by Tom Wilson
2015L—Trailer 5B, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Captain Manny DeVera
Manny approached the trailer awkwardly, feeling so screwed up inside he might puke. He'd been like that for hours—gone around in a fog for the last . . . how many days? Today had been the final telling. They'd flown to the old Channel 97 TACAN location and kicked hell out of things there, facing only light air defenses.
He'd led the second element of Lucky Anderson's flight, and when the enemy fired a couple of dinky little SA-7 rockets at him, he'd become so rattled that he'd released his CBUs off target and pulled up sharply, even though the missiles came nowhere near him.
His entire outlook had become screwed up. After mastering his fears before, even being shot down and doing all the right things, he was afraid to fly combat.
Big, tough warrior?
Fucking coward!
He'd wanted to go to Buster Leska again, to come out with it and ask his advice, but he'd balked. He revered the colonel, sort of as he would have his father had he known him. The wing commander was the finest leader of men he'd ever known, with the proper mix of authority and fighter pilot to lead a bunch like the Takhli hot chargers. But Manny was no longer a hot charger. He'd been scared shitless recently when he flew, even when the threat was nothing at all like it would be when they returned to pack six.
Fucking coward.
And when he did go back to pack six . . . He shuddered, felt boxed in—so confused that he didn't know where to turn except to the trailer, where he was standing and staring stupidly at the number on the door. He knocked finally, heard a stirring inside, wanted to turn and walk away.
The door cracked.
"I need to talk," he said in a low, weary voice.
She swung the door wider, and he glanced around before entering.
He didn't tell her of his cowardice—he simply couldn't make himself do it. But he agreed to her terms. It wasn't nearly as difficult as he'd thought it would be. He told her he'd no longer fly to pack six or on dangerous missions, but only on the easiest, least-threatening missions. No one, he said, was likely to know the difference. As weapons officer he could beg off the big missions by telling the schedulers he had other work to do.
Was that enough? he asked. She whispered that she was happier than she'd ever been.
They made love, and although it was their first time, it was as if they'd known one another all their lives. It was a gentle coupling, and he tried to be considerate, for she said she was inexperienced. When they finished, she whispered for him to stay in her, and held her body very still as she traced his face with loving fingers. A short while later they began to move together, as if it had been mutually planned, and worked in quiet unison.
Sometime in the next few hours, the sick feeling of fear left him.
He rose silently at three in the morning, pulled on his clothing, and departed while she was still asleep. As he walked the half mile to the Ponderosa, Manny refused to think of anything except the woman who had vowed to love him and remain by his side forever. The time with her had been relaxing, as if he'd been drugged.
It had been so much easier to make the promise than he'd imagined.
Great weariness suddenly swept over and through him, and he staggered drunkenly as he walked. He stopped and retched up dinner, then began to cry as he continued walking.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, February 20th 0309 Local—Channel 97, Laos
Sergeant Black
This time when the Hotdog sentry hissed, Black came instantly alert. After a glance at his watch's luminous dial, he wondered. He'd left instructions not to be awakened until four.
"The lieutenant would like to talk," he was told.
Black rolled out of the parachute panel and stretched to limber himself, then followed the Hotdog toward the rock outcropping. The lieutenant was there, smoking a cupped cigarette and staring down at the moonlit landscape of the valley. Black approached him and paused for him to speak.
"Something one of the prisoners said bothered me, and I could not sleep," said the lieutenant, "so I went back to question him more."
Black suppressed a yawn. It would be better if they were rested in the morning. Buffalo Soldier wanted them to trek to the mesa and report the status of things there. The Air Force was pressing to reestablish the TACAN station just as soon as they knew all enemy troops in the area had been neutralized.
"The major says the woman was in Ban Sao Si."
Black came instantly awake. "What woman?" he asked.
"Come ask for yourself."
They went into the brush and down a path for twenty meters, where a Hotdog sat guard on the four prisoners, who were securely bound with parachute cord.
The lieutenant turned on his flashlight, illuminating the major's face. "Tell him," he ordered.
The militia major licked his lips nervously. "An American woman was held at the headquarters compound."
Black's heart raced. "What does she look like?"
"Dark hair. Very tall and so thin she looks like a stick-woman. She was a prisoner of the Pathet Lao, but they gave her to the assistant commissioner to question."
Clipper! "Who is this assistant commissioner?" he asked.
"He is from the Commissioner of Death's office in Hanoi. He was very cruel to her, and she became crazy. No one even wanted to fuck her anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"The assistant commissioner wanted all the men to fuck her. Some of them did, but then she was crazy and no one wanted to go near her."
Black's mind became so swelled with outrage that he had trouble speaking the next words. "Did she answer his questions?"
The major had sensed his fury and became too frightened to continue.
"Answer him," snapped the lieutenant, "or I will cut your throat very slowly."
The militia major opened his mouth, but it took a moment before coherent words emerged. "She told him . . . many secrets before . . . she was crazy."
"Is she alive?"
"I do not know. He was starving her. Perhaps she is dead from that. Perhaps she was killed by the airplanes. Perhaps"—he swallowed—"the assistant commissioner killed her. He left our bunker when the bombing stopped for a while, and did not return."
The lieutenant had become so angry his voice trembled. "How many men forced her?"
The major winced, expecting a blow. "Many," he finally whispered. His eyes darted. "The sergeant can tell you." The major looked toward his right, where the other prisoners were bound. "The sergeant helped the assistant commissioner get men to fuck her."
The lieutenant's flashlight moved to the fat sergeant with the pocked face. "You," he said. The sergeant moaned with fear, unable to bring himself to answer.
The lieutenant slipped his bayonet knife from its sheath and jabbed it an inch into the man's soft stomach. The sergeant screamed.
"Quiet!"
The sergeant's voice subsided to whimpers.
"Is she still there?" he asked. The man spouted words.
"Speak slowly."
The sergeant stared at the knife in his midsection, blubbering. His words were punctuated with sobs. "I think she is there."
"Tell me where." The lieutenant withdrew the blade a bit.
The sergeant's words came in a rush. "In a cage in the assistant commissioner's office." The office was in the second wooden building in the headquarters compound. He told how she smelled badly, lying in her own waste. How she howled like an animal and was crazy."
"God," Black breathed.
The lieutenant asked the sergeant if he'd fucked her, then how many times, and the man was stupid enough to answer. When the lieutenant twisted the knife, he admitted other things he'd visited upon the woman.
Black disliked torture and forbade his men to engage in it. But this time he didn't interfere as the lieutenant pressed the razor-sharp knife ever deeper. The lieutenant was driven. Other soldiers had taken his young sister. He'd spoken often and wistfully
about the woman code-named Clipper, whom they'd come so close to rescuing.
The sergeant looked down at the blade as it continued in, holding his breath as if afraid that if he moved, something would come out.
The lieutenant held the knife fully into the sergeant's flabby stomach. "Remember what you did to the woman," he whispered to him.
"Unghhh."
"Remember as you leave this world." The lieutenant pulled the razor-edged blade upward, slicing cleanly, then slowly pulled out the blade and wiped it on the sergeant's shirt. He watched the man frown hideously with the sure knowledge that he was dying.
The obese sergeant turned with a questioning look, then stared back down as his guts began to slither forth.
Sergeant Black rose to shaky feet. "Have the men prepare to leave," he mumbled numbly. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to find what was left of her.
An hour passed before they'd finished breaking camp and formed up to descend the mountain.
Captain Bechler whispered something to Black.
"What did you say?" Black asked.
"Where are the prisoners?"
"They're not coming," Black said. He brusquely motioned for the men to move out.
0618L—Ban Sao Si, Laos
They'd left the FAC and radio operator with a Hotdog, hidden in a thicket so the others could search for Clipper. As far as Black could tell, there were no living militia in the valley except for a number of badly wounded who'd dragged themselves into shade or to water to die. All who'd been able to walk had fled to the east, back toward North Vietnam. Ma tribesmen had arrived and were joining the Lao villagers in stripping dead and dying Viets of weapons and possessions.
When Hotdog reached the headquarters compound, light was filtering over the mountain. Even before they entered the buildings, it was apparent they would not find the woman alive. Both wooden buildings were rent by gaping bullet holes. The northern side of one had collapsed. The second structure was standing, but barely.
They went inside that one and pushed around fallen timbers. There were no sounds of life. Two men had been caught in an office, cringing together in a corner as their bodies had been shot to pieces. Black steeled himself before continuing toward the back, prepared to face the worst.
The lieutenant called from a room. He'd found the correct office, for in its corner there was an empty cage. The lieutenant stared at the foul-smelling thing with hard eyes.
"She is gone," Black said quietly in Viet.
The lieutenant dropped to his haunches and continued to stare at the cage. He pointed to small bits of human feces on the floor. His finger was shaking.
"She is gone," Black repeated. The lieutenant did not hear. He was obsessed, as if the woman were a reincarnation of his young sister, taken to service the unit of NVA soldiers.
They went outside and began to look through the rubble about the buildings for sign of the woman. Throughout their search the lieutenant remained tense, his eyes burning fervently. He was more disturbed than Black could remember him, even when he'd lost his men.
When they'd searched the area thoroughly, including the two bunkers, and still found no sign of her, the lieutenant resolutely disappeared in the direction of the village. Black looked about the building for a while longer before following.
0730L-Weapons Office, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Captain Manny DeVera
He couldn't shake the awful tiredness, nor the sick feeling. While the time spent with Penny had been a respite, afterward he'd gotten very little sleep, and even that had been troubled.
The words on the pages of the documents before him were meaningless, and Manny couldn't bring himself to assign them importance.
Like a weapons-utilization report showing the pilots were using too many rounds of HEI ammunition, as opposed to more plentiful API rounds. Or that a shipment of AGM-45A Shrike missiles would be delayed because the ship carrying them was held up in mid-Pacific with engine problems. Or a test report from Nellis showing that level bomb releases, dropping on cue from something called an MSQ-2—hadn't he read about something like that being installed somewhere here?—were getting 850 feet circular error probability at seventy-five nautical miles from the site.
None of that seemed important. Half an hour earlier he'd taken himself off the afternoon flying schedule, although the force was only going to pack two to bomb near Vinh. But there were two SAM sites known to be in the Vinh area, and he'd promised not to fly into danger. The 333rd squadron scheduler had thought nothing of the change. It had been as easy as making the promise the previous evening.
He'd tried not to, but throughout the night, as he'd lain in his bed at the Ponderosa, his mind had kept returning to the vow he'd made, both for Penny Dwight and to quell the awful, consuming fear. Not flying the tough missions was a way to cope with both dilemmas—or was it somehow just one? It didn't matter.
He thought of the emotion he shared with Penny. Not intense. More like a quiet seaside where you could sit and watch the waves and tide and know they'd be there doing the same thing tomorrow and a thousand years hence.
Fatigue washed about inside him, as it had been doing for the past week. He wondered if Leska would discover his secret changes in scheduling. The man was tuned to his surroundings and knew his men well. Manny remembered the trust the wing commander had shown—still showed—in him.
Was he really letting anyone down? Yesterday he'd decided he was not. Then why did the sick feeling keep periodically rising into his throat?
0809L—Ban Sao Si, Laos
Although the FAC had tried to minimize the damage to Ban Sao Si, several of the thatch huts had been destroyed by gunfire, and there were continuous wailing sounds of women in mourning. Black moved quietly along the dirt street, his weapon at the ready, for there was the distinct possibility that soldiers were hiding in the village.
He held up in front of the fifth thatch house. From inside he could hear the lieutenant's angry voice, speaking in Lao.
After a bit the lieutenant came out with an elderly and thoroughly frightened man. "He knows what they did with her," he said.
The man nodded energetically. "I saw them take her."
Black frowned.
"The crazy stick-woman," he said, nodding again. "Yesterday the bombs stopped for a while, and they put her in the back of a small truck and pushed away others who wanted to go with them. When they left, there was only the driver, the important man from Hanoi, and the crazy stick-woman. They drove away very fast. Others shouted for the driver to stop, but he did not."
"Which way did they go?" Black asked wearily, but he knew.
The old man pointed to the road going east. North Vietnam was not far in that direction. Perhaps two days of driving through the rugged terrain.
"So close," Black muttered. "We were so fucking close again."
"It is a very poor road," said the lieutenant. "We can follow and catch them."
Black mulled it over. The weapons carrier could speed for only a couple of klicks until the road entered the mountains; then it would have to slow to a crawl. There was a possibility that they might catch up with them, since the vehicle would have to remain on the twisting road. But of course there were also many fleeing soldiers in that direction, and pursuit might be dangerous.
The decision was too heavy. "Let's go back to the others and set up the radio," he told the lieutenant.
Twenty minutes later he was connected with Buffalo Soldier.
Larry asked what had delayed his scheduled radio call.
"We've learned that Clipper was being held in Ban Sao Si before the air strike," Black told him. "You'd better get the old man on the radio."
After a couple of minutes Papa Wolf's voice responded, and Black explained the situation.
"You say Clipper's broken?"
"Roger. She went through a lot of bad shit first, though. I'd like to go after her."
Papa Wolf paused before responding in a heavy voice. "Negative, Hotdog. Get on up to t
he top of the mountain and give us the report I asked for."
"I can tell you now, sir. There's nothing and no one up there. The North Viets who weren't killed have all run."
"Let's stick to the game plan, Hotdog. We've got choppers holding until you report it's clear."
Black sighed, knowing there was no recourse short of mutiny. "I'll give you a call from on top."
"Papa Wolf out."
"What was all that about?" Captain Bechler asked. "Who's the woman you were talking about?"
Black felt sadder than he had in a long while. "A very brave lady," he answered.
As the Hotdogs busied themselves with tearing down the radio, Black thought of a final, desperate possibility and called the lieutenant over.
"Send a man to the Ma village," he told him. It was only seven klicks to the southeast. "Have him tell the headman about the woman, and that we will reward them for any information they give us."
The lieutenant nodded. "I will go myself." The intensity remained in his gaze.
"Send someone else."
The lieutenant took a moment to answer. "No," he said quietly. "I will go."
Black returned his stare.
"I must."
Black started to argue, but knew it would do no good. "Meet us on the mountaintop. They want to take us out by helicopter before dark."
The lieutenant nodded, then looked over at his men, a tic exercising a small muscle in his jaw. He turned eastward without further word and set out in a quick gait.
1635L—Channel 97, Laos
Sergeant Black
At 1500 hours, after Black had reported the mountaintop devoid of soldiers, three big CH-46 helicopters had landed and disgorged a twelve-man Special Forces A-Detachment and fifteen combat engineers. They would ensure the mountain was secured and prepared for the mobile TACAN, which was to be flown in the following day with Air Force technicians and another piece of equipment called an MSQ-2, which was even more sensitive.
The Hotdogs, the FAC, and the ROMAD all watched as the men went about their business, waiting for the lieutenant's return. As the time for their scheduled 1700 departure drew near, Black became increasingly concerned.
