by Barry Sadler
Phang watched Troung and the others inside. When he saw the Vietcong captain check his watch, he hissed at Casey, "Get ready, I think he's coming out!"
Nodding, Casey tried to make himself smaller in the shadows. Wearing the dead guard's shirt, Van moved so his face was better concealed from casual view.
The door to the shop opened. Troung was weary. It had been a long day and he had far to go tomorrow. He looked forward to his cot across the alley where the good smell of baking bread gave one comfortable dreams. His escort went out first, Troung followed close behind. The Bo Doi with the carbine talked to the back of the man with the white shirt he thought was his comrade. "Let's go."
He was sandwiched instantly between Phang and Van. Both had their knives moving at the same instant. Troung had no chance to make an outcry before his windpipe was squeezed shut by a strong hand and he was thrown to the ground. Inside the shop, the welder saw Troung go down in the open doorway and headed for the rear exit. His escape attempt was futile. Casey heard a muted cry from outside the rear door. Phang's other man came back in the door and held up his knife to show the blood on the blade.
Casey rose from Troung, looked at Phang and nodded with approval. "Nicely done, Old One. Now let's get the bodies back inside where we can have some privacy. There are a few things I have to ask this one when he comes to, which should be in just a couple of minutes." He pointed to Troung lying unconscious at his feet.
Van brought him some water from a bucket in the shop. A dousing combined with a few firm slaps across the face from Van's hand brought Troung back into the real world, a world which suddenly had become quite unpleasant.
Casey watched Troung's eyes as they frantically searched for any source of aid. There was none. In no face did he see any sign of compassion. Van's was especially discomforting. There was something very sinister about the look the handsome smooth-cheeked Vietnamese had in his eyes. Troung tried to move away and found he couldn't. His good hand had been chained to a steel ring welded on the anvil. The pulse in his temple pounded against the thin skin covering the bone. Casey said nothing; he had time. How much Troung could not have dreamed of. Van waited quietly by the brazier. Phang stood at his shoulder, his M-3 submachine gun held with the safety latch open, the bolt drawn back. He did not want his friends to be interrupted during this night's work. Outside on watch were two members of his tribe, both of them hard men who hated the communists for reasons of their own. They would stop anyone from becoming too inquisitive if Casey's questioning became a bit loud.
Troung suddenly saw everything in the welding shop in a new and sinister light. The only light came from the charcoal brazier. Its illumination did nothing to make things better, for it only gave off blood-red shadows that quivered and moved with the night. Van stood behind the brazier. At Casey's nod he removed from it a steel rod, the tip heated to white hot. He lit a cigarette with it then set the rod back in the brazier.
Casey spoke gently, almost regretfully. "Captain Troung, I think it is time you answered a few questions for me. You know that you are already a dead man, but if you do as I say your death will be swift and painless."
Troung's throat was very dry and foul with the taste of fear in it. This was not supposed to be the way things were to have gone! And Americans were bound by the Geneva Convention. Hi found his voice. "Sergeant, I demand that you turn me over to the proper authorities!" His eyes pleaded with those of the silent Van. "You are a South Vietnamese officer. Tell him that I am your prisoner." If he could be given into the hands of the South Vietnamese there was always a chance that his escape could be arranged. Van spat a hunk of phlegm into the red burning coals where it popped, sizzled and disappeared in a tiny cloud of steam.
Casey's face was that of a devil in the red glow of the brazier. He shook his head as if talking to a recalcitrant child, never raising his voice much above that of a whisper. "Captain Troung, I am the only authority you will ever see. Don't think that you'll be turned over to some weak-stomached American or to the South Vietnamese, where you have agents. I am the proper authority for you. I am your judge, your jury, and I will be your executioner before this night is done."
Troung's eyes jerked wildly in his head. The bodies around him were mute testimony to the accuracy of Casey's statement. He did not doubt for one second that the scar-faced one meant every word he spoke. He swallowed deeply and held his breath as long as he could, then let it out. From some unknown source he summoned up courage he didn't know he had. "I will tell you nothing."
Casey shook his head slowly back and forth. "You are wrong. Very, very wrong. You will tell me." His eyes touched those of Phang who shrugged his shoulders. It meant nothing to him what happened to the VC officer. He had seen what the VC had done to his people and nothing the Big Nose and Van could do to this man could possibly be any worse.
Casey sighed deeply again, his words still filled with reluctant acceptance of what had to be done. "I see that I am going to have to convince you." He stood up and moved, looking around the welding shop till he found what he wanted, a pair of metal shears. Standing behind Troung he raised his fist and struck him at the junction of his neck and shoulder hard enough to stun him without knocking him completely out. Before Troung's dulled mind could register what was happening, the heavy metal shears opened and closed. His little finger dropped to the dirty floor. Casey took the steel rod from the brazier and touched the tip of it to the knuckle stump, cauterizing the wound to stop the bleeding.
Troung started to scream at the searing pain of the red hot rod touching his raw flesh. The scream was muted when Casey slammed him again at the same junction between neck and shoulder. Troung whimpered in an agony of both body and mind. Never had he felt so helpless, emasculated and hopeless as he did now. For the first time he understood some of the terror that the captives he and Ho had taken had felt. He understood them much better, for now he was experiencing all that they had.
Casey leaned his face close to Troung's. "Now will you talk? Tell me the names of the rest of your agents here. And where I can find Ho?
Troung wanted to talk to stop the pain and fear, but somewhere he found the will to resist once more. He shook his head. "I will not talk."
Casey didn't like what he was doing and even had a kind of respect for Troung and his effort to hold out. But he would have what he wanted from him, even if it meant dismantling the captain one joint at a time.
Van moved closer to him. "I think it would be better if I took over. This is a thing that is best handled between us. I know his kind and what to do."
Van went to work after placing a block of wood between Troung's teeth to stop the worst of the screaming. Casey had never liked torture but what Troung knew could save the lives of many men. And what would be the worse crime, to go easy with the enemy and have dozens of his own die, or to do that which he felt he had to? If the VC had treated their own prisoners with honor, then he would have done the same. But it made no sense to let the enemy have all the cards and, when in Rome...
He told Van, "Get on with it."
Van knew from his own experience that at a certain point the body produced its own anesthetic and Troung would not feel most of the pain, except as a distant alien thing. He would detach his mind from what was being done to him. Van had no intention of letting it go that far.
Grabbing Troung by the hair, he pushed his face close to the brazier and held it there. Not close enough to set his hair on fire, but enough that the heat pounded at the flesh of his face, pushing through the surface skin deep into the meat. Red heat hammered at him. Troung could feel his eyebrows smoking, the flesh of his face starting to swell as the heat increased with every second. He would have screamed if the block of wood hadn't been jammed between his teeth. It was too much; he couldn't take this constantly increasing agony that he had no escape from. He broke, tears ran down his face, his body shuddered and trembled, and then went limp. He was not unconscious; he had just given up.
Van pulled Troung's
blistered face back from the brazier and poured water on it from the tin bucket used to temper steel. He removed the wooden block and gave Troung some of the fluid to drink. He knew exactly what the Viet was feeling. He had seen many of the victims on whom the VC had used an identical treatment.
Softly, in Vietnamese, he asked Casey's questions again. "Tell my friend here who your agents are. Where can we find them and where is Colonel Ho? You might as well tell me now. You know that you're going to die anyway. You might as well save yourself some pain."
Troung didn't have it in him to even attempt a lie. He gave Casey the names of his agents in Song Be and told him that Ho was moving further south closer to the delta, but would be over the border in Cambodia near the town of Kampong.
Casey didn't recognize the name of the village that Troung had said was going to be used as a headquarters by Ho, but he knew Troung was Yelling the truth. Van looked at Casey and nodded to show that he agreed with him.
Casey moved closer to Troung who lay with his head on the anvil, sobbing. "Good. If it makes you feel any better I'd like you to know that I have a great deal of respect for how much you have endured. But we both know that every man has a breaking point. It's just a matter of time till it's found. Now, you lived up to your end of the bargain and I'll live up to mine."
Before the words could fully register, Casey's strong scarred hands grabbed Troung. Raising his head from the anvil, one hand on his chin the other at the back of his neck, Casey moved his hands in different directions. Troung's neck snapped and he went limp. Casey always tried to live up to his agreements. Troung had felt no pain and now his suffering was at an end.
Phang felt nothing for the dead Viet. To the contrary, he had a greater respect for his friend now that he knew that things were to be done in the Asian fashion. As for Van he had expected no less than what he had done. To both of them he spoke with quiet satisfaction: "I know Kampong and the region around it quite well, my friends. If your Comrade Ho is there we'll find him. It is not far from my own territory. There aren't too many places there that would be suitable for a headquarters."
Casey nodded his understanding. "All right, Phang. We still have work to do tonight before the other assassins find out Troung is dead. We have to get as many of them as we can. Take me over to the Special Forces compound. I need to see a few people."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They left the welding shop, leaving behind Phang's Kamserai with orders to kill anyone who came into the shop before dawn. The only visitors the shop would have that night would have to be Vietcong and therefore fair game. Casey, Phang and Van returned to camp just long enough to pick up Gomez and fill him in on what had taken place. They also needed him to accompany them to the Special Forces camp. He was well known there. With him along they'd be heard a lot easier and have a better chance of getting what they needed from the Green Beret soldiers. Casey had worked with them a time or two in the past and liked their approach towards their work.
Gomez was excited about what they'd found out and agreed that this was one time they had better not rely on Tomlin to coordinate things. There were still ten hours till dawn; much could be done in that time if they moved fast. Before leaving Gomez made two calls. One was to his assistant to whom he had given a copy of the list of names Van had written down for him and then told the man to run it through. He wanted everything they had on the names within the hour. Then he called over to the Special Forces C Team HQ and told the Officer of the Day to get their colonel up as well as their G2. He'd be there in twenty minutes.
The jeep ride over to the C Team was made through deserted streets and accompanied by the shriek of squealing tires. Gomez drove as though he thought he were in a Le Mans race. The jeep took corners dangerously. The narrow wheel base made it skip around every corner, threatening to turn over.
As they neared the Special Forces compound Gomez slowed the jeep down. He knew the sentries should be expecting him but it never hurt to play it safe. Those crazy men in the C Team had been known to shoot first and ask questions later.
The C Team compound was the best secured post in the province. The SFers didn't trust nobody. A searchlight hit the jeep as a strong voice with the definite texture of Birmingham Alabama to it, yelled out from behind a wall of sandbags and logs:
"Just take it easy there fellas and move up to the wire to where I can get a good look at you."
Gomez started to shift the jeep into low gear when the voice chastised him:
"Hey shit face, I said you, not the goddamned jeep. Now get a hustle on. I ain't got all night to stand here talking to a bunch of you no talent sons a bitches."
As the four men left the jeep the light went with them. When they were a few feet away from the gate the voice said, "That's jest about far enough. Now here's what you do. I want the Viet and ..." The voice paused for a second as the light moved on to Phang's face. "I want the Viet and the old Kamserai to move up first, just to make sure that you Yankees don't have a gun in your back."
Gomez started to protest. "Now you listen to me, whoever you are. I am a captain in the United States Army and I'm telling you to stop this bullshit and let us in. And that's an order!"
The voice laughed as the sound of a rifle bolt loading a round in the chamber floated over to them. "Well then, Captain, let me clear up this here misunderstanding. I don't give a shit if you're Andy Jackson. This is our homestead and we make the rules and as far as your order goes, what are you going to do, send me to Vietnam? Shit it's my third tour now. You got ten seconds to do as I said or I'm going to kill them two Oriental gentlemen right where they stand and then I'm going to think real hard about you two for another three seconds. Now come on or get out!"
Gomez didn't know what to say or do but Van just grinned and moved closer to the wire, his hands up where they could be clearly seen. Phang went with him. A Chinese Nung mercenary from Cholon moved out to the wire through a narrow passage. He looked them over, made them hand over their weapons then took them inside. A minute later the voice called back. "Okay, fellers, you come on in now, hear?"
Gomez was still fuming as they were admitted to the compound. Once the searchlight was out of their eyes and Gomez could see again he focused on the source of the southern drawl. SFC Jim Gilbride had an angular face with a gap between his front teeth, set on top of a body standing six foot three. The tiger-striped camouflage fatigues and matching soft cap did nothing to make Gomez think the bastard would have not been better off behind a brace of mules in someone's south forty.
"Nothing personal now fellers, just making sure. You come on with me. Our boss is waiting for you and it better be important. He don't like losing sleep over bullshit."
Gomez could think of nothing to respond with. It was quite obvious the man didn't care what Gomez said or threatened him with. Casey just grinned. He knew the SFC's type and he was the kind that he'd want behind or in front of him if the shit got heavy. He was a stayer and a doer.
As they went across the outer compound Casey saw the defenses were in echelon. Between the main gate and the inner compound was a wall of sandbags with firing pits set in them at regular intervals and a string of claymores facing out going around the entire inner perimeter. Security was handled mostly by Nungs from the Chinese colony in Cholon. They were good, tough fighters who hated the communists—though they did have a tendency to cheat at cards and dice and therefore didn't get along very well with some of the Montagnard tribesmen who took a dim view of such practices.
One thing he knew about this camp, there would be no one asleep on guard. Roving patrols of Nung non-coms and Special Forces men could be seen going on their rounds checking every bunker and man.
Gilbride escorted them to the C Team's headquarters where he politely opened the door for them and showed them in. Lt. Colonel Mitch Wardell was waiting for them, sitting at a table normally used for poker and sipping on a cup of coffee. He was fully dressed in the same tiger-striped fatigues as was Gilbride, a forty-five resting on
his hip and an M-16 leaning up against the corner of the table.
Lt. Colonel Wardell had a square jaw set under a fighter's bent nose. "You guys want coffee or do we just get on to why you pulled me out of the rack instead of going to your people at MACV?"
Gomez cleared his throat. This man was much more frightening than his own colonel even though he wasn't in his command. "No coffee, sir, and after I explain things I think you'll see the reason why we're here rather than MACV."
Wardell indicated for all of them to take seats. As they did he gave a curious look to Van in his white shirt and Phang, who studiously ignored the colonel's examination. Casey thought Phang and Gilbride would probably get along very well together. Neither one really gave a crap about authority.
Casey helped himself to a cup of coffee as. Gomez explained what was coming down and why they were there. It didn't take Wardell two minutes to analyze the situation and come to a decision.
"You came to the right place. My G2 is next door. Give me a copy of your list of names and I'll get him on it through our files. We got friends with Delta project and Sergeant of the Guard that may be able to help us." He took the list, checked over the twenty-four names on it and whistled between his teeth. "I know some of these bastards. Two of them work for us as interpreters and there're a couple of others that are civilian administrators. The shit's going to hit the fan tonight." He tossed the list to Gilbride.
"Gilbride, get your rebel ass in gear. We're going possum hunting tonight. Tell Captain Hardy to run these through and do it ASAP. While he's doing that I want you to get the boys ready to move. Split the team in two and leave behind those who were on the last operation to take care of the fort. Have the rest take full kit and weapons. Get me enough vehicles from the motor pool to make up six teams. Also tell the commander of the Nungs to break loose B company for me. We'll spread them out among us for a little extra muscle. Now get, going you ill-educated, insubordinate, red-neck bastard."
