by Eric Helm
“Somebody’s idea of a joke?”
“If it is, it’s in damned poor taste. Besides, that camp down there is full of radios. We’ve always got two people on radio watch. But you tell me nobody answers when you call. With around three hundred and fifty men plus maybe another one hundred and twenty-five dependents down there, doesn’t that strike you as being just a bit odd?”
“I see your point,” answered the pilot. “What do you want to do about it?”
“There’s an emergency landing zone about two klicks east-southeast of the camp, one of our E and E pickup points. Can you put us down there? We’ll walk back and set up an NDP in that tree line down below. We can get artillery fire support from the ARVN battery at Dinh Dien Phuoc Xuyen if we need it and ought to be able to patch a request for air through B-41 at Moc Hoa. After it gets dark, I’ll send a recon team in to check it out. If everything’s kosher, we’ll all go in, and Master Sergeant Fetterman and I will feel very foolish, but nobody will have gotten hurt. If things are amiss, we’ll punt.”
“Like I said, Captain, it’s your camp. If that’s the way you want it.”
“One more favor. When you get back to base, call Lieutenant Colonel Alan Bates at B-Detachment Five Two in Saigon and let him know what’s going on, will you? No sense in letting the VC know our plans if something is wrong down there. You never can tell who might be listening to the radio.”
“No problem. I’ll give him your message.”
Gerber and Fetterman started aft to get the men ready to disembark. Almost immediately the crew chief called them back.
“The AC says he’s got the Vietnamese camp commander on the radio now. He wants to know if you want to talk to him.”
Gerber took the headset the crew chief offered him.
“You push this button to talk, sir.”
“Thanks.” Gerber nodded and keyed the mike. “Zulu Six.” He heard Dung’s voice reply.
“Zulu Six, this White Wing Five. Do you intend to land? The runway has been the damage by VC mortars, but is still all okay for helicopters to land.”
Gerber ignored the question. “May I speak with Zulu Five, please?”
“He not available.”
“Why not? Where is he?” Gerber pressed.
“He make the wounded when mortars hit. He in dispensary.”
Gerber thought for a moment. It was a plausible enough explanation. “Okay, let me talk to Suicide Six,” said Gerber, using the call sign for Lieutenant Bao.
“He also not available. Do you intend to make the landing?”
“Why isn’t Suicide available? Where is he?”
“He also make the wounded. We take beaucoup mortars. They hit barracks. We have beaucoup wounded.”
Uh-huh, thought Gerber. How very convenient. He was beginning to think Fetterman was right. It seemed a bit odd that the VC mortars had done so much damage to the Tai barracks while from the air it was obvious that the Vietnamese quarters had hardly been touched. Further, it was stretching the limits of probability to believe that both Novak and Bao had been injured in the attack. And if they had so many wounded, where in the hell were they all? A couple of the buildings were still smoking. There ought to be wounded and soldiers all over the place down there, but the camp looked as empty from the air as a drive-in theater at high noon.
“Have you called for a medevac for the wounded?” asked Gerber.
“That negative,” said Dung. “Have beaucoup wounded, but none too serious. We treat here in infirmary. Do you wish to make the landing?”
Gerber looked at Fetterman, who looked back and said, “Well, Captain?”
Unnecessarily Gerber unconsciously cupped his hand over the microphone. It wouldn’t transmit unless he pressed the switch.
“It’s Lieutenant Dung. He says Novak and Bao can’t come to the radio because they were wounded in the mortar attack. He says they’ve got a lot of wounded, but he didn’t evac anybody because the wounds weren’t serious enough. He keeps asking if we’re going to land, and he hasn’t mentioned the helicopters or the conex sitting down there.”
“It stinks, Captain. I’m telling you it smells like kemchi in nuoc-mam.”
Gerber keyed the mike switch again. “Negative, White Wing Five. We are diverting to Moc Hoa. They have a problem there requiring our assistance. We will return in the morning. Zulu Six, out.” Gerber peeled off the headset and looked at Fetterman again.
“You think he’ll buy that, sir?” asked Fetterman.
“Let’s hope so, Master Sergeant. I’m sure as hell not buying the line he’s feeding us.”
Twenty minutes later the small landing zone east-southeast of Camp A-555 was crowded with soldiers. In the gathering darkness Gerber briefed his men.
“We’ll leave the majority of the men here and establish an NDP around the LZ. That way we can either bring in reinforcements or get out in a hurry if we have to. Second Lieutenant Hung will be in charge, and Sergeant First Class Tyme will act as senior advisor to him.”
It was a diplomatic way of saying Tyme was in charge of the LZ. In fact, the Tai strikers worked directly for the Americans and took their orders, and money, directly from them. However, since Hung as a Strike Force lieutenant technically outranked Tyme and it wasn’t a good idea to give the striker troops the impression that a sergeant should give an officer orders; Tyme would give the Nung Tai tribesman ‘advice’ on the command of his men, which, naturally, it was expected Hung would follow.
“Sergeant First Class Kepler, Master Sergeant Fetterman and myself,” continued Gerber, “will take eight of the strikers and patrol to the tree line southeast of the camp, where we will establish an observation post and conduct a surveillance of the camp. If conditions warrant, we will then detach a one- or two-man patrol to conduct a reconnaissance of the camp itself and try to determine exactly what is going on in there. It may be that we’ll find this is much ado about nothing and that we’re chasing shadows. I hope so. But as I’ve already indicated, the evidence seems to indicate sufficient cause for us to proceed with extreme caution. Once we know exactly what we’re up against, if anything, we’ll be in a better position to decide what to do about it.”
Gerber looked at the men, their eyes large, like giant black buttons floating in a sea of white eyeballs. Their faces, masked with green-and-black camouflage face paint, were already indistinct shadowed outlines in the rapidly fading light.
“I guess I don’t need to tell you guys what kind of treatment Lieutenant Novak, the LLDB and the strikers, especially the Tai, can expect if the VC have got the camp.” He deliberately avoided mentioning Robin Morrow, as if not thinking about her might somehow prevent anything happening to her. “Personally, I don’t know how they could have taken the place without destroying it, unless they had heavily infiltrated the PFs and had outside help. That may explain the presence of that large VC force whose trail we cut earlier today. Anyway, the sooner we can act, the better the chance our people will have.
“We’ll have to maintain strict radio security to avoid tipping our hand that we’re in the area. The main group here will maintain a radio watch, but they’re not to transmit for any reason unless under attack. The reconnaissance patrol will break squelch twice, every hour on the hour, to signal we’re all right. Even if they pick that up in the camp and figure out it’s some kind of signal, they won’t know what it is or where it’s coming from. At any rate, we’ll be back not later than midmorning and figure out what we’re going to do then. I guess that’s it. Let’s do it.”
Because they moved with extreme caution, it took an hour and a half to cover the two kilometers to the tree line. When they had located a suitable spot from which to observe the camp, Gerber deployed the Tai in a U-shaped defensive position, then he crawled forward with Kepler and Fetterman for a closer look.
There were no lights to be seen, and that in itself was a bit unusual. Blackout regulations, though posted, were not rigidly enforced unless there was reason to expect trouble, and t
here were usually a few lights burning, especially this early in the evening. A few late cooking fires from the strikers’ families, medical specialists checking patients in the infirmary, card games in the American or LLDB team houses, that sort of thing was routine and usually accounted for some light, but this evening there was nothing. The camp seemed almost preternaturally dark and silent. It gave Gerber the uneasy feeling that he was viewing a necropolis.
At long last he lowered the 7 x 50mm Zeiss binoculars and rubbed his aching eyes. He knew that, if he could see them, they would look bloodshot. He was bone tired.
“Well, gentlemen, I guess that’s about all we’re going to see from out here,” Gerber said softly.
“Right, sir,” said Fetterman. “I’ll be off, then. I’ll try not to be gone more than about two hours.”
“Nobody said anything about you going anywhere, Master Sergeant,” said Gerber.
“Of course not,” said Kepler. “I’m the logical one to do it. After all, I am the Intel sergeant.”
“I appreciate the thought, guys, but it’s my camp,” said Gerber. “If anyone is going to sneak in there and have a look around, it’s me.”
“Captain, with all due respect, that’s the dumbest idea I’ve heard of all day. Sir,” said Fetterman, “just look at you. You’re dead on your feet. I don’t know how you’ve kept your eyelids open this long without tape. You go in there in the shape you’re in, you’ll likely stumble over your own feet and bring the whole camp out to see what the thud was when you fall down.”
“Your concern is noted, Master Sergeant, but I’m perfectly capable of doing my job, thank you.”
“No, sir, you’re not. If you were, you’d look at this objectively and realize you can’t go. You’re not capable of going in there objectively, sir.”
“Now just what in hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what I mean, sir.”
Gerber knew, all right, but he didn’t like it. Fetterman was reminding him that Morrow was in there. If you’re a surgeon, you don’t operate on your own wife. The same held true for soldiers’ girlfriends.
“Master Sergeant Fetterman’s right, sir,” said Kepler. “We need an objective survey of what’s going on in there. I know the camp, and I know what to look for. Let me go.”
Fetterman interrupted. “I’ve the highest regard for Sergeant Kepler’s ability to acquire things, sir. Whether it’s Intelligence or motorboats. He’s a very sneaky man. But he’s not very quiet, sir. The men call him Wandering Buffalo when he’s out in the bush.”
“They do not,” protested Kepler.
Fetterman continued without apparent notice. “Anyway, sir, I’ve had experience with this sort of thing before. You picked me for Nhu Ky when we had to go into the NVA camp, remember. Besides, I’m the only one small enough to pass for a striker if somebody spots me.”
Gerber let out a sigh. “All right. I concede the logic of your argument. Don’t get caught. If you do, there’s nothing we can do to help you. And don’t get yourself shot by some of our own guys, if we’ve guessed wrong about this.”
“Not to worry, Captain. I got into and out of Nhu Ky, and I got out of that damned P.O.W. camp okay, didn’t I? Besides, this time I know exactly where the defenses are — I helped build them. Piece of cake.”
He shrugged out of his pack and web gear and piled his rifle and steel pot with them, taking a boonie hat from the side pocket of his fatigues.
“No rifle?” asked Gerber.
“It’ll just get tangled up in the wire when I crawl through, sir, and cause problems. I’ve my knife and a couple of little extras. It’ll be enough.”
“What if you’re spotted?”
“Then I’ll look less dangerous if I’m not carrying a rifle. That can be a real advantage sometimes. Besides, sir, I’m sure as hell not going to fight my way out of a whole campful of VC with one lousy rifle.”
“All right, Master Sergeant. It’s your party. Take what you think best.”
“Thank you, sir. If you’ll just keep an eye on my things for me, I’ll be back in about two hours.”
Fetterman crawled into the darkness and disappeared.
“I wish you’d let me go, Captain,” said Kepler. “Master Sergeant Fetterman’s getting a little old for this sort of thing.”
“Christ, Derek, he’s only thirty-nine.”
“That’s what I mean, sir. It’s a younger man’s job.”
Gerber almost laughed. “No, Derek. Fetterman’s the right man for it. He’s got the experience and he’s got the killer instinct. I probably wouldn’t have made it. You might have. Fetterman will. And he was right about one other thing. I’m exhausted. Wake me if anything interesting happens.”
“You’re going to sleep at a time like this?”
“I’m going to give it one hell of a try. You got a better idea?”
“Nope. Good night, sir.”
Gerber closed his eyes and shut out the war.
CHAPTER 10
INSIDE U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES CAMP A-555
It had taken Fetterman slightly less than an hour to cross the minefield between the inner and outer perimeters of the camp. He’d followed one of the hidden paths, secretly left clear of mines as an escape route for the American Special Forces team in case the camp was overrun, but he’d had to traverse it with caution, both in order to avoid detection in case anyone was watching from within the camp, as someone should have been, and in case the VC did, in fact, control the camp and had moved any of the mines or added to them. Ultimately, he’d found the pathway clear, which was good news. It would make getting out of the camp a lot simpler and faster than getting in.
Fetterman carefully snipped the barbed wire grillwork away from the mouth of the drainage tube in the packed mud and sandbagged wall. The jaws of the small pair of wire cutters, wrapped in strips of cloth to muffle the sound, made very little noise. Nevertheless, he paused after each soft snick to listen for any sound that might indicate his surreptitious entry had been overheard. He cut through only enough strands of wire to bend the bottom of the grillwork silently up out of the way, then tied a meter-long piece of black nylon cord to the grid. He slid into the tube headfirst, and used the cord to pull the grill back down into place behind his feet.
Fetterman considered himself lucky. His only companion inside the tube was a large rat, which hissed at him in protest of this brazen invasion of its territory, but the rodent retreated squeaking down the tube when Fetterman failed to buffalo and hissed back.
At the other end of the tube, Fetterman repeated his exercise with the wire cutters, waiting until he was sure the coast was clear before bending up the grillwork and slipping out of the tube.
As he turned to bend the wires back into place, he almost stepped into the body of a dead striker.
The man was very nearly killed twice. Fetterman already had his knife in motion before he noted that the striker’s throat had been slashed from ear to ear. He checked his thrust aimed beneath the corpse’s rib cage.
The striker’s body had been propped against a pile of sandbags so that from a distance he appeared to be standing. Fetterman didn’t recognize him, but then, he didn’t know everyone in the strike force. He noted with interest that the cadaver bore two distinguishing elements: a strip of red cloth tied about the left arm and a slit in the trousers revealing a characteristic mutilation.
That bit of grisly trophy taking gave Fetterman more information than he might have gleaned from an entire night of roving about the camp. It told him that the camp was in the hands of the VC. That they had pulled off their coup by infiltrating the strike force. And that somewhere within the confines of the camp, Staff Sergeant Krung was still alive and loose, industriously engaged in the business of exacting his own peculiar brand of jungle justice.
In the darkness Fetterman’s teeth flashed briefly in a smile.
Krung hadn’t bothered to strip the body, probably figuring that its fully equipped but emasculated state
would have a greater psychological impact on the VC who found it. Fetterman could appreciate the artistic nicety of it, but personally he would have taken the man’s weapon rather than leaving it in a serviceable condition for the Viet Cong, and he did so now, removing the man’s cartridge belt and harness, as well. It would make a nice bit of additional camouflage if he had to walk openly about the compound, and despite what he’d told Gerber, he did feel a little bit naked without a rifle or, in this case, a carbine. Besides, he was loath to leave it for the enemy.
Knowing that a man with a carbine actually in his hands was likely to attract a few curious stares, Fetterman checked the safety, then slung it over his shoulder, muzzle downward in the Vietnamese manner. Quickly he checked the man’s pockets for identification papers or anything else that looked interesting, pocketing a crumpled pack of American Camel cigarettes and a book of Army-issue damp-proof matches, as well. Except for an occasional pipe, or a rare cigar, Fetterman didn’t smoke because of nicotine’s detrimental effect on a soldier’s night vision, but a burning cigarette could serve as a fuse, and it was possible to improvise a simple yet surprisingly effective incendiary device from a book of matches, so he took them. It wasn’t that he had any plan for using them. It was just a question of not leaving anything of a weapon value behind for the VC. Then he took the band of red cloth from the striker’s arm and tied it about his own. Pulling the boonie hat down low over his forehead to shadow his camouflage-painted face, he stepped away from the wall and walked boldly in the direction of the nearest Tai barracks.
Diagonally across the camp, in the Vietnamese compound near the north end of the runway, Major Dung Cao Chiap of the National Liberation Front re-entered the quarters he had occupied for the past few weeks as Lieutenant Dung Cao Chiap of the ARVN LLDB. He removed his pistol belt and shoulder harness, hanging it on a peg on the wall of the hootch, then hung his carbine on the peg next to it. He unfastened the chinstrap of his American-made, Saigon-issued helmet and hung it on the peg with the web gear and nodded to the two VC guards in the room. Finally he looked at his prize prisoner sitting on the bunk against the wall, her wrists and elbows still cruelly tied behind her back, dried blood showing at the corner of her mouth where he had kneed her.
