Arizona Moon

by J. M. Graham

  Co, resting a limp hand on the bulge lashed to his abdomen, marshaled enough energy to force some words. “You cannot stay. I cannot go.”

  “You will be carried,” Nguyen said without looking at his friend.

  “No power on earth can get me from this mountain.”

  Nguyen looked into his eyes and knew it was the truth. Whatever they did for Co would just bring him more pain and still have only one result.

  Co grabbed Nguyen’s arm and pulled himself up a few inches from his pack. His face showed the strain. The tracks of swollen veins mapped his face. “You must not leave me like this,” he pleaded. His grip faded and he eased back again.

  Nguyen stood slowly, letting each joint ratchet him upward, feeling each vertebra click into position with a finality and stiffness he hoped would bolster his resolve. The truth of Co’s words was inescapable. He discovered he was gripping his weapon as though it might fall to his numb feet with a lesser hold, and he wished it would.

  Truong inched over close and knelt down. Co didn’t notice. His eyes were closed over a peaceful expression, as though he were just waiting. Truong touched his shoulder. Co smiled when he saw Truong’s face. “So, you have survived, linh.”

  Being called a soldier would have warmed his heart before, but now Truong just touched the place on his own neck that could still feel the cold flat of the knife. “The Indian took back the rawhide bag.” He felt he should apologize for losing the gift acquired at such great risk, but there was no anger on Co’s face.

  “You may have been right about those people.” His eyelids sank under their own weight. “It would have been good to know them.”

  Truong noticed the thick sight on Nguyen’s weapon rise up to point at Co. Before he could protest it fired, once into Co’s chest, then twice more, quickly, to hasten the end. Co’s body contorted with a newfound strength, then sagged to limpness. Truong was stunned. Even though it was an act he too had considered, the sight of it burned through him like a fever. Some turned away. Others stood frozen, looking to the broken body on the ground. Whether they saw the brutal act as merciful or harsh didn’t matter to Nguyen. It was an unavoidable outcome tailored for his shoulders alone, and he would have to wear it.

  Hoang Li moved up the mountain like a bloodhound following a scent. His two disciples were close on his heels, confident that the aura of protection surrounding Hoang would be large enough to engulf them both. Hoang’s heavenly protector would be their shield, and the jungle floor would be their guide. They followed, and others fell in behind.

  Nguyen watched them fade into the shadows, his objection dying on his lips. He should order them back and chastise them for their insubordination, but his taste for command was sour in his mouth, especially since he was guilty of violating his own rules. He stood silently and let them go, his offending weapon dead weight in his hands. They had a purpose even he could justify. It was his own purpose that was now giving him trouble.

  The RPK man in the path lay curled around the bullet hole that killed him, his weapon lying within reach. Nguyen let his own AK slide to the ground and picked up the long machine gun. He could see Sau’s lifeless leg protruding from the bush. A second body lay prostrate by the empty rocket launcher, its face a mask of calm put there by a single shot. Things were going wrong, and the decay was gaining momentum. Any control he had ever had was crumbling away, and he hated feeling helpless. If it was his fate to fail, he could at least strike out at his tormentors. “En bas, Hoang Li,” he yelled, his French out of character and the force of it loud enough to ensure that Hoang’s cell would hug the ground. Then he raised the long-barreled weapon and pulled the trigger, sending a stream of tracers into the mountain where he hoped they would kill his pain.

  With the empty, steaming machine gun hanging lifeless at his side, Nguyen realized why the artillery had stopped. The bodies at his feet told him. Someone in the enemy camp had discovered that their own people were in the target zone. Someone close by had called off the guns. He retrieved his AK and looked toward the shadowy trees where Hoang Li had disappeared. He knew he should have stopped him. Each error he made seemed to feed on the last, compounding its effect, growing like a cancer that would kill his mission. Around him lay the lifeless products of his missteps. He knew he had to regain control, and he saw a way. Hoang Li’s anger would keep the Americans busy, and he could use that. Maybe letting Hoang’s cell go would be something other than a mistake. Maybe it was a sacrifice, a necessary sacrifice. He could stop the cancer. But he would have to excise some of the good with the bad. To kill the malignancy he would have to abandon valued comrades to their fates. He still had enough strong backs to carry the dead or the heavy machine gun and its equipment, but not both. It was another decision of rank that really left no choice.

  The bodies were dragged a few meters downgrade and arranged in a ragged line as respectfully as possible, touching arm to arm as though this would be a comfort, if not for the dead then for the living who were leaving them behind. Equipment was collected, and the big Chinese gun was lifted onto shoulders. Overloaded bodies staggered under the weight of double loads. Nguyen pushed the heavy tripod into Truong’s hands without regard for the man’s limp or the track of blood coming from his cheek. Another pack board and the canisters of ammunition for the machine gun were left wanting a pack mule.

  The jungle behind seemed empty and used. “Where is Pham?” Nguyen said, nearly pushing Truong aside.

  Truong stumbled with pain and looked away, willing his torn leg to hold the load. Nguyen grabbed his arm. “Answer me,” he said. “Where is Pham?”

  An apology was on his lips. Truong wanted to say the fault was his, and that Co’s gift had Hoang and the others searching the trees for an enemy who already had what he came for, but all he could do was point the way uphill with his chin to where Pham was pursuing Hoang Li and the others.

  Nguyen’s anger rose in him like a sudden fever. This was truly an obstinate cancer. It deftly parried every move he made. It knew how to eviscerate his strengths and tease his weaknesses. His anger was so thick that he couldn’t trust his voice, so, looking over to assure himself that the others were moving the big gun back up the path, he surrendered to the mountain’s lure, dug in his feet, and climbed into the trees.

  Pham felt weightless. His pack lay back on the path and all he carried was his weapon and the magazines in his vest. Though the slope was steep, climbing without the crushing load seemed effortless, and he wondered why he wasn’t lifting off the ground and floating up through the trees. Ahead, the jungle was empty and quiet, brooding over its wounds. Dark chunks of bark had been ripped from tree trunks, revealing the slippery white core beneath; sap dripped from the black-eyed holes where the bullets struck. His legs pumped hard and he climbed from tree to tree with no direction in mind other than up. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he had to go. The ones below without voices were demanding it, and their dull, lifeless eyes were watching.

  Sweat stung his eyes and he dragged a forearm across them without benefit. He stopped to listen but heard only the beating of his own heart. The damaged jungle seemed deserted and uninviting, and every beat of his heart made him feel more isolated, every shadow more threatening. He wanted to call out to the others but knew he wouldn’t. A month ago he might have, like a lost child in a frightening place, but not now. He had changed. His world had changed.

  A chirp in the trees, a faint squeak from a startled bird or rodent, came from somewhere ahead. When Pham ignored the sound it turned into a hiss, insistent and pointed. He somehow missed that he was the target of the sounds until one of Hoang Li’s men rose from the undergrowth with a louder pssst and tossed a small stone. The sudden appearance of a familiar face eased some of the anxiety that was filling his brain. It was as comforting a sight as he could have hoped for.

  He followed the man uphill, moving silently from tree to tree until they came to Hoang Li kneeling in the bush, his rifle raised. With a swipe of his a
rm Hoang signaled them down. The cell leader pointed to gaps in the trees ahead that showed a downed trunk with gnarled roots at one end. Above, Pham could see another of Hoang’s men creeping upward. Pham sank down and swung his weapon toward the dead tree without knowing why. The jungle was quiet and empty. The only life he saw or heard was the men around him, and he wondered if Hoang Li was being overcautious, assigning importance to a natural blind simply because it was there, but the look on Hoang’s face told him he would not be voicing that question. He would defer to experience and then rely on that experience as though his life depended on it, because it did.

  When the man above signaled he was in position, Hoang pulled his AK into his shoulder, pressing his face down to peer over the barrel.

  Shuffling sideways, Pham put a standing tree between him and the distant trunk nestled into the ground. He raised his own weapon and aimed into the shadows. If there was something there, he was ready. As he watched, a sliver of movement showed above the dead tree, a Lazarus in green rising up from the jungle floor, and before he noticed Hoang Li’s signal to wait he pulled his trigger.

  29

  Strader was on his knees, looking into the Chief’s face. “I don’t think we should wait. I need to be somewhere else, and I’d like to didi mau in that direction, if you don’t mind.” The Chief reached out and Strader took his arm, rising up, pulling until his backpack rose above the cover of the tree. Pieces of bark jumped up from the dead trunk, and the air screamed with rounds passing overhead. He dropped down again, hugging the tree.

  “I guess they didn’t go away,” the Chief said.

  Strader searched the bruised and distorted face before him, looking for something that would explain their situation, justify the dilemma they were in—some expression of remorse, a contrite grin, fear, anything. He was disappointed. “No shit,” he said.

  The single weapon turned into many, their shots crowding the space above the tree and slamming into the trunk. The rounds struck the decaying wood like hammer blows, sending jolts through Strader’s body as the tree spit fibrous bits of itself into the air.

  “I’m . . .” Strader looked into the Chief’s responsive eye, “we’re screwed.” Strader pushed the M14 up over the trunk and fired blindly, sweeping the trees at random, letting the weapon’s recoil decide the aim. The incoming fire balked, a momentary stammer, before regaining its voice, renewing its intensity. Strader pulled his rifle back and held it close. He couldn’t help the expression of hopeless resignation crossing his face. The Chief looked back expressionlessly.

  Strader turned and crawled toward the upturned base of the tree where he might fire unnoticed through the tangle of roots. The precious cartridges he had left would have to count. Hot rounds burned streaks in the air above, and the odor of wood pulp from bullet strikes filled his nostrils. Clumps of dried earth clinging to the root knuckles filled in some spaces, and Strader found an opening large enough to take the muzzle of his M14.

  The Chief watched him go. He knew their resources were almost gone, and then the enemy would come and he would have to fulfill his warrior destiny with a white man at his side. Drawing the big knife from its sheath, he looked at the heavy blade. If they came close enough, their blood would mark the steel . . . again. Bursts of night shadows popped in his mind. Dark figures full of groans and thuds: alien sweat, whiffs of tobacco and oil and fear, pungent flesh crouched nearby, full of menace. His knife moved in the night and found a breathing resistance; a body shuddered. Pain stabbed his head. He looked at the knife again as though it were an oracle revealing a hidden truth. He turned it side to side, letting the revelation sink in. “I didn’t do it,” he said, surprised to hear his own voice and the relief it carried.

  Strader leaned into his weapon, waiting for something in his narrow field of fire to make a fatal mistake. He felt the Chief move close but didn’t move his eyes from the gun sights.

  “Reach, it’s not my fault,” the Chief said, keeping his head close to the tree trunk.

  Strader seemed unaffected by the news.

  “Did you hear me? It’s not my fault.”

  Again no visible response.

  The Chief reached out to touch Strader, then thought better of it.

  Strader’s muffled voice worked around the rifle stock. “What’s not your fault?”

  “You being here. It’s not my fault. That screw-up belongs to someone else. I just remembered what happened last night, and Tanner and the new guy ain’t on me. I didn’t do it, so it’s not my fault you’re here.”

  Strader looked over his shoulder just long enough to see if the Chief’s head injury was driving his words. He seemed lucid enough. “What a relief,” Strader said, leaning back into his rifle. “For a minute I thought I was in trouble.”

  “It’s a relief to me. This is all a mistake, and I didn’t make it.”

  Strader seemed absorbed with the concentration required to aim. “Moon, I hate to burst your little happiness bubble, but I’m just a poor city boy, and I don’t think I could have got this far up shit creek without an Indian guide.” He looked over his shoulder to see if his words had hit their target.

  The Chief’s old ethnic sensitivity flashed across his swollen face. His spark of memory had brought a relief that was all too short. He wanted to argue his case further, but he could see Strader take in a deep breath, let half of it out, and tighten his grip on his weapon.

  Nguyen dug his sandals into the rich soil and pushed his legs to the limit of what energy they had left, letting the sounds of the exchange drive him forward. Ahead, Hoang Li’s cell was firing bursts across the face of the mountain. He couldn’t see the target, but they were all firing in the same direction. He leaned against a tree, checking his weapon and letting his breathing settle. Hoang Li was barking orders through the noise. It all seemed one-sided to Nguyen. If he could get close to Hoang, he would order him to withdraw. He would pull them all back into the mission, demand that they focus on the assignment. His AK seemed alive in his hands again. They would not dare refuse him.

  Nguyen charged to the next tree, then the next, keeping a wary eye on the empty distance drawing all the fire. The nearest of Hoang Li’s men, replacing an empty magazine, saw Nguyen coming up behind them. He leaned out of his concealment and waved an arm for Nguyen to get down. A discordant crack spoke back from the distance, and Nguyen watched the man fold his body around the point of a bullet’s impact. The man pitched backward, contracting his limbs into a knot, twisting around an unbearable pain. Nguyen crawled to his side. He watched the man unfurl. He watched him release his grip. He watched the surprise fade from his face.

  30

  The squad of Marines climbed away from the path, following the lure of the clash on the mountain above them. Sergeant Blackwell opened the point fire team up, moving them on line. He didn’t have to warn them to stay sharp. The gunfire was pounding home the need for caution.

  Pusic stayed behind the metal square on Bronsky’s staggering back. He looked around at the faces bent to their tasks, seeing only the effort of the climb in their expressions. The sounds that were jolting Pusic’s nerves seemed less urgent to the others—not unimportant, just a noisy destination that needed their attention.

  Corporal Middleton watched the clerk search for some model of behavior. “I’ll bet you feel a long way from home, huh, pogue?” the young squad leader said, his voice low and airy, his smile out of place given the situation.

  Pusic didn’t trust his own voice, so he tried a smile that came off weak and tentative. He felt there was something inherently wrong with moving toward the sounds of battle. It was counterintuitive, going against everything his brain was telling him was the wiser course. Bad things were happening ahead. To consciously move in that direction was a form of insanity, an insanity that could be created only with training designed to ignore the sane path, to allow yourself to be carried along on the current of like behavior, putting one foot in front of the other because everyone around you was doing
the same. He dug his boots into the mountain and let the green mentality sweep him upward.

  Looking at the young men around him, he wondered if it was courage or conditioning that kept them moving. If you did nerve-wracking things often enough, did you develop a tolerance for danger that could be seen as bravery, or were these the faces of truly fearless men? Was courage an innate quality beyond the common, or was it the lack of some genetic survival trait removed by training? It would be comforting to think he was in the company of brave men and not just a bunch of robots whose senses were dulled by repeated exposure to the abuses of war. The faces looking back at him showed no reservations about their assessment of his qualities. He was an interloper. And worse, he was a liability.

  Farther back down the mountain, behind the web of trees that filtered the sounds of the battle, the platoon pushed on, with Lieutenant Diehl driving Burke’s squad to eat up the ground. The distant shooting grew in volume, each shot reproducing itself, bouncing between the tree trunks and mountain and canopy like light reflected in a house of mirrors. His wayward people were up ahead, behind that veil of green shadows.

  The lieutenant looked over his shoulder. “Get Four on the horn,” he said without breaking pace. In seconds he had the handset pressed to his ear. “Is your workhorse in contact?” he asked. He was relieved by the answer but didn’t bother to conceal the anxious tone in his voice. “How close?” he said. “Roger that, Four. Keep me advised. Out.” Nothing else needed to be said. Sergeant Blackwell was as capable a Marine as he had ever met, and the lieutenant would have to rely on that capability. He handed the receiver back to the radioman. To ease his anxiety the lieutenant passed word forward for Burke to get his people motivated.