Cambodian Hellhole

by Stephen Mertz

  A P.O.W. leaped in front of him, a captured rifle leveled from the waist, but at the final instant he seemed to recognize Loughlin as an ally, a Westerner, and he turned away, vanishing again in an instant, into the roiling smoke.

  Ahead of him, two figures were locked in mortal combat, rolling about on the ground. A uniformed Vietnamese was uppermost, one hand locked around his assailant’s throat, his other hand holding a long, wicked knife which he seemed intent on driving through the second man’s face.

  It took Loughlin all of half a second to recognize the man on the bottom as Mark Stone.

  Instantly he dropped to one knee—a position that would let him have the flattest possible trajectory of fire. His thumb found the fire-selector switch and hooked it onto semiautomatic even as his finger curled around the trigger, exerting steady, lethal pressure.

  One shot, at a distance of perhaps twelve feet.

  There was no way to miss, but Loughlin aimed anyway, just in case. No point in taking unnecessary chances with a comrade’s life.

  The bullet struck his target just behind the ear and exited through his left cheek, taking most of his face with it as it exploded through flesh and bone, spewing blood and brains across the compound. For an instant the body teetered upright, still leaning over Stone, the knife still poised as if to strike, and then the American wrestled it away, dumped the lifeless thing over onto its side, and struggled free.

  He saw Loughlin at once, grinning as he made it to his feet, and retrieved his lost rifle, an AK-47.

  “Glad to see you,” Stone cracked, dusting himself off.

  “Glad I could make it,” Loughlin answered.

  There was nothing more to say, not with a war to fight, still going on around them. The sounds of battle were declining, winding down by slow degrees, the pockets of resistance being gradually eliminated now that most of the P.O.W.‘s had managed to arm themselves. They were hunting down their tormentors, and it was a hunt that Loughlin would join gladly, wiping out the final traces of the parasites and sadists who had kept these men in foul captivity—for how long?

  The question would not bear asking, could not be answered. Loughlin put it out of mind and went about the task of killing, confident that, for the moment at least, killing was enough.

  “How many did we lose?”

  “Five dead,” Lynch told him solemnly. “And of the twenty-one surviving, three are wounded.”

  Stone looked around at the carnage and nodded grimly. The P.O.W.‘s were formed into ragged ranks behind Lynch, not quite a military formation, no, but close enough for his purposes.

  It could have been much worse, he knew. So damned much worse.

  Four of the dead had been the invalids, shot down in their cages before they had a chance to realize that freedom was upon them. The fifth—his momentary cagemate, Page—had sacrificed himself and taken three Vietnamese along with him to knock out the field telephone before a report of the raid could be relayed to any larger strike force.

  Thanks to Page, they had the time they would need.

  “Everybody up to traveling?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Ready as we’ll ever be,” someone cracked from the ranks behind Lynch.

  “Shit, man,” another offered, “I’ve had my bags packed for thirteen goddamned years.”

  A ripple of laughter went up around the little team, and Stone allowed himself to share in it. It cleansed their recent wounds, and might, with time, assist in healing some older ones.

  “I can promise you a hike,” he told them. “And we don’t have much to eat.”

  “As long as it’s not rice,” Lynch said, and everybody laughed again.

  “No rice,” Stone promised.

  Quickly, helped by Hog and Loughlin, he selected half a dozen prisoners to serve as squad leaders in the event that they got separated. Others—the strongest of the lot—were detailed to help carry the dead with them when they left.

  Mark Stone would not be leaving any of their casualties behind. If need be, they could bury them along the trail, but he—and all the P.O.W.‘s—were determined that the Vietnamese would have no bodies to display, to mutilate, when they finally got wind of what had happened here tonight.

  The other prisoners, Vietnamese and Hmong, had melted into darkness when the battle started. Those who lived were long gone, and Stone dismissed them from his thoughts. They were on their own now, by choice. He had his hands full with the people he had come to find. And they would demand every bit of his attention on the long walk home.

  He looked around and saw another camp, this one with all the prisoners dead, but as he looked, the scene began to fade, reality returning, bringing with it a feeling of accomplishment.

  Of peace.

  “Come on,” he said to no one in particular, already turning for the open gate and hoping his emotion was inaudible. “We’ve got some people making supper for you, and you’re late.”

  Epilogue

  The debt was paid, at least in part.

  Mark Stone still owed the P.O.W.‘s something. They had sacrificed their youth, their lives, in valiant support of a cause doomed to failure.

  A cosmic debt, written in blood, which could never be fully repaid.

  A debt owed by all men to each and every one of those who had suffered, who are suffering still.

  And the debt would be repaid in kind.

  In blood.