The Point Team

by J. B. Hadley

  Mike nodded, allowing the twelve-year-old to see how impressed he was by his toughness. Fact was, Mike had no intention of trying to follow these kids while they were being hunted as escapees. Mike & Co. would be the ones to blow their own cover. The mercs’ great protection was that no one hostile knew they existed. Once they lost that, things would grow hot mighty fast.

  Their two interpreters were icily polite, but uninformative.

  “It is necessary that you return to Ho Chi Minh City today,” the senior interpreter repeated as an answer to most of their questions.

  Roger took up a line of attack that had worked against them before—speaking to Katie and Jake in English as if the interpreters couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying. For some reason, this seemed to unnerve the two Vietnamese. This time it didn’t work.

  “It is necessary that you return to Ho Chi Minh City today.”

  Katie guessed that Mike had taken Eric and maybe even the others. Without telling her. Deliberately. Her keen sense for news told her there was nothing more for her here. She was disappointed. Yet she would forgive Mike if he had taken all the boys. She hoped she had made him feel guilty enough to do so. Katie was surprised to find herself so concerned about something that did not directly concern her TV career.

  On the way to their car, they saw a big helicopter land on level ground not far off. Men in fighting gear poured from it and set off at a steady run. They seemed to be in a hurry.

  Lt. Tranh Duc Pho and his fifteen-man unit had been picked up by chopper at their staging area at 0400 hours. The lieutenant now knew the objective of the Hmong marauders who had wiped out his mountain pioneers at the Montagnard village, massacred a militia group in a river valley and passed through his territory unscathed—much to his personal disgrace. To abduct twelve Amerasian children! And no doubt attempt to take them back out of the area entrusted to him. Over his dead body …

  His orders were clear. Bring his men in fast and get them into the jungle after the Hmong and the children. Return the children to the reeducation camp if possible. No Hmong prisoners were to be taken—none were to live to tell the story. If the children could not be brought back alive, dispose of them in the jungle. A party liaison officer had explained to him that the children’s abduction from the reeducation camp was being kept secret, that such “aberrant behavior on the part of backward pirates” had no place in the life of a workers’ progressive republic.

  The message was plain. Keep quiet and get the job done.

  The lieutenant saw that he was being given a chance to change his shame into glory. These Hmong had been disrespectful to him, had made him look ineffectual as a military man, had besmirched his honor. He could regain face only through their deaths and the failure of their mission. These hirelings of the American imperialists!

  He and his men spent the morning cutting a huge half-circle between the camp and the foothills to the west. They beat the local peasants and threatened them with torture, so that they desperately recalled every useless incident in their lives for the past week, yet there was nothing. Troops stationed in the area and the local militias had been searching since dawn without turning up a sign of anything.

  “You see the lay of the land,” Tranh Duc Pho said to his sergeant as the sun climbed high in the sky and the full force of the equatorial midday heat bore down on them. He and the sergeant stepped into the shade of a tree, while the rest of the unit rested and drank from their canteens. “Ten to fifteen Hmong tribesmen, heavily armed and ethnically different from eveyone in this region, accompanied by twelve Amerasian kids from the camp, could not pass up into the mountains in daylight without being seen by someone! They couldn’t have traveled up here in darkness, and we got here not long after dawn. You follow what I’m getting at.”

  “We’ve overreached them?” the sergeant queried. ‘‘They’re somewhere between us and the camp?”

  “I don’t think so. It stands to reason they’d move out on the double. There’s no reason for them to move more slowly than us. I think something may be keeping them close to the camp.”

  “You think they’re still back there?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “There’s no other escape route for them to travel except due west. If they’re not up here, chances are they are down there.”

  “There’s a lot of thick jungle near the camp,” the sergeant confirmed. “We could take our midday rest at the camp and comb the jungle on the way down.”

  The lieutenant smiled his hunter’s smile. He had an instinct he was no longer threshing about in a vacuum. He could almost feel them down there somewhere near the camp. There was something going on here he did not understand. From the beginning, he had noticed peculiarities …

  The sergeant spread his thirteen men out, side by side, with fifteen meters between each man, and he and the lieutenant placed themselves a few paces behind, more or less at the center. Then he ordered the men forward, and the sweep began. As they met obstacles and impassible patches, the line sometimes stretched out to four hundred meters and at times was condensed to one hundred and fifty meters—a tiny swathe of the Viet jungle, but not a random one. The lieutenant carefully studied the terrain ahead and constantly had the sweep cover a small hill to one side, search a hidden valley, investigate a stand of giant hardwoods …

  Verdoux and Murphy heard a shouted order from the sergeant.

  “They’re searching for us,” Verdoux translated. “I think they’re coming this way.”

  “Damn.”

  The two men looked at each other. Mike’s gamble had not paid off. He and Andre had discussed the pros and cons of stashing their equipment in one place and traveling light for their meeting with Eric. Since the search parties seemed to be off in the foothills, there was no apparent present danger in stockpiling the equipment and leaving a couple of men to guard it. Andre agreed with Mike that the less encumbered the men traveled, the less chance of their being detected. Still, it was a considered risk. As Andre and Bob were now finding out.

  The two mercs could hear the Viet unit advancing through the undergrowth now. As usual in a typical sweep operation, they were making no effort to conceal their presence—depending, in fact, on the noise they were making to flush the enemy early enough so he could not harm them. Once they had him on the run, he could be methodically hunted down.

  “They’re coming this way,” Murphy said grimly.

  Verdoux strained his ears to listen for commands.

  “We can’t move all this shit.” Murphy gestured at their equipment covered by camouflage tarpaulins. “I’m going to distract them. You hold out here.”

  He stopped when he heard the Viet sergeant shout commands in order to let Verdoux hear.

  “The men are bunched up too much on his right, our left, and too spread out on his left, our right.”

  “I’ll take the spread-out guys,” Murphy said.

  “Mike will be pissed because they’ll see you’re a Westerner,” Andre warned.

  “We got to trade them something if we want to keep our supplies,” Murphy said. “Tell the bastard that if I don’t come back.”

  “Good luck, Bob.”

  “You too, buddy.”

  The big Australian was gone, moving with amazing speed and stealth through the jungle growth. He barely made it to the far flank and hid only a few meters beyond the expected route of the outlying Viet trooper. The man passed without seeing him. Almost twenty meters separated him from the next soldier. Murphy crept up behind the outlying man. He could have bayoneted him, but a silent killing was not his purpose. Murphy blasted a single round into the man’s spine, which snapped him backward, lifeless.

  As the man fell and the shot rang through the jungle, Murphy switched the selector on his AK47 from semiautomatic to automatic and delivered a short burst which took the adjoining Viet trooper at gut level. The victim’s legs buckled beneath him, and he sank to the ground clutching the leaking punctures in his midriff.

  Bob Murph
y saw the horrified stares of several other troopers, astounded to see what they assumed was an American attack and an attempt to kill them inside the borders of Vietnam. Bob sprayed fire in their direction and brought one of them down. Then he beat a hasty retreat, a fox followed by an eager pack of hounds.

  Chapter 22

  MITCH came with a delegation of three of the other youths. Mike waited alone and said nothing when they arrived.

  “We’ve come to talk,” Mitch announced.

  Mike raised his eyebrows. He had heard from Katie that Eric Vanderhoven was a loud-mouthed, obnoxious kid. Apparently Mitch had taken to modeling himself on him.

  ‘‘Where’s Eric?” Campbell asked finally.

  “First we want to hear your terms. Then we’ll tell you ours. After that you meet Eric.”

  “No way.”

  “What?” Mitch seemed less sure of himself.

  “I talk with Eric or nobody. Leader with leader, if you like. Go tell him that.”

  “We don’t need you anymore, Mike. We got guns, a compass, food. We can make it to Thailand without you.”

  “You couldn’t make it twenty kilometers from here without me. Now shut up and go get Eric. You’re wasting my time.”

  Mitch was crestfallen, but he was not yet ready to back down.

  Richards came up to where they were talking and winked at Campbell.

  “I gotta go,” Campbell informed the four youths and exited fast with Richards, leaving them standing nonplussed.

  “Waller got the little bastard,” Richards told Campbell.

  Waller had tied the youth’s thumbs together behind his back and was cuffing him on the ear when they arrived. Campbell looked carefully at the boy’s face. No doubt this time, this one was Eric Vanderhoven.

  Richards and Waller caught Eric beneath the armpits and frog-marched him between them, with Campbell leading the way back to their arms stash. Nolan brought up the rear. They were not too far away when they heard a single shot, a short burst and then a long rattle of automatic fire. This was answered by fire from a number of automatic rifles, fortunately moving away from them.

  “Waller, stay with him in those boulders while Nolan, Richards and I check out Andre and Bob.”

  They ran forward and approached their supply dump cautiously. Campbell almost got shot by Verdoux. The Frenchman told them what Murphy had done.

  “Crazy Aussie,” Nolan said in admiration and went back to fetch Eric and Waller.

  “They didn’t get him, I’m sure of that,” Andre told them. “He’ll circle back here, but so will they to pick up their dead. They may even have guessed by now he was a decoy and be on their way back here to find out what they were led away from.”

  “Load up and move out,” Mike snapped, draping himself with his armaments and other supplies.

  The rest followed suit and in minutes they were under way.

  “What happened to the rest of the kids?” Andre asked Mike.

  Mike shot the Frenchman a dirty look. “Couldn’t say.”

  For the first time Mike met Eric’s eyes. He was surprised not to find them glaring out defiance and hatred, but simply submission and misery. It occurred to Campbell that Waller had been brutally insightful in his treatment of the youth as a detainee. Tie his thumbs together behind his back and clout him over the ear if he mouths off. Eric understood that approach. He was used to that treatment. And countered with meek obedience.

  They moved on for a while until Campbell called a halt. The early afternoon heat was still at its most intense. Campbell untied Eric’s hands, and the boy sat quietly. They rested a while before anyone spoke.

  “We’re not leaving Murphy behind,” Campbell said with finality. “He put his ass on the line to save our supplies. Anyone got any ideas where he might show up?”

  “Only landmark we have is that ruined temple,” Nolan observed.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Richards agreed. “I bet that’s where he goes.”

  “You two want to wait for him there?” Campbell said, giving them a chance to volunteer.

  Richards and Nolan unloaded their gear, taking only the essentials and traveling light.

  “We may not be here when you get back,” Campbell warned them. “Head for this spot if we’re not.” He showed them the place on a map and pointed up in the foothills. “On the north bank of this stream after it makes this elbow turn.”

  Campbell covered up the two men’s gear with long grass after they had gone. “We better be ready to move at a second’s notice.”

  The heavy thatch and windowless walls of the hut the youths had until lately occupied at the reeducation camp maintained a cool interior during the intense heat. Lt. Tranh Duc Pho sat with his sergeant on wicker chairs supplied by the party cadres. They sipped from two bottles of beer set on a card table between them in the semidarkness of the hut and stared reflectively at the bright, intense colors visible through the open doorway—as if watching a primitive form of television.

  But the lieutenant’s mind was dwelling on things not visible through the doorway. “The men resting? The helicopter ready to go?”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant was being more formal than usual until he discovered the officer’s mood. They had lost three men and had failed to kill their assailant. He would have to be very careful with the lieutenant.

  “All of the local troops and militias out searching the new area?”

  “Yes, sir. We got them as they came in from the midday heat and dispatched them in pairs into the field. Each pair has a radio and calls in every twenty minutes. We divided up the wave bands, so there won’t be more crossover and confusion than normal.”

  The lieutenant sipped on the bottle. “It’s not ideal, but it’s all we can do with limited manpower in this remote area. Sooner or later one of those pairs is going to stumble on something and call it in or get cut to pieces and go missing. We’ll hustle our unit into the location by helicopter and flush them out.”

  The sergeant looked wary. “You think there’s more than one American?”

  The officer amazed his subordinate by smiling cheerfully. “I think they’re all Americans. I don’t think there are any Hmong here—this has not been the way they would have handled it. We’re dealing with a small force of Americans. Perhaps only five or six men.”

  The sergeant gazed in awe of the lieutenant, for the likelihood of what he had said just dawned on him. “That was the coded radio message you sent to army HQ?”

  “Correct.” The lieutenant smiled happily and slugged down some beer. “We have them trapped down here. Along with twelve malcontent youths. They’ll have their hands full taking care of those juvenile delinquents. We’re going to nail them!”

  The sergeant joined in the lieutenant’s joy. He could see now what hero-citizens they were going to be after stamping out the imperialist vermin.

  Bob Murphy had taken off at top speed with his pursuers hot on his trail. Their bullets whipped through the vegetation around him, rapped on heavy trunks like knuckles on a door, tore leaves from stems. But they were firing blindly or else on the run at a glimpse of his fleeing form. Murphy did not waste time zigzagging or in worrying about what was in front of him. His big body broke through the jungle growth with almost the force of a stampeding water buffalo. He ran wildly, with no tricks, no caution, no subterfuges. He ran and ran till his breath came in long, asthmatic wheezes of humid fetid air that seemed to hold no oxygen for his drowning lungs. He ran till his own heartbeat sounded in his ears so loudly he no longer heard the shots behind him, and he ran and ran till the sweat pouring into his eyes and stinging them had almost blinded him. Then he stopped, half doubled over, his chest heaving, his fatigues stuck to his body and his equipment dangling. He tried to listen. Above the sounds of his own body. There were snapping noises made by insects and the piping of a bird or small mammal. Otherwise the jungle was hot, still, motionless.

  He stayed there till his body recovered. There was no point in going back to try to
find Andre. He had led the troops away from him but they would return there to collect their dead. The others had come and taken the supplies, or Andre had been forced to abandon them. Either way, there was no reason to return there. The only other rendezvous point they had in the area was the one Campbell had set up with the TV crew—the statue of the Buddha. They would figure that out and meet up with him there. Unless they decided to abandon him and leave without him. Hell, they’d never do that. Not after he had sacrificed himself for them. Campbell would never do that to him. Some of the others, maybe. But not Campbell.

  Murphy wandered about till he got his bearings and headed directly for the ruined temple. On the way he saw two Viet troopers searching through the jungle, making a hell of a noise and sticking nervously together as if they expected that at any moment a big tiger might jump out at them. Bob smiled. The team would not have much trouble eluding this kind of search. He worked his way around the noisy pair and had no more trouble on his way to the temple.

  When he reached it, he did not approach it up the tiers of huge stone steps that Katie Nelson and her crew had climbed to meet them, but along a narrow, winding path through the undergrowth which a man of his height and bulk had to travel slowly to avoid rustling all the branches. He was moving carefully and reasonably quietly when his nostrils detected cigarette smoke. Murphy himself had given up cigarettes two years before, and he enjoyed a sneaky whiff of smoke from someone else’s cigarette. Only Richards and Verdoux smoked. However, they were too professional to do so while waiting undercover for him.

  It took him ten long minutes, step by silent step, to approach closer along the path and then circle around behind the smokers, who seemed to be lighting one cigarette from another. They were talking in Vietnamese. Two voices. From the way they talked quietly and the heavy smoke, Murphy recognized from his own experience what they were—two soldiers goofing off. He crept in closer behind them so that he could see them through the bushes. Their Kalashnikovs lay between them against the fallen slab upon which they sat. He maneuvered until he could see them clearly. They were dressed in fatigues but had no sidearms or grenades, only spare rifle magazines in a pouch on their belts and combat knives on their right hips. He couldn’t understand what they said. When one spoke over a hand-held radio, Murphy knew he was calling in their codes and present location—and perhaps lying about the latter.