by Eric Helm
“It’s 0950 hours, sir.”
“Christ!” Gerber glanced at his watch in disbelief. He’d been asleep less than an hour.
“Yes, sir. Christ. Want me to get you a cup of coffee, sir?”
Gerber shook his head. “Let’s see what the general wants first. Maybe he just woke me up to tell me I should go back to sleep.”
“Yes, sir. Maybe,” said Bocker doubtfully. “I’ll tell him you’re coming, sir.”
Bocker ducked out the door of the hootch in a hurry as Gerber began to struggle into a pair of sweat-stiffened socks. Then he pulled on his canvas and leather jungle boots but didn’t bother to lace them up all the way. He simply snugged the bottom six eyelets and wrapped the laces around his ankles a couple of times before tying them. He zippered up the pants he’d been sleeping in, then rummaged through the mess of papers on his new improved desk, which was cobbled together out of shipping pallets and plywood, looking for his sunglasses. He finally gave up the search and put on his floppy boonie hat, pulling it as far down over his eyes as it would go. From the pegs above his bunk he picked up his M-14 rifle and inserted a magazine but didn’t chamber a round. Then he slung the rifle.
On his way out Gerber cast a thoughtful look at the bottle of Beam’s Choice bourbon perched precariously atop the upended ammo crate that served as his nightstand. Staring at the Beam’s, he recalled the words of his old friend Bob Tucker, a former paratrooper turned science fiction writer.
“Always remember two things,” Tucker had once told him. “First, never take a touch of the Beam’s before five. Second, somewhere in the world it’s always after five.”
Gerber considered the early hour and the fact that he’d been drinking a bit heavily lately. And he knew precisely why. Recently everything seemed to be happening simultaneously around Camp A-555. First, there’d been an increase in night patrols because the VC seemed less interested in daylight movement following the establishment of an ARVN fire support base in Dinh Dien Phuoc Xuyen. In addition to that, both the American A-Detachment and their LLDB counterpart team had found themselves shorthanded due to casualties. Finally, Lieutenant Bromhead had been promoted to captain and given his own team. So, bombarded with all these occurrences, Gerber felt he had no choice but to rely on the Beam’s a bit more than usual to keep himself going.
The stress of the long hours and hard work was not unlike that which he’d been under at this time just about a year ago when they’d been running the nighttime river ambushes, disrupting VC sampan traffic. Things had been complicated then by Karen Morrow, the flight nurse who had pretended she loved him but whose betrayal by running home to her husband had cut a deep wound. And now things were complicated by Robin, her sister, who was everything Karen was not and who loved him deeply and genuinely. Her intermittent presence at Camp A-555, however, served as a constant and often painful reminder of a love abused and trampled upon.
Gerber had started drinking heavily then but had eventually pulled himself out of it. Now here he was contemplating a snort at nine-fifty in the morning. His drinking wasn’t a problem yet, but he could see its becoming one, and in that he recognized an inherited trait he didn’t much like in himself. He was going to have to watch it.
In the end, though, he rationalized the thought that, when you’ve been up all night every night for the past week, nine-fifty in the morning isn’t really morning — it’s the middle of the night. And anyway, nine-fifty was sure as hell after five. Besides, if he was going to have to face Crinshaw at this hour, he was entitled to a little eye-opener.
“What the fuck,” he muttered, shrugging.
He uncapped the bottle and took a pull of the bourbon.
“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” he said softly, touching a finger to his lips. Then he recapped the Beam’s and followed Bocker.
Outside his hootch the sun beat down unmercifully. Gerber squinted against the glare and held a hand in front of his forehead to help the boonie hat. He made a mental note to have Kepler, the team’s Intel sergeant, bring back half a dozen pairs of sunglasses the next time he, or anyone else for that matter, went to Saigon. Then, realizing that it might look as if he was saluting and not wanting to identify himself or anyone else to some VC sniper, he let his hand drop and trudged across the compound to the communications bunker, his boots kicking up little clouds of red dust as he walked.
After the brilliance and heat outside, the commo bunker seemed pleasant by comparison. It was cool and dark with only a couple of dim red bulbs lighting its interior. He stood at the foot of the stairway for a moment, letting his eyes readjust to the darkness, then took the headset and microphone Bocker handed him. Gerber pressed one of the earphones against the side of his head and keyed the switch on the mike.
“Big Green, this is Zulu Six. Go ahead.”
He recognized the Georgia cracker accent of Brigadier General Billy Joe Crinshaw.
“Zulu Six, this is Big Green. First, let me tell you right now, mister, don’t you ever keep a brigadier general of the United States Army waiting again. Is that understood?”
Gerber held the headset away from him and stared at it for a moment as if it had just done something incredibly stupid. Then he grimaced at it and pressed it back against his ear.
“Yes, sir,” he said carefully into the microphone. “That is clear.”
“Good. Now listen. A U-1A aircraft went down last night in the jungle somewhere to the northwest of your camp near the Cambodian border. It was carrying a VIP back from an important meeting in Phnom Penh when it was forced to detour farther south because of bad weather near Prey Veng. They reported engine trouble southeast of Kampong Trabek, and then contact was lost. I want you to go out and find that airplane and bring those people in before the Viet Cong find them.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get a patrol right out there,” Gerber answered.
“I don’t think you’re reading me, Captain. I don’t want you to send a patrol. I want you to send an army. Strip the camp if you have to. I want you to do whatever it takes to find that airplane, wherever it is, and bring those people or their bodies in. Is that clear? Over.”
“Sir, you can’t be serious. About stripping the camp, I mean. With all due respect, sir.”
“Captain Gerber, I am not only serious, I am giving you a direct order to take your team, every single one of them, and your Tai strikers and go out and find that airplane. Leave the camp in the hands of the Vietnamese and their PFs. After all, it’s their country. Now do I make myself clear? Over.”
Gerber couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Crinshaw was talking about conducting a battalion-sized sweep.
“Big Green, may I respectfully remind you that MACV standing directives specifically state that there must be one American officer present on the camp at all times. Also, my counterpart was called to Saigon yesterday and is not expected back for another two days. Both his XO and mine are new at the job. I don’t think it’s wise to leave the defense of the entire camp in their hands until they’ve both had a bit more experience. Over.”
“You may respectfully mind your own business and follow orders, Captain. I don’t care how you solve your little problems, but I want that plane found and those people brought in. I don’t care how many people it takes, where you have to get them from, what it costs or where you have to go. Just get your butt out in the field and do it. Now, Captain! Over.”
Gerber glanced at Bocker, who was wearing a questioning expression.
“The general is really torqued up about some missing VIP whose plane supposedly went down near here last night. Anybody report hearing or seeing anything?”
Bocker shook his head.
Gerber keyed the mike again. “Big Green, do I understand that you are telling me to cross Stormy Weather, if necessary?”
“Captain, I am ordering you to do whatever it takes, to go wherever necessary, to find that airplane and to bring in the survivors, or their bodies for burial. Over.”
“Sir, I can’t do
that without an order from Black Widow Six or, in his absence, Crystal Ball. You must know that, sir. Even then it would have to be a written order, and you are, sir, outside our direct chain of command. Over.”
“Now you listen to me, Gerber. Neither Hull nor Bates is available right now. If they were, I wouldn’t be talking to you. I am a general officer and I am giving you a direct order to go out and find that airplane, no matter where it is. Now are you refusing to obey the direct order of a general officer? Over.”
“No, sir, I am not,” answered Gerber. “But I am requesting that the order be written, as I have a right to do under U.S. Army and MACV regulations. Why all this fuss over some VIP, anyway?”
“Captain, for the last time, you have your orders. Either carry them out or consider yourself under arrest and let me speak with your executive officer. Over.”
“Big Green, I am not refusing to carry out your orders, but I am requesting, in fact I’m insisting, that I have them in writing. I will not cross Stormy Weather without a written order to do so.”
Bocker’s interest in the conversation, what he could hear of it, was perking up. The men of A-Detachment 555 had, in fact, crossed Stormy Weather, the border into Cambodia, on many occasions, but that had been before the sticky business of the attempted assassination of a Chinese military advisor who wasn’t supposed to be working with the Viet Cong. After that, crossing into Cambodian territory had been strictly verboten.
“All right, then, damn it,” swore Crinshaw. “All right. You’ll get your written order, Captain. But you damned well better not still be in camp when it arrives.”
Then, incredibly, Crinshaw’s voice softened. At least it softened as much as it could over the radio. In fact, it sounded tired.
“You’ll get your written order, Captain,” Crinshaw said quietly. “Now please get on with it. This isn’t just any VIP that’s missing. It’s Regal Chops. Big Green, out.”
Gerber slowly lowered the microphone and headset.
“Captain, what is it? What’s wrong?” asked Bocker.
“It’s Crinshaw. He said please.”
“Crinshaw said please? Are you sure?”
“That’s what the man said. He said please.”
“I don’t believe it. Not General Crinshaw. Do you think he’s ill, sir? Or maybe up to something?”
Gerber gave Bocker a sharp look. It wasn’t good to have the men speaking that way about generals, even if what they said might be true.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Galvin. I think he’s scared. Have you got any idea what Regal Chops is? I think that’s what he said. Regal Chops.”
Bocker shrugged. “Never heard of it. Supposed to be somebody’s call sign?”
“I don’t know. Could be. Check the SOI, will you?”
Bocker leafed through a thick ring binder, a perplexed look gradually growing on his face.
“Captain, are you sure General Crinshaw said Regal Chops?”
“Yes, that’s right. What’s the matter, isn’t it in there?”
“Oh, yes, sir, it’s in here, all right. It’s just that, well, it must be a mistake or something. I mean, are you positive he said Regal Chops, sir?”
“Positive,” said Gerber. “Who is it?”
“Well, sir, according to the SOI, Regal Chops decodes as General William C. Westmoreland, commander, U.S. Army Vietnam and MACV.”
Gerber gave a low whistle. “Jesus! No wonder he’s scared.”
“Captain, are you going to tell me what this is all about, or just keep treating me like a mushroom?” asked Bocker.
“How’s that?”
“Keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit.”
Gerber grinned. “I promise to give you a bath and some sunlight, Galvin, but not just yet. You’re going to have to stay a mushroom a little bit longer. This deal is so screwy that I want to make absolutely certain of my facts before we go stomping off into the jungle. Besides, it’s the sort of thing that I really think all the men ought to be told about at the same time. Have you any idea where I can find Master Sergeant Fetterman?”
“Yes, sir. I saw him and the new XO over by the central command bunker with Sergeant Smith. I think Sully and the master sergeant are giving the lieutenant an orientation on the special defensive precautions.”
“Fine. See if you can get hold of Colonel Bates or General Hull for me on some of that electronic wizardry of yours, will you? I’ll either be at the command post or in my quarters.”
“Right, sir. Colonel Bates first?”
Gerber nodded. “If you can’t get either of them, I’ll talk to one of their execs.”
“Right.”
Going outside was like walking into an oven. Gerber shielded his eyes until they became accustomed to the light, then walked back toward the command post located next to the fire control tower. Each of the camp’s four outer walls of packed mud and sandbags had a forward command bunker located near its center from which to direct the defense of that section of the perimeter. But a fifth bunker, which served as the central command post, was located nearer the center of the camp. It contained the camp’s backup long-range radio equipment and provided good fields of fire across the runway bisecting the camp in case the walls were breached during an attack. Its proximity to the FCT provided good observation of the terrain surrounding the camp, and the bunker itself was reinforced to withstand anything but a direct hit from fairly large artillery.
A covered trench with a sandbagged roof connected the command post to an inner defensive redoubt built around the American quarters, dispensary and main ammunition bunker. The trench was designed so that it could be intentionally collapsed by the detonation of hidden demolition charges, the location of which was known only to the Americans.
As he approached the command post, Gerber could see two men standing outside the sandbagged Z-shaped entrance. A more mismatched pair of soldiers would have been hard to find in all of Indochina, he thought amusedly.
First Lieutenant Greg Novak, A-555’s new executive officer, who had arrived at the camp only yesterday, was built like a Sherman tank. He stood six feet two and a half inches, weighed two hundred and seventy-five pounds and affected a pistolero mustache that he had somehow managed to avoid losing during his processing in-country. He wore reading glasses when necessary, Gerber knew, and had an affinity for edged weapons that had already endeared him to the man standing next to him.
Master Sergeant Anthony B. Fetterman, on the other hand, stood a shade over five feet six and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and fifty pounds sopping wet. He was in an advanced state of balding and looked more like a vacuum cleaner salesman than a hardened and much decorated veteran of three wars, assorted conflicts, police actions and special operations. In Gerber’s opinion, Fetterman should have been sent back to the States, having recently been captured by the Viet Cong and successfully escaped. He was usually an unfriendly fellow until he got to know you, but he’d taken an inexplicable immediate liking to the new lieutenant.
Fetterman had served as a paratrooper and ranger in the Second World War, worked with the United Nations Partisan Forces in Korea and been one of the first men to volunteer for Special Forces when it had been formed. Soft-spoken with blue-black, steel-like eyes, he spoke seven languages fluently and had a good working knowledge of half a dozen more. As operations sergeant of the team, Fetterman had earned the respect and admiration of all who had served with him. Gerber was familiar with a side of the man — one who would go out of his way to be kind to small children and animals — that seemed to belie outwardly anything except what he actually was: probably the most dangerous man in Southeast Asia. In his long military career he had earned well over a hundred confirmed combat kills. No one, not even Fetterman, knew for sure how many unconfirmed enemy deaths he was responsible for.
“Good morning, Master Sergeant, Lieutenant Novak,” said Gerber.
As Gerber walked up, a third member of the little group stuck his head out of the com
mand post.
Gerber acknowledged him with a nod. “Good morning, Sully.”
Francisco Giovanni Salvatore Smith, known universally as Sully, was the perfect complement to the other two men. Halfway between Fetterman and Novak in size, he was the product of a wartime union that resulted in marriage between an Air Force flyer stationed in Trieste, Italy, and one of the local maidens. Sully was the team’s senior demolitions specialist. He had developed a liking for making things go bang when his father had bought him a junior chemistry set for his tenth birthday. The fascination with explosives had persisted and led him first into combat engineering and later into EOD. Sully was very good at making things go bang, but his father had never quite forgiven him for seeking a career in the Army rather than one in the Air Force.
“Good morning, sir,” answered Smith cheerily. “I thought you went to bed.”
“I did. Something’s come up, though. I’d like to see all members of the team in the team house in fifteen minutes.”
“We got a mission, sir?” Fetterman asked quickly.
“It looks that way, Master Sergeant. Find Lieutenant Bao for me, will you, and tell him that I’ll want the First and Third Independent Tai Strike Companies ready to move out in half an hour with food and ammo for a three-day patrol, plus medical.”
“Big time, huh?”
Gerber nodded. “Sounds like it. There are a couple of details I need to check on first. Oh, and tell Lieutenant Bao he’s to remain in camp with the Fifth Company as reserve.”
“He’s not going to like that,” said Fetterman.
“I know. But tell him all the Americans are going to be off camp except for Lieutenant Novak, and he’ll need a good man to help him run things until we get back. Besides, I don’t want to trust the defense of the camp entirely to the PFs. Not with Captain Minh in Saigon.”
“All the Americans except Lieutenant Novak, sir?” asked Fetterman, not entirely believing what he’d just heard.
“That’s right.”
