by Tom Wilson
The lieutenant raised a hand, watching the parachute. "Too many militia," he cautioned.
Black paused, agonized, then nodded agreement.
The figure dangling beneath the chute descended into the trees less than a kilometer distant. They heard loud shouts and several shots.
Sergeant Black got back onto the HF radio and told Buffalo Soldier about the aircraft being shot down.
"Stand by," he was told. A few minutes later Larry came back on the air, keeping his calm. "Could you tell what it was that got the tango three-four?"
"Rockets of some kind. Small, guided rockets. Only one out of four hit the aircraft."
He was staring out at the seven T-34's orbiting west of them. He wanted to speak directly to the pilots, but the aircraft didn't have HF, and his VHF hand-held radios were fixed on frequencies at the bottom of the band.
Black heard screams from the direction of the downed pilot. He recognized Thai words.
"They've captured the pilot," he told Buffalo Soldier. "Sounds like they're treating him pretty bad."
"The other tango three-fours are going to RTB, Hotdog." Meaning they would return to their base.
"We need the air support, Buffalo Soldier."
"Not until they regroup and find out what it was that shot the bird down."
"Whatever it was was pretty small, Buffalo Soldier. I figure if the T-34's release high, they'll be okay."
"They're going to RTB, Hotdog."
"Bullshit . . . we need 'em. The people up on top need 'em worse. I'll give coordinates of the vee-pand down here, and they can release high."
"Sorry, Hotdog."
The engine sounds grew fainter.
Black was furious. "Buffalo Soldier. Hotdog suggests you evacuate Yankee two-one."
"Hotdog, I just got word from Papa Wolf. He wants you to proceed on up to the top. We're gonna request some big-time help to work over that area where you are now."
Papa Wolf was the lieutenant colonel. He guessed that the "big-time" help Larry spoke of meant Thuds or Phantoms, or even a B-52 strike. Black began to feel better, but he was uneasy about going up the mountain, where they'd be as trapped as the others there.
"Acknowledge, Hotdog," said Larry.
"Hotdog acknowledges." He paused. "Tell Papa Wolf we may not have much time unless you get us that air strike ASAP."
The voice on the other end changed. "Papa Wolf here, Hotdog. Go up and take a look at the situation. Will you have to wait for darkness?"
Black looked over at the lieutenant, who was listening intently. He shook his head.
"Negative," he told Papa Wolf.
"Good. Give us a call after you get on top and take the look. Buffalo Soldier out."
Black saw that the lieutenant was already preparing the men to move out, cleaning up the mess they'd made and starting to tear down the HF radio.
He picked up the pretuned hand-held radio. "Yankee two-one, this is Yankee one-oh."
He called for more than ten minutes before the guy on top finally picked up.
"Yeah, go ahead." The voice sounded laconic and almost sullen, which seemed odd after what Hotdog had just witnessed.
Black told him they'd be coming up the path, so to make damn sure no one tried to blow them up. The guy didn't sound happy about receiving visitors—but, then, he didn't seem to be emotional about much of anything.
Fifteen minutes later they cautiously filtered out of the small bunker, which was ripe from their accumulated odors. When they were at the edge of the thicket, the lieutenant gave a nod. Four Hotdogs moved quietly toward the soldiers manning the 12.7mm machine gun.
2130L—Trailer 5B, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
GS-7 Penny Dwight
The time had come.
It was not a decision she made in the heat of one of their necking sessions, but while Dusty walked her from the O' Club to her trailer, as he'd done every night since she'd arrived. She'd known it before, when the men at the table began to talk about a pilot who'd been lost in a strafing pass. She'd regarded Dusty as he'd pursed his lips, listening to Billy Bowes describe the shoot-down, and she'd thought how tragic it would be if Dusty was never again to feel a woman's arms about him.
She'd wanted to reach out for him even then.
As they walked hand in hand to her trailer, she'd finished making up her mind to quit the waiting game. He deserved it. He'd put up with her delaying—she had put him off appropriately—and the diaphragm was securely in place.
When they arrived at the trailer, he paused, supposing they'd kiss like always, but she'd fished the key out of her purse on the walk over and purposefully continued up the steps to the door. Dusty cautiously followed. She unlocked the door and swung it open. Dusty didn't need to be asked. He stepped inside behind her, as if he'd done it before.
So confident, she thought.
"Welcome to my little home," she said, finding the lamp chain and switching it on. The overhead was too bright. He looked around—examined a set of paintings on silk she'd bought at the Ta Khli marketplace.
"I'd serve you a drink, but I don't keep anything here." She was increasingly apprehensive. Dusty still didn't speak. He nodded, almost abstractly. Penny felt a flutter in her breast. Was he even interested?
She motioned at the small table and chair. "Did you want to sit?"
He continued to examine the paintings. "Is that what you want to do?" Dusty's voice was lower than normal—thicker? Her heart began to pound, and she had trouble answering.
He smiled and came to her, and cupped her face lightly in his hands, looking intently, as if he could peer inside and examine her thoughts. She closed her eyes as he kissed her. Not a soul-kiss, where a guy tried to push his tongue down your throat—just a long, pleasant one, the kind he could give her if they were in a room full of people. But it was nice—so nice that the heat grew in her—and somehow she knew it was going to be very different this time.
She was the one who sighed and pulled his head down with all her strength, as if she wanted to devour him. Dusty continued the kiss, and she wanted him to keep it up as long as she lived. His hands moved over her body—first over her back and she trembled—lower until he gently grasped her buttocks and sounds emerged from her throat that she couldn't control. She moved back slightly so he could run his hands over her breasts, then down, and she cried out as they neared . . . she could feel the moisture welling . . . he pressed lightly there.
It was not at all like the other times.
Dusty gently laid her on the bed . . . did he lift her?—she wasn't sure. She opened her eyes ever so slightly and caught a breath as he moved onto the bed, his face close, staring into her mind again and continuing to move his hands in ways she hoped would never cease.
He didn't ask if she was ready or what she wanted. Dusty knew. He was in total control. He spoke only with those wonderful hazel eyes, and her mind cried out yes. He moved away and began to remove his clothing, and as soon as she saw what he was doing, she also began to disrobe.
Could he hear her breathing like a freight train? Modesty left her. She didn't care if he thought her anxious. She felt no shame that she was suddenly so easy. She only wanted . . .
Dusty was pulling off his final vestige of clothing, also unembarrassed, still smiling. She looked, paused, and bit her lip when she took in the vision of his body, and then lower, to his erection. Oh, God, he was beautiful. He came to her and whispered endearments as he helped with her bra and panties, necessary because she was trembling and inexplicably weak.
He ran his hands over her again, lightly, and electricity passed from them into her bare skin. Penny couldn't focus her thoughts on his words, but they weren't the kind that needed response. He didn't hurry, seemed to have no urgency about him, but continued to caress and kiss and tell her of her freshness and beauty. He moved close, loomed over her. Looked at her eyes and kissed her forehead as she felt him enter, so slightly, then pause, then push gently.
It was maddening! She cried out
, couldn't restrain herself from arching up, urging him farther into her. He kissed her again—another slow one like before—and pressed deeper. She began to tremble and cry. Suddenly there was an incredible tingling, a warmth more wonderful than any she had ever felt, spreading from her breasts to somewhere special and deep inside. There were animal sounds in the trailer—her own?—and she heard the crescendo growing, wavering, as if from some distant source. He was moving, fully inserted, and began a slow, maddening rhythm.
Dusty-y-y! She clasped her arms around his shoulders, wanting to pull him entirely into her. Heat continued to build and she gasped at the sensation, then began to sob. He continued the rhythm, unheeding. She pulled at him with one clawed hand, pressed the other fist into her mouth as she cried out. He stiffened and groaned, and they strained together to make the union as tight as possible. Her crying ended, replaced by a shrill hiss.
Dusty slowly relaxed, then blew a long, shuddering breath. "It was good," he murmured.
She wanted to answer, "It was wonderful," but her voice failed.
They lay in place, hardly moving, and she felt contentment she'd never before experienced. She stroked his chest with a light touch. Was this love—when you could share so completely?
Penny found her voice. "I want you to teach me," she whispered. She knew there were things men liked from women, things her friends never talked about directly when they spoke about men, and she desperately wanted to please him. "Tell me what you like."
"I liked what we just did."
"I want you to be happy, Dusty."
"I am."
She almost told him she loved him, but stopped herself. She didn't know that and certainly didn't want to frighten him away. He was a devout bachelor, Roger Hamlin had warned, and she knew not to make him feel threatened.
"There's one thing," he said softly. He explained, and she whispered she'd try, but he'd have to guide her. A wave of apprehension swept over her, and she wondered if she could really do it, whether she wouldn't get sick to her stomach . . . and what he'd think of her afterward.
A few minutes later, when their breathing was calmer and she could feel that he was stirring inside her, she took a breath of resolve, wriggled free when he rolled onto his back, and did not delay, lest she became so embarrassed it would be impossible. She kissed his chest, lingered there, then traced lower with her tongue. She felt shy as she continued, but he whispered instructions and she complied.
In the next minutes Penny learned more about pleasing a man than she'd ever imagined in her nightly showers. She became increasingly intrigued as she worked, wielding fingers, tongue, and mouth with increasing skill. He panted louder, whispering endearments and encouragement. She labored tirelessly, relentlessly, and grew increasingly excited as she discovered that sexual gratification came not only from physical contact, but also from the responses of a mate.
Penny was surprised when Dusty—who she'd felt would be the one to teach her—became so aroused that he whimpered and thrashed, grew taut as a bow. Just as he'd done with her, she now controlled his pleasure. She learned to bring him to the edge of a precipice, to back off and let the ecstasy dwindle, then to subtly build the fire once more.
Some instinct told her it was time. She again built him slowly and this time continued as he began to moan, quiver, and tense. It came as no surprise when his liquid flowed. She tasted him, then drew back and finished with her hand, unembarrassed, staring happily in the dim lamplight at her accomplishment.
Dusty quietly stroked her hair as she cleaned him with a towel she'd left under the pillow . . . in case. "God, that was great," he whispered.
Did he think she was through with him?
She bent and began again, although he grunted, "No more." She was gentle, for he'd become sensitive—but she had no intention of stopping until she learned more. Dusty whispered more urgently for her to stop. She paused, lifted her eyes, and tried to focus on his face, then returned to her gentle labor. There was so much to learn—and she was thoroughly enjoying . . .
Control?
She continued to please him despite his weakening protests. A few minutes later he pulled her up and they made love.
When Dusty left the trailer, saying he had to get up early to fly, he promised to drop by her office after he landed. There was a new tone in his voice, an intimacy.
"Don't tell anyone about . . .," she'd started to whisper, but he was gone. It was a thing with her, that others might think her promiscuous. Old memories.
Penny lay still for a while, thinking about the evening. She smiled, spread her arms, and stretched deliciously, feeling incredibly wise and utterly fulfilled. She stood on wobbly legs and endured a wave of light-headedness, then went into the bathroom to shower. As she adjusted the water flow, the thrill rushed through her again, as if he were there. Tomorrow night she'd learn even more about men, and Captain Dusty Fields in particular.
Did she love him? she wondered. Penny thought so, but it didn't matter. Whatever it was they shared, she wanted to continue. Before she saw him tomorrow night, she planned to have her hair cut; Dusty had hinted she'd look great in a pageboy style—and watch her posture; Dusty said he was worried about her back, because she slumped too much. A gentle way of telling her. She wanted to please him. She smiled again, thinking she'd certainly shown him that.
2355L—BRL TACAN, Laos
Sergeant Black
The trek to the top had taken more than an hour. The path had been relatively steep at the bottom, but quickly narrowed and became so vertical, they'd had to climb on all fours. After a kilometer the terrain abruptly flattened, and they'd passed a grassy area with a tattered wind sock—an airstrip to enable short-takeoff-and-landing (STOL) aircraft to bring in supplies. Beyond the small airstrip the path widened, but quickly became steep once more.
Twice the Hotdog soldier on point had stopped abruptly, and Black had stepped forward and made a loud query in Yard language. After a shrill response they'd continued, both times past stretches of road with sheer drop-offs, then past quiet Montagnards with faces of stone. Those were obviously the positions where explosives had been planted.
They'd found the top of the mountain to be relatively flat, as Black had been briefed. Farthest south and lowest on the mesa top was the small Montagnard settlement, a thatch hut and four old olive-drab squad tents, where scrawny chickens pecked hopefully in the dirt and skinny dogs cringed and bared teeth at the newcomers. Things hadn't looked right. The children had been too quiet, the faces of the bare-breasted Yard women too stoic. Several men had examined them without smiles.
They know what's gathering below, was Black's thought.
The highest point was near the opposite, northern end of the oblong mesa, and the air-nav station antenna and boxlike building were there. Immediately south of the TACAN, on a slight slope, were two small prefab buildings. Not far from them was a tremendous trash heap, a stack of barrels, and a generator shack with a two-banger diesel engine chugging noisily inside. Large electrical leads were strung to the TACAN, smaller ones to the buildings.
The first prefab he'd checked was stacked high with boxes of provisions. In the second, along with a malfunctioning and constantly whining air conditioner, Black had found an American. He'd stood unsteadily beside a table littered with paperback books, cans full of smashed-out cigarettes, and dirty dishes. His mouth sagged as he returned Black's stare.
He was fat, with a scraggly beard, wore only thongs, undershorts, and a bulging, dirty T-shirt, and looked to be in tune with the total mess of the place. When Black had stepped farther inside, a naked Yard woman sat up on the lone cot, stared and blinked for a moment, then half heartedly reached onto the floor for her wrapabout skirt.
"Hiya," the droopy-eyed contractor had said, and shoved out his hand. "M'name's Buddy Canepa." The room smelled of booze and stank of another sharp order that Black recognized.
Canepa's eyes had been bloodshot, his breath rotten, and he'd been so stoned that he couldn't f
unction.
Black had reached over and stubbed out the joint burning in the ashtray, and Canepa's eyes followed his movements as if he were observing, but was neither surprised nor in sync with reality. He'd frowned when Black screwed the top onto an opened bottle of Jack Daniel's.
They'd arrived on the mesa at 1355 hours. At 1405 Black had entered the man's shack. By 1410 he'd cleared the room of booze and given a sack of marijuana to the lieutenant for disposal. At 1440 he'd had the battery connected and the antenna strung, and was on the radio speaking with Larry at Buffalo Soldier, and was about to tell him what he'd found when a second American hobbled painfully into the room, held upright by a Yard tribesman. The Yard had deposited him into a nearby chair.
"Stand by for a few minutes, Buffalo Soldier," he'd told Larry.
This guy was small and wiry, and had an olive-drab bandage wrapped around his bare midriff. He'd regarded Black bleakly. "So they sent you anyway," he'd said. "I told 'em to keep you and your men down below, so you could tell us what's going on down there."
"Who're you?" Black had asked.
"Just call me Jones. I'd've met you when you arrived, but I was busy running a check on the TACAN equipment."
He'd groaned a bit as he moved to a more comfortable sitting position.
Black had nodded at his wound. "What happened?"
"Yesterday morning the bad guys let off a couple of artillery rounds, just to set up their range, I guess. First damned round went off about twenty yards away and I got hit by shrapnel."
He'd been pasty-faced and did not look well at all.
"Bad?"
Jones had drawn a painful breath. "Think they got a lung. Gets messy when I cough."
"You in charge here?"
"Yeah." He'd grimaced with pain. "Been here for the past year, off and on."
Black had nodded at Buddy Canepa. "Him?"
"They sent him to take over when I leave next month. Dumb shit's been half-drunk since he arrived, and when they started shelling, he jumped the rest of the way in the bottle." Jones had grunted with another pain, then spoke sharply to the woman in her language. She'd hurried out of the shack. "Silly shit's promised her half the world, and she believes him."
