Bayonet Skies

by John F. Mullins

  The anonymous voice rattled off a set of coordinates. Bucky, who had been listening over Finn’s shoulder, quickly checked them against the area in which Mongoose had been inserted, quickly nodded that they were feasible.

  “And I don’t suppose we could get you to keep your bird up there, try to make contact again while we organize and extract?”

  The voice at the other end was silent, someone obviously asking the question of someone else.

  Another voice came out of the radio, one Finn thought he vaguely recognized.

  “Ah, what the fuck,” it said. “In for a penny, in for a pound. Get your shit together, call me back when you’re ready. Out.”

  In Nakhon Phanom Mark Petrillo turned from the silent radio to face a coldly furious Bentley Sloane.

  “You do realize you could be compromising this entire operation,” Sloane said.

  “And how’s that, Captain? We’ve got a radio relay plane up twenty-four hours a day. It orbits over Thailand, never gets more than ten miles from the border. We’ve got air clearance from the Thai government.”

  “No one is supposed to know we’re here!”

  “If you think they don’t, you’ve been smoking Thai weed. Soviet recon satellites cover this area twice a day. You think they’re not seeing that big black motherfucking C-130 out on the runway? They know we’re here, all right. They just don’t know what we’re doing.”

  Sloane started to say something again, was cut off by Petrillo. “And if you think I’m going to sit by while a team gets its ass chewed up, when we could do something to help, you’re outta your fucking mind.

  “Besides,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips, “what your people can do is ruin my career, and it ain’t all that great, anyway. What Sam Gutierrez can and will do is cut my balls off and stuff them down my throat. Of the two, I think I prefer the former.”

  He turned back to the radio, his broad shoulders an effective dismissal of Captain Bentley Sloane.

  Left to stew about it, with few options other than reporting back to the Pentagon, and Sloane wasn’t really sure he wanted to do that, he reflected on the irony of it all.

  Fate had brought a man back into his life, a man who had once told him he thought he was one of the sorriest officers he’d ever met, but who had nonetheless endorsed the recommendation that led to his being awarded the Medal of Honor.

  If he was a superstitious type, he told himself, he would have seen something sinister behind this.

  As it was, it must be purely coincidence.

  He went back to writing his daily journal, reporting fully the tactical and perhaps strategic mistake he thought Mark Petrillo was making. Petrillo was right. His career was going to be torn to ribbons. Captain Bentley Sloane would make sure of that.

  In Bangkok, Sam Gutierrez sat in the tiny room where the secure radio was kept, staring at a gecko lizard on the wall, idly wondering how the little lizard had managed to get into the most tightly guarded and sealed-off room in the Embassy complex.

  Gonna starve to death in here, little fella, he told the tiny reptile. The room was sprayed with insecticide at least once a day. If flies and other bugs, of which Thailand had a multitude, got in here they’d head for the radio, get inside, short it out. Not for nothing was a glitch in a computer called a bug. The very first failure of a computer system had involved exactly that.

  He opened the door, herded the gecko out. You didn’t try to grab them—all you’d be left with was the tail as they shed it to get away.

  As the little lizard scurried away to better hunting grounds, Sam thought that it was a good analogy to a team in trouble. You shed whatever wasn’t absolutely necessary to your survival.

  He could only hope that rescuing Team Mongoose would be as easy as saving the gecko.

  Chapter 18

  If you want to suck somebody in, you have to give them something they can’t resist.

  Those words from a long-ago team sergeant reverberated through Jim Carmichael’s brain.

  They want an American, here one is, he thought as he and the Montagnard platoon took position. It was just before dawn, in the false light that made things seem even more insubstantial than they were. When men’s minds played tricks on them; when eyesight that could be so sharp later in the day was fooled by the shifting and imperfect light.

  They were almost in position. Just a few more moments before the flank would report, then all hell was going to break loose.

  Even worse odds than usual, he told himself. Last time you went up against a battalion you got your butt shot, didn’t you? And lost half a company in the process. How many are going to die today, and all because of your bright idea that all of a sudden doesn’t seem so bright anymore?

  That old familiar jangling at the pit of his stomach. Wish I’d eaten when I had the chance. Too late to worry about it now.

  Anyhow, I’d probably puke it up. Wouldn’t do so much good for the confidence of the troops, see their fearless leader hurling up his guts.

  The feeling would, he knew, disappear when the first shots were fired, but right now it was well-nigh unbearable.

  Both Hauck and Dickerson had tried to talk him out of it. “Hell,” Jimmy had said, “I already been caught once. Probably want me back worse than they’d want to get some ugly sumbitch like you.”

  In truth, any American face would have done for what they were planning. Not that it mattered. It was his plan. It was therefore his ass to risk.

  There it was, the clicks on the radio that signified readiness.

  Too late to worry about it now. He flicked the selector switch off his CAR-15, all the way past single shot to full automatic.

  Even as his finger squeezed the trigger he wondered if he was doing the right thing.

  Lieutenant Colonel Minh woke to the sound of heavy automatic-weapons fire somewhere to his south. Cursing, he pulled his boots on and exited the tent.

  Only to be pulled to the ground by his aide as bullets ripped through the canvas at just about the point his head would have been. “What?” he asked. “Who…”

  The First Company commander came rushing up. “We are being attacked,” he said.

  Colonel Minh would have sworn that the captain was about to say, “Just as I said we would be,” when another burst of fire caused him to dive to the ground and lie there beside the colonel and his aide.

  “Stupid!” the colonel spat. “They must know they cannot win. Why would they attack?”

  “Perhaps they are stupid,” the captain said dryly. “They don’t know. My second platoon is fixing them by fire while the first and third are maneuvering to their flanks. I believe it is but a probe. We must remain ready for the main attack.”

  “Of course, of course,” Minh replied. “Exactly as I would have ordered. Keep me informed.”

  The captain ran off to rejoin his men. Minh’s aide was busy scraping a hole in the rich soil, into which the colonel tumbled in some relief. He could now hear the heavier reports of the AK-47s with which his men were armed, interspersed with the blast of B-40 rockets. He allowed himself a smile. His first taste of combat, and he was doing rather well, he thought. No fear, at least not any that showed. And that was all that was important. He was already considering how he would write the action up. It all depended upon how many bodies they stacked up. The more the better.

  He would wait here until the firing died down, then go forward and inspect the damage. Show the troops just how fearless their commander was, to risk himself so. He fingered the pistol his aide had just brought him out of the tent. Maybe there would be wounded. His finger jerked almost of its own volition, just as it would as he put a bullet into the head of the one who had dared attack them.

  A runner—from his collar tabs the colonel recognized him as a member of Second Company—came tumbling down next to his hole. The man was so breathless he could barely get out the message.

  “Calm down, man!” the colonel commanded. “What is it?”

  “My!�
�� (American), the man said. “I saw him myself. Leading the assault. We were told the My Lo (Long Noses) had all gone!”

  So that was it, the colonel thought. The savages were once again being led by the Americans. No wonder they thought they could take on the victorious People’s Army.

  He would teach them just how mistaken they were.

  “Bring me my rifle,” he commanded his aide. “Come,” he said to the runner. “Show me this American. We cannot allow him to escape.”

  Jim’s platoon broke contact after assaulting only as far as the first line of pickets. They’d killed perhaps ten or twenty men, something that wouldn’t have happened back in the old days. Then the NVA would have been well dug in, would have had ambushes out on all the trails, would have maintained enough men on alert to have told them of danger long before he could have gotten his platoon into position.

  It was a nice benefit, but it really didn’t make much difference. They could afford to lose the men. There were plenty more where they came from.

  The important thing was, he had heard several of the survivors screaming about the sighting of the American. Cursing and swearing, shooting wildly in his direction. A couple coming close enough he’d decided that part of the plan was at least achieved.

  No use risking your ass now, he told himself. You’ve got more work to do.

  He reached the rally point just after the last squad made it there. Took a quick head count. As many men as he’d started with. They were grinning, happy. They’d bitten the enemy. Hard. That was all that mattered.

  Not yet, boys, he told them in passable Bahnar. We’ve still got work to do.

  Petrillo handed Captain Sloane the deciphered message, waited for his reaction. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “Is he out of his goddamned mind?” Sloane demanded.

  “Some people have said that,” Petrillo replied. “Me, I just think it’s another case of Jim Carmichael doing what he thinks is right.”

  “At the cost of the mission?”

  Petrillo shook his head. “You’ve read the message,” he said. “He can’t get Parker out—too sick. And Korhonen isn’t willing to come. He’s got to buy some time. He figures this is the way to do it. Bloody their noses, maybe they’ll not be so eager to take on the buzzsaw. Knowing Jim, I’d say it’s the only way he thinks the mission can be done.”

  “Bullshit! He just wants to go out and kill people again. As I remember from his file, he’s pretty goddamn good at it.”

  Petrillo started to say something, stopped, and swallowed the words that had threatened to scorch this goddamn wet-behind-the-ears captain who, by the way, just happened to be the aide of one of the most powerful men in the Pentagon. He hadn’t gotten as far as he had in the Army by making such mistakes.

  When he did speak his voice was mild. “You probably need to understand a little something about James NMI Carmichael,” he said. “He has something that most people lack. Including me, and I suspect, you. A moral compass. He believes in what he’s doing—otherwise he wouldn’t be doing it. Now, that compass may point him in directions you don’t like. Sure as hell did back when we worked together in Vietnam, for me. But it’s there, and by God he’s going to follow it no matter what. Sure he’s a killer. An extremely good one.” Petrillo smiled.

  “Mutual friend of ours, Al Dougherty, used to say Jim Carmichael has killed more people than cancer. Slight exaggeration, of course.

  “But when he kills, it’s for a very good reason. Then he does it without remorse or maybe even thinking about it twice.”

  “And following orders,” Sloane said. “What about that?”

  “Best make sure the orders are right,” Petrillo replied. “Then stand out of the way. He’ll get it done.”

  “He’d better. He gets caught, we’re in worse shape than we were before he went in.”

  “How do you figure that, Captain? He’s a rogue. Isn’t that your cover story? Went in on his own to check out the rumors of POWs still being held. What are they calling it these days? Post-traumatic stress disorder? In spades. Hell, you could use him for the poster child. Hanoi trots him out, denounces the warmongering dogs of the U.S.A., we tell them we don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Carmichael sure as hell isn’t going to tell them any different.”

  Sloane calmed down, if only slightly.

  “I suppose that’s true,” he said. “You’re sure they can’t turn him?”

  “Now that’s telling me you really don’t know this guy,” Petrillo replied. “They might kill him, but they aren’t going to turn him. Stake my career on it.”

  You are. You just don’t know it, Sloane thought, but did not say.

  “Anyway, I’ve gotta get going on this supply request,” Petrillo said. “We’ll get a bird up tonight. Weather looks halfway decent for a change. Don’t know how long that will last.”

  Sloane nodded, dismissing the senior officer as if he were nothing more than a mere lieutenant. After all, despite ranks, one really knew who was important in this little venture.

  Which, of course, thoroughly pissed Mark Petrillo off. “By the way,” he said, fully intending the dig, “you do have a Plan B, don’t you? In case everything else turns to shit.”

  “Of course,” Sloane replied. But God help me if I have to use it.

  “You might think about sharing that with me, sometime. Inasmuch as I seem to be the one in charge here. For the moment, anyway.”

  “In due time,” Sloane said, enjoying the look on Petrillo’s face. “Need to know, you understand.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Minh, red-faced and sweating, wanted to call a halt to the chase. It had been going on for an hour now, and what they had seen was no more substantial than the fog that raised off the paddies of his home village. His battalion was hopelessly strung out. First Company and its insufferable commander off to the right flank somewhere. Second Company with him, along with half his battalion staff. Third Company back at the original bivouac site, guarding their food stores and the rucksacks he had made the pursuit companies leave behind.

  “We can move faster that way,” he had told the assembled company commanders, earning a frankly incredulous look from First Company’s captain.

  “We won’t be gone that long,” he had felt obligated to say. Which infuriated him the more. He should not have to explain himself to a mere captain! No matter what experience the man had.

  Now he was wondering if he had done the right thing. He had long since finished the water in his single canteen, and they hadn’t run across any streams for a long time now. He could always demand that of his aide, but feared the news of it would get back to the men.

  No, he must remain stoic. The leader they all wanted to emulate. A man to be respected. And feared.

  Still, would just a small rest be such a bad thing?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a huge explosion somewhere to his front, followed shortly thereafter by the cries of the wounded and dying. He forgot his fatigue, rushed forward, and was stopped short by the scene of carnage.

  At least a half dozen of his men were dead, their bodies shredded. Another ten or so were down, and even to his untrained eye they looked like they had an appointment with a higher god. The smell of explosives, blood, and torn-apart intestines assaulted his nose and it was only through major effort that he stifled a gag.

  “Claymore,” one of the squad leaders said, using the American word like a curse. “They set a claymore mine!”

  The sons of dogs! Minh raged. They would suffer for this.

  “Find them!” he screamed. “Track them down.”

  His mind was already working on what he would do to the American if, Buddha willing, he managed to take him alive. The sufferings of his countrymen in the camps Minh had run would be nothing in comparison.

  After all, his superiors wanted the American alive. They didn’t say in what kind of condition.

  “Call Third Company,” he instructed. “Have them come forward and take care of the
se men. The rest of you, go!”

  He ignored their stares, their unspoken importunity. He knew that it was like a blow to them, to leave men behind. Even the dead.

  That was not important right now. Worry about what they think of you later.

  For now, find the American. He fancied that the surrounding foliage had taken on a blood-red hue. And not just from the splatter the mine had caused.

  Rage, he realized. The feeling was good.

  The problem, Jim thought, is that you have to run fast enough they can’t catch you, but not so fast they give up. Neither was easy in the jungle. You could break contact in a matter of a few meters—something he was used to doing. Scatter. Cause them to split their forces smaller and smaller, until, if you desired, you could pick them off. Making the survivors even less eager to chase you down.

  That was why he’d planted the tripwired claymore. Ordinarily you wouldn’t do that—even though it had eliminated a few of the pursuers, it had pointed as surely as a finger to where he and his men must have been, thus focusing the search.

  He tucked behind the bole of a banyan tree, scanning the jungle behind him for movement. Around him the Montagnards also took cover, some of them grinning, some of them obviously fearful.

  He smiled, more to try to show how confident he was than out of joy. He wasn’t joyful. He was just as scared as they were. Just thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to show it.

  Panic is a strange thing. Men who just a few moments before had been fighting for their lives, holding position no matter what, would be seized with unreasoning fear, and that fear would spread quicker than any disease. One man would break, and then another, and it was soon a flood. Battles had been lost for less reason.

  So you sucked it up, projected confidence you didn’t feel.

  A WHANG! as a round snicked off the tree just above his head, warbling now as it tumbled end over end into the jungle.

  Shit, he thought. That’s a little too close. Time to move on.