. "

  The American frowned. "This better not be a trick," he said. "Come on."

  He stepped back to let her slide out of the ruined bus, and Lan stepped carefully to the ground. The American kept his weapon trained on her. He looked nervous and unsteady, not confident as he had before.

  The American marched her around the shattered bus halves. In the middle of the road they found a sloping depression edged with splashed dirt.

  "An antipersonnel mine," the American said, kicking at the dirt. His foot unearthed glinting steel balls. "It tore the bus in two. These are what were staring at me. I thought they were eyes."

  Lan nodded. "Khmer Rouge mine."

  "Khmer Rouge," the American said excitedly. "You mean Cambodians? Are we in Cambodia?"

  "You not remember? You drive us here."

  "Us? Us who?"

  "Vietnamese prisoners. You free us."

  The American looked at her confusedly. He shook his head, his dark eyes distracted.

  "Where's the nearest American base camp? Tell me."

  "Americans all gone. Long gone. None left."

  "Then the next nearest camp. I've got to get back to my unit."

  "Lan not understand. Not know where your American friends are. You search."

  "I'll settled for an ARVN unit, then."

  Lan grew frightened. This man was asking about the long-defeated Army of the Republic of Vietnam. Was he crazy?

  "ARVN? No more ARVN. No more ARVN."

  "What do you mean-no more ARVN?"

  "ARVN surrender."

  "Bull. "

  "Americans gone home. ARVN gone. No more South. No more North. War over."

  "Over?" The American's voice growled. "Who won?"

  "Communists. You not remember?"

  "My ass. You're VC."

  "You no understand. VC no more. ARVN crushed. Americans gone. War over. How I make you understand?"

  "You can't, so forget it."

  As Lan watched, the American started walking in circles. He put one hand to his head, never letting his eyes stray from her. Lan wondered if he was sick. She had never met any Americans before today. Did they always act so crazy when they were displeased?

  "My head is killing me," the American moaned. Then he dropped his rifle in the dirt and fell on it. He did not move after that.

  Chapter 13

  Captain Dai Chim Sao returned to Hanoi via Moscow. He had slipped across the Mexican border and obtained an Aeroflot flight to the Soviet capital. It was a longer journey than going through Europe, but traveling by Western carrier would have placed him at the risk of arrest and extradition. Only Aeroflot was safe.

  In Hanoi he was debriefed by Vietnam's defense minister.

  "My mission was successful," Dai concluded after he'd finished his explanation. He stood at attention. The defense minister sat stolidly in his straight-backed chair. His office was decorated with standard Sovietbloc orthodoxy. No shred of color or humor intruded upon its dark-wooded solidity. Dai waited for the at-ease order. It never came.

  "Success is relative," the defense minister told him bluntly, and Captain Dai felt his heart sink. What had he done wrong? He cleared his throat prior to asking, but quickly realized that asking would be the same as accepting failure. Captain Dai was not ready to accept any such thing.

  "The traitor Phong is dead," Dai rep
eated thickly. "My internationalist duty has been discharged."

  "Had that man not escaped, you would not have had to risk the things you did risk."

  "I am prepared to offer my life in service to the glorious revolution."

  The defense minister waved his hand dismissively as if the life of one such as Captain Dai was something spent without thinking, like the number of dong required to purchase a cigarette.

  "The American press are full of stories," the defense minister said. "The MIA issue, the POW issue. The killing of this Phong was broadcast live. The American government is upset. We were approaching an understanding, but now the political pressure on them to withhold diplomatic recognition until this is settled is enormous. Long months of quiet diplomacy have been jeopardized."

  "I did what I had to do."

  "In full view of television cameras," said the defense minister bitterly. He shook his iron-gray head.

  "It was either there or not at all. Phong was guarded like a diplomat. It was only my resourcefulness that enabled me to gain admittance to the audience."

  "You sound like the train engineer who left the brakes off and then congratulated himself for his heroism in stopping the runaway locomotive. Do not congratulate yourself while in this office, Comrade Captain. Your best does not impress me."

  Captain Dai said nothing. His mouth ached for a cigarette, but he dared not light up while standing at attention.

  The silence in the room lengthened. Finally the defense minister said, "We may have to kill the American prisoners."

  "I will gladly undertake that task, Comrade Defense Minister."

  "I am sure that you would. Your bloodthirsty kind enabled us to defeat the Americans. But you are now a liability. Why do you think you have been stuck in a distant camp post?"

  "I considered it my duty," Dai croaked. His face was gray.

  "And if I say it is your duty, you will kill the Americans with your bare hands. But that decision has not been made. For you, there is another duty."

  "I stand ready."

  "An American has broken away from a tour group near Ho Chi Minh City. No doubt it is the fault of the soft people of the South, who will never be purged of their capitalistic ways."

  "We in the North are strong."

  "We in the North are in charge," snapped the defense minister. "This American attacked a reeducation camp. He escaped with perhaps twenty bui doi."

  Captain Dai would have spat on the floor in contempt, but spitting in public was forbidden in the united Vietnam.

  "This American was last seen driving to the Kampuchean border. Before he ran amok he is reported to have made provocative statements about American POW's. We believe he may be an American intelligence agent sent here to conduct reconnaissance probes. If so, he is very clumsy in his work. But he is a skillful soldier. We cannot find him. That will be your job."

  "I will return to this office and report unqualified success."

  "I do not care if I ever see you again, Comrade Captain," the defense minister said with open contempt. "I hope the American shoots you dead at the same moment you obliterate him. Then two thorns in my side will be removed with one stroke."

  "I will redeem myself "

  "Not in these eyes. Dismissed."

  Swallowing the bitterness that promised to creep into his voice, Captain Dai saluted smartly and turned on his heel. He was near tears. He had always considered himself a war hero. Now he knew that he had been just a tool. One mistake and they were ready to throw him away. He was certain that even the defeated Americans treated their war heroes better than he had been.

  At first light Remo awoke. He was aware of the heavy smell of wet jungle, that unbelievably fecund smell that excited the nostrils. His eyes came open slowly, the hammering of a heavy rain on metal registering on his dazed brain before the light hit his retina.

  Remo saw that he was inside the front part of the destroyed bus. A lashing rain made it impossible to see out the windows. He was lying on a pile of seat cushions, his rifle beside him.

  The Vietnamese girl who called herself Lan slept nearby.

  Remo looked around. They were alone. Out through the gaping, open end of the bus, he could see rainwater pelting twin shallow grooves obviously made when he'd been dragged into the bus. He looked at his heels. They were dirty, caked with red earth.

  The girl. Obviously. She had dragged him here after he collapsed. Why had she done that? Remo picked up his rifle and checked it. The magazine was half-full.

  Remo climbed over a tangle of seats and shook the girl awake.

  She roused slowly. At the sight of his face, she smiled tentatively and Remo wondered if he'd been wrong about her. A VC agent would have shot him without mercy.

  "You are awake," she said simply.

  "Yeah." He didn't know what else to say. He looked at her face carefully. Her features were not like those of any Vietnamese he had ever seen. Those green, almond-shaped eyes. And those spots on her cheeks. He'd thought they were some kind of tropical skin disease, but they were freckles. Freckles!

  "Lan help you. Lan your friend. You remember now?"

  "No. I don't remember you."

  Lan's smile faded like a cloud intercepting sunlight. "Oh. Lan sorry. "

  "You know, I think you are."

  "Am. "

  "I don't know too many Vietnamese."

  "That okay. I not know any American before you." The rain stopped. It was like a faucet shutting off.

  "We can't stay here," Remo said. "You say we're in Cambodia?"

  "Called Kampuchea now."

  Remo made a face. "Yeah, right. Look, do you know which direction Saigon is?"

  Lan stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  "Toi Muon di Saigon," Remo said in Vietnamese.

  Lan shook her head. "Not called Saigon anymore. Ho Chi Minh City."

  "Are we going to have to go through that again?"

  "Telling truth," Lan said testily. "Saigon old name. New name Ho Chi Minh City."

  Remo sighed. "How far?"

  "One night's drive. That way."

  "Maybe we can reach the command headquarters in An Loc."

  "An Loc dangerous. Much fighting."

  "I thought you said the war was over."

  "For Vietnamese, war never end. Vietnamese Communists fight Khmer Rouge Communists now."

  "There's a switch," Remo said. He slid down out of the shattered bus and swore when his feet touched the muddy ground. He had forgotten that he had no boots. His shoes sank, cold, wet mud moistening the socks at his ankles.

  "Damn. I could lose my feet walking around like this. "

  "We must go. Very dangerous here too."

  "Then we walk. You say your name is Lan?"

  "Yes, Lan. And you?"

  "What about me?"

  "Not know your own name?"

  "Of course I do. I thought you said you knew me. I wish you'd get your story straight."

  "Do know you," Lan said firmly. "You rescue me from camp. Not know your name."

  "Remo. U.S. Marines."

  "Ah," Lan said. "Marines number one!"

  Remo laughed. "Yeah. We're number one, all right. Come on."

  They followed the dirt road until it spilled into a blacktop highway. Remo took off his shoes and socks and carried them. The morning sun would dry them off quickly. For now, he was better off walking barefoot. The heat of the day warmed the road. Rainwater steamed off it like water on a skillet.

  They walked for miles, encountering no traffic. Then, out of the north came a familiar sound.

  "Helicopter," Remo said.

  Lan grabbed his belt and tried to pull him off the road.

  "Hey! Cut it out," Remo snapped, breaking free. Lan grabbed his wrists this time and strained against him.

  "Out of sight," she begged. "Hide. Helicopter come."

  "That's the idea. They'll pick us up."

  "No. Not American helicopter. Vietnamese."

  "Crap. The Vietnamese don't have
helicopters. Sounds like an American Huey."

  The rotor noise grew louder. Lan pulled harder. "Look," Remo yelled. "Don't make me get rough. Run if you want. I'm staying in the open."

  Remo stripped off his T-shirt and faced the direction of the approaching helicopter clatter. Lan broke for the roadside trees and hunkered down fearfully.

  The helicopter lifted into sight up ahead. It was a wide-bodied craft with stub wings heavy with rockets.

  It seemed to be following the road carefully, as if searching.

  "Great," Remo muttered. "They can't miss me." He started waving his shirt.

  "Hey! American on the ground," he shouted. "I need a dustoff "

  The helicopter skimmed over Remo as if it hadn't noticed him. Remo jumped around to face it, still waving his shirt and shouting.

  "Hey, come back."

  The helicopter did just that. It flashed around in a tight circle. And as it turned, Remo saw the yellow star in a red field that told him he was trying to flag down the wrong side.

  "Oh, shit," he said. "The Vietnamese have helicopters now."

  "I tell you!" Lan called. "Now you hurry."

  Remo dived off the road. He took a position between two tall trees, well away from Lan. He brought his rifle up. He waited.

  The helicopter hovered ominously above, searching. Remo held his fire. The helicopter began to settle and he knew they'd spotted him.

  Then Lan dashed across the highway under the gunship and to the other side of the road. She shouted at the top of her voice.

  The helicopter suddenly rose in the air and peeled off after her. A chin-mounted Gatling gun opened up. It blasted the rubber trees until they stood like broken milkweeds.

  "Dammit!" Remo shouted. He came out of cover and emptied his rifle after the helicopter, firing single shots. The big tail rotor suddenly made a pinging sound and began wobbling wildly on its axis. A lucky shot had clipped it. The rotor stopped dead, and without its stabilizing influence, the helicopter began a slow pirouette in place, like a ridiculous Christmas-tree ornament spinning on a thread.

  The helicopter pilot had no other option and he knew it. He let the chopper settle. It sank into the trees steadily until the main rotor encountered the treetops. Then all hell broke loose. Breaking branches flew like shrapnel. Someone screamed.

  "Lan!" Remo yelled.