by Joe Poyer
Gillon knelt down and threw open the deck plate covering the ammunition hatch, pulled up the drum
and settled it onto the gun's breech, swung into the saddle and pedaled around until he was sighting it on the line of tracers laid down by Nbtobi's weapon.
He flicked the selector switch to semi-automatic and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked solidly against his shoulders and he traversed the wire, laving down a ceiling of exploding steel well over the heads of the defenders, but into the area held by the attacking forces. Nbtobi dropped the fire angle on the gun to concentrate directly on the wire to pick off any attackers that might have gotten through.
Gillon reached the far corner of the compound and released the trigger. Between the Bofors and the machine gun the fire from the far side of the wire had practically died away. Mortar rounds, however, continued to drop in on the compound and he raised the muzzle elevation and lobbed a few shells into the jungle at points he thought most likely.
A few minutes later, the, mortars ceased firing and the area around the compound was still.
Gillon leaned his head back from the gunsight and hunched his shoulders. When he rubbed his hands on his thighs, he found that he was wearing nothing at all. His reaction to the first explosion had been automatic enough to send him through the window, pausing only long enough to grab up his pistol.
`Think they're gone?' Nbtobi asked softly.
`More likely . . .' Gillon stopped. He found that he couldn't speak above a whisper.
During the firing, he had forgotten about his bruised throat.
`Hey . . . Gillon, you all right?'
`Yeah, my . . Gillon tried again, gave up and climbed stiffly down and pattered across the deck to the machine-gun mount.
'I'm okay,' he croaked. 'My throat . . . can't talk.'
`Sure am sorry about that,' Nbtobi chuckled. 'Thought you were a friendly native come to toss a grenade or something.'
Gillon cleared his throat experimentally. 'Damn that Emile . . .' he muttered. 'He ought to have more . . sense than . . . to bring strangers . . . into the area . .
Both men were silent, listening for sounds that might
indicate a renewed' assault, but the night remained quiet and empty for a few moments more as the stunned defenders recovered. Then, suddenly a voice was heard shouting, marshaling order into the stunned camp, and single pistol shots rang out along the wire.
Gillon and Nbtobi looked at each other and then both shrugged. Killing was an old story in this war and so was savagery. Prisoners were only taken for the information that could be tortured from them.
'Come on, let's go up and see what's happened,' Gillon muttered, and swung a leg over the lee board. Nbtobi laid a hand on his shoulder in warning.
'Listen,' he whispered.
A sheet of flame flared in the compound and the breaking matchstick sound of a collapsing hut followed. Then Gillon heard it, a faint splash of water.
'The stern,' Nbtobi murmured, and drew his pistol from his waistband. He backed away in a deep crouch until the deckhouse was between himself and the stern. Gillon edged over the side of the boat down onto the dock, then pattered silently back to the stern, where he lay down at full length and leaned his head around the transom to examine the dark river. One minute, two minutes, three passed and he was no longer sure of what he was seeing. The river's slow movement along the boat was making him dizzy. A dark arm broke water for just an instant. A moment later, a head emerged and moved toward the boat. Gillon got slowly to his knees, and then suddenly stood up full, leaned around the stern and fired twice. The arms thrashed water for a moment and a cry of pain cut off almost before it started and the head disappeared. Four feet away, Nbtobi leaned over the stern and fired down into the water. Something flew through the air and landed with a clunk in the cockpit. Gillon heard Nbtobi scream and he dove off the dock onto the muddy riverbank as the grenade went off. Its sharp crack was followed immediately by a louder, more solid explosion and flame billowed high over the stern. The concussion pounded Gillon's ears and flung stinking mud into his face.
A raging sheet of flame spread swiftly from the petrol tanks in the stern. Nbtobi must have been killed by the
exploding grenade; Gillon was almost certain of that and helpless to do anything more than swear savagely. He could only watch the boat burn. Voices came from behind him and the sound of feet running down the path to the dock. Several soldiers pushed past and fanned out along the bank. A few shots were fired into the river, more for his benefit than anything else.
'Robert?' A hand took his arm and gently turned him away from the burning boat and led him back up the path.
Robert,' Jacques repeated as they walked on toward the camp. 'We are finished here. I have given orders to move at daybreak. We will never withstand another assault.
Therefore, you must talk with the two men who came to the camp tonight, and you must do it now.'
Gillon swore and shook his arm out of Jacques' grasp. 'I told you that it was a fool thing to do, to bring those damned spooks here.'
''Do not lecture me, Robert. I know as well as you, perhaps more than you, what risk I was taking.' Jacques paused and swung Gillon around to face him, suddenly angry with the younger man.
'I have been a soldier for nearly forty years. There is little or nothing that you can teach me about military matters. So, you will shut your mouth and listen to what I have to say.
These two have come a very long way on an important assignment and I know for certain that they were not the ones who led the Army to this camp . . . our location has been known to them for several days now. It was always a matter of time. I have told you that we are finished. We will move the camp at dawn, but that is merely a delaying tactic.
The Lisbon negotiations will collapse in a few weeks because the government will have won. To save their own necks, the National Front will capitulate soon, throwing us to the wolves. I have seen it happen before and am well acquainted with the signs.'
Gillon began to interrupt, but Jacques shook his head and continued on.
'I will not stand by and see these people executed as traitors after the real -traitors in Lisbon are finished with them. Nor do I wish to face a firing squad myself.
We will stay in the jungle for one more week and then I will negotiate my own terms with the M'bouti . . . terms that will be favourable to everyone concerned. By that time, I want to see you well away from here. It will not be so easy for an American after the war is over, no matter what promises will be made. The Russians will have the upper hand.'
Gillon shook his arm free and angrily started up the path, shocked at what he had just been told. He swung around, his voice barely under control.
`You mean to tell me that you are going to sell out what we've spent nearly two years building up here . .
`Merde; Jacques exclaimed. 'After all these years and you still have pretensions of loyalty to a government, and one that by no stretch of the imagination can even be called your own?'
'No, of course . .
`Then do not accuse me of such nonsense either,' Jacques shot back. 'They would and will do the same to me if given the slightest opportunity. I intend to see that they are not given that chance. I will protect as best I am able those who have worked and fought with me. What I can no longer protect I warn them of the coming danger. They may then run to the next country who requires their services, or they can stay with me.'
Gillon listened, knowing that what Jacques was saying was true, thrusting down the ugly suspicion that perhaps Jacques had already contacted the M'bouti and that tonight's raid was the result of those preliminary discussions.
Àll right,' he said wearily. 'Let me at least get some clothes on first.'
CHAPTER THREE
A single Coleman gasoline lantern hissed angrily from the ceiling, filling the stifling room with white light and heavy, sharp-edged shadows. Both Jones and Phan were seated at the deal table, which had been cleared of its usual accoutrement
s of maps and dirty dishes.
The smell of cordite and oil smoke was heavy in the room, trapped by the blackout curtains on the windows and door. Outside, Gillon could hear shouted orders and the sound of shovels and padding feet as the troops worked to clear away the debris of the attack. Gillon and Jacques sat down at the opposite side of the table and Jones could see that Gillon was angry, that he blamed them for the night's, attack. But there was nothing he could do about that now and he shrugged it off to be settled later.
They were a contrast he decided, the big American and the diminutive Belgian. That both were professional soldiers was obvious to anyone who was at all familiar with the breed and if there was one thing that he was, it was familiar with the military – from the outside looking in, thank God.
To find someone like Gillon here, and a mercenary at that, was certainly a contradiction.
Gillon's military record had been excellent. A major at thirty, young even for the Special Forces in the early days of Vietnam, he had clearly been a man on the way up until suddenly, he had resigned and disappeared. The resignation would not ordinarily have been noteworthy except for its suddenness. The manner in which it was carried out had suggested irresponsibility to some and perhaps they were right after all, Jones thought. In some respects, Africa with its growing-pain wars could be considered a secession from the 'real world.' Here there was no real responsibility because loyalty was not required beyond certain hounds and, because there was no responsibility, there were no pressures beyond those one imposed on oneself in order to remain alive. Seen in this light then, he did not have much hope for what he had to do. But then, he had no other choice than to try. They had made that clear enough to him in Paris.
He cleared his throat and stared hard at Jacques, who finished pouring the brandy. The Belgian picked up the glass and drank it down quickly, then with a half-smile, nodded knowingly.
'I have much work to do, as we leave shortly. Bon soir, monsieur. I know that you will excuse me?'
Phan inclined his head to Jacques' half-bow, but re-
mained silent, and Jacques turned away and pushed out through the curtain.
Gillon sank wearily back into the chair and picked up a cigarette package from the table.
He lit one and tossed the pack down in front of Jones. Jones eyed him, but said nothing.
Àll right, now that you have put me properly in my place, can we get down to business?'
Gillon snorted without looking up.
`There is a group of Chinese Nationalist agents in western Sinkiang Province, very near the Soviet border. ...' Jones began.
Gillon looked up in disbelief. 'For God's sake, what is this? Sinkiang?'
Jones leaned across the table and smashed his fist down hard, making the half-full glasses of brandy jump.
'Shut your damned mouth and listen to what I have to say, then you can make all the wise-ass remarks you want, but by God, you hear me out V
Gillon put the cigarette back into his mouth and sat back, not at all impressed with Jones'
s outburst.,
'All right,' he said in a controlled voice. 'Go ahead, but keep it to the point.'
Jones nodded and sank back down into the chair. At least Gillon would listen to what he had to say, he thought. He had gained that much.
'There is a team of Chinese Nationalist agents in Sinkiang,' he said again. 'There has been at least one such team in Sinkiang since the Communist take-over in 1949. They are parachuted into the area in twenty-man teams, stay for two years, then head south and make their way out through Afghanistan . . . those of the teams that are left. Every so often, Taiwan manages to arrange an airdrop of supplies, but other than that, they can do little more.
'These teams are in there in the hopes . . . or so Taiwan says . . . that if the counter-revolution ever comes, they can provide the nucleus of a trained striking force in the West, where the Chinese are the most vulnerable to guerrilla operations. Since the Peking Government has become solidly entrenched and Taiwan has lost hope, active support for the strike teams has been
failing. So, in the last few years, it seems that the teams have been more inclined to banditry than espionage.
'The team in there now apparently takes their job very seriously. It seems they have come onto something very big and now they are yelling for help to get it out.
'What?' Gillon asked carefully.
`We'll talk about the what later,' Jones replied, his voice brusque. 'Right now, we have other problems. They asked for help through their radio contact, which happens to be Mr.
Phan's department in Laos. He relayed their message on to Taiwan as Usual but this time, there was great deal of messaging back and forth. Just about the time we decoded the messages, the Nationalist Chinese took us into their confidence.'
'Nice of them,' Gillon interjected acidly.
'Yes, it was, and no, it wasn't. They really had no other choice. They had to give their strike team some kind of help and they had neither the resources nor the methods of doing so. The strike team wanted their find out of China, but they could not take a chance on trying to bring it out the usual way. This stuff had to get out fast and it had to get out with a high assurance of success.'
Jones paused and mopped his brow. The humidity, excessive at any time, was almost unbearable in the closed-in room.
`So the Nationalists asked the good old U.S. of A. for help, knowing that you were probably stupid enough to give it?'
'Something like that,' Jones acknowledged. 'As soon as we found out what they had, we were more than willing to help . . . but we couldn't pull it off by ourselves either.'
Gillon pulled another cigarette from the pack and lit it, grinning all the while. He exhaled the first deep puff and chuckled at Jones. 'That's not in the code of the West, podner.
There's no such word as can't.'
Jones ignored the sarcasm this time and continued. 'The data they had to bring out were of concern to more than us alone . . . the U.S.S.R. was equally involved.'
At that Gillon broke into laughter. 'How about that?' he chortled. 'The U.S. and the U.S.S.
R. both needing
help from each other. That's never happened before. No . . . no . . .' Gillon pushed himself upright in the chair and waved his cigarette at the two men. 'I take that back. They have needed each other before. Without the one, the other couldn't have kept these stupid little wars going, so that they would have someplace to dump their obsolete weapons and recoup some of the money they've wasted in the past twenty-five years.'
'And no one to employ your unique talents, Colonel Gillon.' Phan eyed Gillon across the table, his lips pursed.
'Right you are, Mr. Phan, or whatever your name is; no one to keep my paychecks coming in. This war, I
-forget which side is picking up my bill ..
'All right, Gillon,' Jones said, his voice tired. 'Knock it off. I'm not going to debate political philosophy with you. If you'll keep your mouth shut for a little while longer and let me finish, we can all get some sleep.'
Gillon nodded, grinning. 'Pray, continue.'
Jones took a deep breath and plunged ahead, even though he was certain it was hopeless by now. He was more than ever convinced that Gillon was a total washout. There wasn't enough of anything left in him to appeal to . . . except his cynicism and, try as he might, he could see no way to use that to his advantage.
'The Nationalists were totally opposed to Russian intervention in the beginning.' He went on quickly to forestall the expected comment from Gillon. 'But they had no other choice. There is no other way into Sinkiang than through Siberian Russia and that clinched it. The problem was presented to the Russians in Moscow the day before yesterday and they agreed to a joint venture. They would supply two team members, transportation and the jump-off zone; we would supply the equipment, four team members and the key.'
'Key?'
'The strike team lives on the ragged edge as long as they are in Sinkiang, or they don't live at all.
They trust no one including their own government. They insist on calling the shots and since they could just as easily turn what they have back to the Red Chinese to buy immunity, we are being very careful to do exactly as they ask.'
'All right,' Gillon said, and leaned forward to clasp his hands on the table. 'You've done enough talking in riddles. Let's have it with no more nonsense. It's been a big night and a bigger tomorrow.'
Jones and Phan exchanged looks and Phan nodded.
`The data they have,' Jones said without preamble, `contain photographs and microfilmed documents describing the results of the latest series of the Chinese ICBM nuclear warhead tests completed last month. As best we can tell, the data are authentic.'
Gillon nodded. He was not greatly impressed, but acknowledged the possible importance of this information to Jones.
'The strike team has no way to get this information out quickly. They can't transmit by radio for any length of time or, no matter how much they move around, the Chicoms would be able to pin-point their location. So they want someone to come in and pick it up. Taiwan, in turn, has asked if we are interested enough to go and get it.. As you can guess, the data would be of marginal value to the Nationalists for anything other than trading purposes. Since they can't get to it, they figure that they have more to gain by playing the good guy and giving us a crack. I suppose they also feel if we are stupid enough to involve the Russians, then that's our lookout. And since we too have no other choice, the Russians are involved.'
'Okay, the United States has to go in and get the data. So what's holding you back? Your people have had plenty of experience with this sort of thing.'
`The key, Gillon, the key. That's what's stopping us and that's why we are sitting in the middle of this lousy jungle, getting shot at. The key, Gillon,' he repeated, having lost his temper completely. 'You, damn it, are the key to the whole stupid situation. You've got to come along with me to find this ridiculous team out in the boon-docks and we'll probably get our heads shot off while we're at it.'
