Eagles Cry Blood

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  All of the mess hall lights were turned off except for the row directly in front of the serving line. Paul was the first one to enter the building for breakfast and found himself a quiet spot next to the corner wall.

  “Have you seen Lieutenant Loveless, sir?”

  Paul looked up from his eggs and bacon. “He’s sleeping in my hooch.”

  “I’m Sergeant Nimon. Would you tell him we have a debriefing at 1700

  hours in the TOC?”

  Paul quickly checked the sergeant out. The man wasn’t much over five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed over a hundred and ten pounds. “Sure . . .

  Sergeant . . . Will do.” Paul turned his attention back to his breakfast. He didn’t want to try and push a relationship with any of the other recon team members. He figured that they would either accept him or reject him, but it would be based on what he did in the future, not his past.

  Paul was interrupted for the second time.

  “Mind if I join you?” Captain Atkins placed his tray on the table across from where Paul was sitting.

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  “Have a seat, sir,” Paul nodded for the captain to sit down. A young sergeant wearing a name tag that said “Cooper” was standing behind the captain.

  “This is Sergeant Cooper from RT Cobra.”

  “We’ve already met, sir.” Paul shook the offered hand. “We surfed together yesterday.”

  “Oh, shit! Not another one of those fucking surfing freaks!” The captain grinned as he joked, “Damn, why can’t you be normal and get drunk like the rest of us!”

  “I do that, too . . .” Paul continued eating his food that was already getting cold.

  The recon commander wasted no time and got down to the reason he chose to sit with Paul.

  “Sergeant Cooper would like to transfer to your recon team.” He paused. “RT Viper lost its senior NCO along with Lieutenant Nappa.

  What I’d like to do is consolidate the Americans on Viper and Cobra to make one effective operational team. Cooper is the only survivor from his RT.” Captain Atkins cut his omelet with his fork. “Cooper is one of our experienced men.”

  Paul glanced over at Cooper—who was concentrating on his food—and then looked over at the captain. “Sure . . . it’s all right with me. Cooper can’t be all bad if he knows how to surf.” Paul had added the last comment to needle the captain.

  “Then it’s settled . . . Cooper will report to Viper as of today.” Atkins took a long drink from his lukewarm coffee and checked his watch for the time.

  “Darn! I’ve got to run . . . Oh . . .” he looked directly into Paul’s eyes, “. . . I hate to alert you for a mission so soon, but we’re short on operational teams.”

  Paul’s expression turned to a fake bewildered expression. “Isn’t that what we’re all here for?”

  Atkins reached across the table and slapped Paul’s shoulder. “You’re lucky I like you . . . You could piss a working man off!”

  Paul wondered if Atkins knew about Hetten.

  Atkins stood to leave the table. Most of his food remained untouched. He reached down to his plate as he spoke and picked up a half-slice of toast to take with him. “The operations people have a preliminary briefing ready for RT Viper.”

  Sergeant Cooper waited until Captain Atkins was out of hearing range before he addressed Paul. “Damn! That was embarrassing, sir! I didn’t think Captain Atkins would approach you in front of me like that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I was very impressed with you when we met yesterday.” Paul finished the last bite from his plate. “We should be able to form a darn good team.”

  “I heard about your mission,” Cooper eased the sentence out cautiously.

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  “You know, this is the third time that someone has alluded to a mission that I am supposed to have conducted . . . Just what are you talking about?” A faint smile flickered at the corners of Paul’s mouth.

  “We don’t loan out facilities to anyone except CIA people, and when they bring a special crew in here it’s usually really big stuff.” Cooper looked sheepishly at Paul and continued, “Hell! CIA missions are always hot and everybody wants to be selected for them. So anyway, LeBlonde told our operations officer what you did and the word spread quickly through the recon teams . . . Don’t worry . . . we bullshit to each other but nothing passes through the gates!”

  Cooper frowned. “We lost a lot of good men trying to kill that French bastard!

  I think we had the right to know when that son of a bitch was zapped!”

  “The mission was top secret,” Paul spoke softly.

  “All of our missions are top secret, sir.” Cooper’s voice reflected the hurt he felt over not being trusted.

  “I apologize, Cooper, but I was told not to talk to anyone about the mission.” Paul sensed that he should back off a little.

  “No sweat, sir; most of the recon men have a lot of respect for you because of that mission.” Cooper’s face flushed pink. “That’s why I asked the captain to get transferred to your team.”

  Paul slapped Cooper gently against the side of his head. “Let’s go over to the TOG and get briefed.”

  Major Galviston and Captain Atkins joined the team members from RT

  Viper in the briefing room. Paul looked over at the two officers carrying steaming cups of coffee. Galviston was wearing a solid gold ten bot chain around his neck with a disk hanging from it with the word WAR cut out from the circle of gold in the same style the hippies used for their peace medals that the soldiers referred to as chicken feet.

  “Are you ready to go to war, Lieutenant?” Galviston sat down in a chair that had been placed in front of the large map. He tapped his foot with the wooden pointer he held in his free hand.

  “Guess so, sir,” Paul didn’t know exactly how to respond to the major.

  “You seem to have good taste in NCOs,” Galviston acknowledged Cooper’s presence in the room.

  “I hear you have a mission site selected for us, sir.”

  “Yep, and it’s a good one.” The major turned on his seat and tapped the map with his pointer. “Somewhere in this area we have a very big problem developing . . .” He paused as he checked the location of his pointer on the map. “. . . I think both of you have heard the rumors circulating around I Corps that concerns American soldiers who have changed sides and are fighting with the North Vietnamese against American forces.”

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  “I’ve heard bits and pieces, but nothing that is really believable,” Cooper answered the major.

  “Well, you can relax, Cooper—it’s true.” Galviston sipped from the coffee mug. “Last month a Marine patrol in this area . . .” Galviston located the small arrow on the map and pointed to it, “. . . spotted what they thought was a Caucasian wearing a red bandanna around his head. He was patrolling with a squad of NVA. The Marine patrol thought that he was a prisoner and attempted to rescue him. They were very surprised when the Caucasian flipped an AK-47 from behind his back, opened fire on them, and then led the NVA squad in an attack. The Marines regained their composure and returned fire. Two Marines swear that they killed the white man, but a search of the area revealed no body.”

  Paul interrupted, “You want us to go looking for him?”

  “Hold it. Lieutenant! Let me finish . . .” Galviston gave Paul a sharp look, teaching him his first lesson in dealing with the senior officer: that you didn’t interrupt him. “We have a confirmed sighting and a B-2 level information packet that confirms there are at least two more Caucasians and a black who are acting as patrol leaders for an NVA regiment,”

  Galviston tapped his pointer against the map, “probably working out of this area.”

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,�
�� Cooper hissed the words out between his clenched teeth.

  “Let’s not be too quick judging them. They could still be prisoners made to look as if they are fighting against their own people.” Galviston raised his eyebrows. “After all, blanks in the AK-47s, forcing them to lead down dangerous paths . . . all of that looks like they’re leading a patrol, but in actuality they’re still prisoners . . .” Galviston took his time bringing his coffee cup up to his lips, “. . . but . . . if they are working for the NVA . . . well, your mission is to go in there and find them, give them the choice of staying or coming back to American control . . . if they stay . . . eliminate them. We can’t have Americans fighting with the commies. Hell, we already have a group led by an American movie star touring Hanoi! Morale is getting low among the line troops and we have to nip this one in the bud!”

  “What if we can’t get close enough to offer them a choice to come with us?” Cooper’s voice didn’t sound as if he relished the mission at all.

  “Kill them,” Galviston’s voice held a matter-of-fact tone. “But given a choice, we’d like to talk to them.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “Late tomorrow. We have to move fast. The Marines are upset over this whole thing and they’re afraid that the NVA regiment will move south out of the area and we’ll lose them.”

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  “I wouldn’t mind taking on this mission for myself.” Captain Atkins spoke with a tinge of jealousy, but failed to reveal that he had already asked for the mission only to be turned down in favor of the Bourne-Cooper team.

  Atkins stood up. “Lieutenant Bourne, follow me and I’ll show you the mission-alert system we use here at CCN. The first step was the briefing that you’ve just received; during the second phase you choose what types of special equipment and personnel you think are necessary to fulfill your mission requirements.”

  The captain stopped in front of a door marked RT Viper, the removable sign placed in a slot on the door. Atkins led the way into the room. “In here is some special equipment we feel you can use. You, as the team leader, have the option of adding or subtracting whatever you want to, but I think that you’ll find our logistics people quite effective in their selections.”

  “What do you mean by special personnel, sir?”

  “An example: You have to destroy a gas pipeline. We would find you an expert in pipelines and try to get him to volunteer for the mission.”

  Galviston entered the small room, which was dominated by a table and five chairs with a narrow display table placed up against the far wall. A detailed map covered the wall nearest the work table. The major removed the white sheet that covered the table against the wall, revealing a display of special equipment.

  “Here are your URC-10s.” He handed one of the pocket-sized radio transmitter-receivers to Paul. “Have you ever used one of these before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They are preset on two broadcasting and receiving channels. One for communication with the FAC aircraft, which will be constantly flying near you during your mission.” Galviston caught Paul’s immediate concern.

  “Don’t worry. They don’t stay over your position but within the range of the radio. The other channel is set on the Air Force’s emergency frequency that is constantly monitored by every ground station and aircraft in flight. We want you to use the emergency freq only if the forward air control aircraft gets shot down.”

  Paul ran his hand over the case of the small radio. “This is good stuff.”

  “Here’s your primary radio,” Galviston placed his hand on a PRC-77

  secure voice radio set. “It comes in three pieces so that you can divide the load among your team members.”

  “I’ve used those before, sir.” Paul picked up one of the silenced .22-caliber pistols. “I’ve used one of these, too.”

  “I’ve heard.” Galviston stepped over to a closed box and flipped open the lid. “Here’s one of your special pieces of equipment for this mission.” The major removed a beautiful Weatherby .300 with attached scope.

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  “Man! Is that nice!” Cooper took the weapon from the major. “This has to have cost a bundle!”

  “Five thousand dollars, to be exact. We bought this weapon in case you have to make a difficult long shot and we had it modified . . . we don’t . . . ahh

  . . . like I said . . . we would really like to talk to them . . . but . . .”

  The two team members checked their equipment as Major Galviston watched. Paul was familiar with most of the stuff but noticed that the packag-ing and re-taping of the items was unique. The LRRP rations had all been opened and re-sealed with a strip of special green tape that didn’t make any noise when it was pulled free.

  “Have you ever ridden a STABO rig?” Galviston sat down in one of the chairs at the work table.

  “No, sir” Paul had heard of the special extraction rig and had seen it used during a Gabriel demonstration at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. “I’m familiar with the harness and think I can handle it. The supply officer gave me a STABO rig with my issue, and Sergeant Cooper helped me set it up on my web gear.”

  Galviston looked over at Cooper. “Make sure the Lieutenant’s gear is squared away tomorrow morning when you go into isolation.” The major turned back to face Paul. “I hate having to put you on a mission so soon, but this is an important one and all of our teams have already been committed to other areas.”

  “No sweat, sir; between Cooper and I, we can make it.”

  “All right, then!” Galviston slapped Paul on his back. “Tomorrow we’ll get you out to your launch site at Quang Tri.”

  The day was still young when RT Viper was released from the TOC, leaving them most of the afternoon free. Paul went back to his beach hooch and found that Jay had left. The sound of the surf carried on the soft wind, sending a message to Paul. He pulled off his sweat-stained clothes and slipped into a pair of cut-offs. He ran over the sun-heated sand down to the sea, not stopping until he had reached the cool, wet sand lining the shore. Waves that had been formed by a distant typhoon were smashing their ten-foot walls of water on the packed sand beach. The roar combined with the salt spray filled all of Paul’s senses. He turned left at the gate and started running at a fast pace along the beachfront. The effect of the huge waves caused Paul to begin daydreaming as he ran down the open beach. Mythology carried Paul two miles.

  The wind tears in his eyes blurred his vision, causing him to slow his pace. He saw a twenty-foot-high sand dune to his left and turned, increasing his speed to the top of the hill. Paul stopped abruptly at the peak and placed his hands on his hips as he looked out over the rolling sea. The wind picked up drops of 205

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  seaspray from the waves and threw them against Paul’s bare chest. He now became an Indian warrior and dropped down into a cross-legged squat.

  Thoughts of war filled his mind and then slipped back to Malibu and the Countyline surfing beaches located in southern California. Minutes passed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw a figure running along the beach.

  He watched the quarter-inch-high runner grow larger, and at a half-mile Paul could see that the man was running naked, carrying his shorts rolled up in his right hand like a baton.

  Jay saw Paul sitting on the top of the sand dune and changed course to join him.

  “You always run around bare-ass?” Paul came out of the trance.

  “Try it sometime . . . talk about feeling free!” Jay slipped his dry running shorts over his wet hips and then sat down next to Paul. “Because of the war, this is probably one of the most private beaches in the world.”

  “Look at that!” Paul pointed at the monster whitecaps smashing into each other far out at sea. “I could live he
re forever.”

  “How did your in-processing go?” Jay’s words broke the mood.

  “I’m on a mission alert for tomorrow.” Paul wiped the salt spray off his face. “Oh, before I forget, you have a debrief set for five o’clock in the operations center.”

  “Shit! I forgot all about it!” Jay stood. “I can’t believe that they put you on a mission so damn soon!”

  A giant wave rushed across the sand and touched the base of the dry sand dune.

  “Well . . . I’ve got to get my ass back there and get ready.” Jay jumped down from the top of the sand hill and turned back to face Paul, who remained sitting crosslegged. “Do you want me to hold your mail for you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, normally, the S-1 handles all of the mail, but when someone goes on a mission, usually a friend picks up his mail and holds it just in case something happens . . .” Jay turned his head away from Paul and looked out over the waves. “If the S-1 has the letters, he has to send them unopened to the next of kin. If a friend is holding the letters, nothing embarrassing gets forwarded back home to wives and mothers.”

  “I gotcha . . . no letters from girlfriends being sent to wives” Paul laughed.

  “You guys think of everything! Sure, Jay, get my mail—but you’ll be bored to death reading it if I get zapped.”

  “Let’s hope that I don’t have to go through being bored!” Jay started running hard down the beach. He paused long enough to yell back over his shoulder. “Coming . . . Pussy?”

  Paul grinned before answering his friend, “Later . . .”

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  Lieutenant Bourne pushed the padlock shut on the door of his hooch and slid the brass key under the wooden steps between a crack in the boards. He looked down at the hiding place, and wondered if he would be able to return and remove the key from its hiding place or if someone would have to bust the lock. He shrugged and flipped his rucksack over his shoulder. The pack was light, containing only the barest of essential items he would need during the mission. Paul had cleaned his CAR-15 thoroughly the night before, and had even removed each round of ammunition from his magazines and cleaned them singly with a cloth. He might die during the mission, but it wouldn’t be because he hadn’t taken the necessary precautions and ensured that his equipment operated perfectly.