As if in answer to his thought, he spotted Loughlin weaving through the chaos, dodging bullets, bodies, and shrapnel. A wounded sentry blundered out into his path, and Loughlin felled him with a butt stroke from his carbine, scattering the guy's dentition on the ground like so many Chiclets.
He made it; sliding in on one side, winging a short burst back along his track and taking out a tail that hung a bit too close for comfort. He was grinning as he turned to face Stone, but the smile was gone the instant he took in the P.O.W.'s.
The Brit's eyes lingered painfully over Alex Bradford, missing nothing, and he cursed beneath his breath. "Bloody bastards."
Stone clapped him on the shoulder.
"Bloodier now than they were before you set those charges off. It's working like a charm."
"We aim to please. Where's Hog?"
"Right here!"
The big man barreled in on top of them, rolling across the top of a bullet-splintered bamboo cage and almost collapsing it beneath his bulk. Lan Vang was right behind him, and Stone did a rapid head count, reassuring himself in an instant that everyone was present and accounted for, ready to attempt the break. They would have to get it right the first time. There would be no second chance.
He jabbed an index finger at Bradford's prostrate form. "This one can't make it on his own," he snapped. "We'll have to haul him out."
"No sweat."
Before he'd finished speaking, Hog Wiley had the unconscious P.O.W. draped across one meaty shoulder in a fireman's carry. Somehow he even managed to leave both hands free for his CAR-15.
The other P.O.W.'s were watching Stone, taking in his every word of explanation, nodding in unison as they agreed to follow him unquestioningly, obeying every order on the instant. If they failed, each of them knew that death would be a blessing in comparison to their recapture by the enemy.
"Okay. On me!" Stone barked, and he was moving now, before the echoes of Loughlin's explosions had died away in the jungle night. Firing as he ran, and moving toward the gap they had blasted in the line, he trusted that the others were behind him, following his lead as he had ordered. From here on, each man was on his own, and there would be no time to rescue stragglers.
They were sprinting out of hell and straight into the open dragon's mouth. Taking the war to the enemy, and ramming every cold-steel inch of it right down his bloody, gaping throat.
Captain Chong picked himself up from where the force of the exploding communications hut deposited him. Dazed, the camp commandant did not reflect on his luck at sustaining only a cut along his forehead, but fought to control his troops, to salvage something from what had the making's of a catastrophe. By now he knew the prisoners were gone, somehow abducted by the hostile force. He also knew that if he did not get them back at once, he would not have to worry about being stationed out here in the middle of the jungle.
He would not be stationed anywhere again. Ever.
His superiors would not permit a captain who lost prisoners to risk disgracing them a second time. Chong knew that he would simply disappear without a trace, and that would be the end of everything—his plans, his dreams of wealth and power in the new regime.
Chong stiffened, swallowing the lump of fear that had been growing in his throat. He was not beaten yet. There were still ways of redeeming the situation, perhaps even turning it to his advantage. But first he had to win back the control over his men which would be necessary to his plan.
Drawing his automatic pistol from its holster, Chong strode out into the middle of the campsite battlefield, shouting and cursing, firing his weapon into earth and air as he tried to get the attention of his panicked men. At first the shooting only seemed to merge with the general chaos reigning over the camp, but gradually, as some of the troops recognized him, the firing slacked away, and finally died out altogether.
He marshaled them with shouts and curses, slapping and kicking those who moved too slowly for his pleasure. They were slowly beaten into ranks, given moments to reload while he berated them, denouncing them all as cowards, unworthy of the uniforms they wore. They were disgraced, finished in the service, condemned to death or prison for permitting the American dogs to escape so easily.
Unless they helped him win the P.O.W.'s back, of course, and punish the guerrillas who had taken them in the first place.
He could see a glimmer of hope behind the sullen eyes, growing here and there until the men were straining toward him, eager to be off on the chase. He held them back now, deliberately, wasting precious time and giving the enemy a few more yards head start while he whipped his troops' anger and hatred to a fever pitch.
Each man among them knew that his own life was riding on the outcome of the chase. And what they might not care to do for Captain Chong, each one of them would do, and more, to save himself.
At last he let them go, bringing up the rear as the point men led out. They would not pause to rest until the enemy was taken.
Chong was pleased—but still not confident. The enemy and his prisoners were still out there somewhere ahead of him, moving through the darkness of the forest at top speed, perhaps already making for some rendezvous with vehicles prepared to carry them away to safety.
If they escaped ...
He put the thought away from him, refusing to consider it. He would not, could not fail. Instead, he would emerge victorious: the camp commander, who had withstood a full assault by hostile troops on friendly ground, then recouped his losses by retaining his prisoners and killing or capturing the entire enemy force.
He smiled at the darkness, keeping pace with the column of his troops now, adrenaline pumping through his body. He would succeed where other, lesser men would surely fail. It was his destiny, and he was bound for greater things.
Chapter Seventeen
Stone saw the liana coming just in time to duck it, hunching down and moving on without a break in stride. The jungle after nightfall was an obstacle course where any misstep might prove fatal to unwary travelers. A different sort of predator enjoyed the night: lethal reptiles and insects, prowling in an endless search for food.
There was no time for caution now, not with the armed pursuit force inevitably on their trail. Stone knew that the Viets would not be far behind them. The commander of the camp, or his subordinates if he had fallen in the firefight, would be anxious to redeem themselves, recoup their losses. They would keep up with the chase all night, if necessary, right on to the border, in their hatred and their hunger for revenge.
Stone knew that he had just deprived the camp commander and his men of their precious self-respect. They must avenge themselves, or die in the attempt; their honor would not let them go back to their own superiors and readily confess defeat by any smaller force.
Surprise had been the key, and Stone knew that his enemies would still be reeling, even as they took up the pursuit. They could not know, for certain, just how many men had participated in the raid. Their fear of contact with a larger force, determined, better armed, would slow their steps a little—perhaps enough to give Stone's column all the lead they needed to effect their getaway.
Perhaps.
But he certainly couldn't count on it with any confidence.
His years of jungle warfare had taught Stone one thing above all else: a man always had to be prepared, expect the unexpected. It was trite, a virtual cliché, but that did not deprive the maxim of its basic truthfulness.
The jungle was not enemy or friend, he knew. The landscape, animals, and vegetation were indifferent to the schemes of men, uninterested in the war games they played across the land. From experience, he knew the jungle to be neutral—and that made it every bit as dangerous as any foe. The jungle didn't give a damn who won this war or that one; it devoured friends and enemies with fine impartiality, consuming everyone and everything that had the temerity to trespass in its vast domain.
Stone did not fear the jungle. He respected it. And tonight he knew that it could work either for him or against him as he raced
the clock, determined to keep their rendezvous with the waiting helicopter.
It would be close, no doubt about it. They were running behind schedule now, and they would have to make it up along the way unless they wanted to wind up walking back to Bangkok. It was possible, of course, but Stone was sure his charges would not survive the trek. Alex Bradford would almost certainly die along the way, unless he got some medical attention soon.
Lan Vang was leading them along what seemed to be a narrow game trail, carved out of the forest by millennia of paws and hooves intent on finding food and water. With any luck at all, it would lead them to their rendezvous, and they would get there intact before the pilot started getting edgy in the predawn darkness, and decided to take off without them.
Stone tried to picture Meyers and Hopkins waiting in the Huey, narrowed eyes probing and dissecting the hostile darkness. They would wait for the allotted span of time because he owed them cash, if for no other reason. But he could not count on anything if they were late in keeping the appointment. Meyers and Hopkins might hang in a little longer—or they might take off and leave the little column to its fate.
Either way, time was of the essence, and the more so if they missed connections with the Huey. If they had to hike out through the jungle, they would need every moment of lead time they could get, to keep ahead of the pursuing enemy.
A sound of rushing, hissing water, and before he knew it, Stone was standing on a riverbank. A second glance told him it was really more a stream than a real river, but it was swift, and looked pretty deep out there, toward the center, where the water swirled and eddied
They would have to cross, and there was no time for rigging any sort of grab-line. They were going to get wet, and there was nothing he could do about it now, except to curse the darkness and the water that had blocked their path.
Lan Vang was first down in the stream, and he was waist-deep before he had taken five strides out from the bank. The current sucked around and at his legs, almost toppling him twice before he made it to midstream. Stone watched him closely, trying to calculate the depth of the water, using the Laotian's diminutive height as a gauge.
Hog Wiley brushed against him in the darkness of the jungle, still carrying Colonel Bradford slung across his shoulders.
"Can you carry him across?" Stone asked,
Hog eyed the water dubiously, and finally nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem. Poor bastard hardly weighs a hundred pounds."
"All right. You take the lead, and I'll be right behind you, just in case."
"Roger that."
Without a backward glance, the towering Hog started wading out into the rushing stream, his human cargo high and dry. Stone cast a backward glance at Terrance Loughlin, knowing he would watch the ambulatory P.O.W.'s and protect them on the crossing as best he could.
The water was surprisingly warm on Stone's legs and buttocks as he left the bank and waded out toward midstream. He tried to follow Hog as closely as he could, careful to test each step before he committed himself, putting his full weight down only when the bottom of the stream proved to be solid, able to support him. There were stones along the bottom, shifting in the ooze, and it reminded Stone of trying to walk on marbles that some child had scattered thoughtlessly about.
No time to worry now about what forms of jungle life might be sharing the river with them. Rushing water pretty well ruled out the usual leeches and other denizens of stagnant ponds. There might well be snakes, of course, and the ever-present crocodiles, but Stone would not allow himself to dwell on them, would not permit his mind to call up the image of the Vietnamese patrol boat sailor, going down amid the swirl of bloody water lashed to lather by a broad reptilian tail.
He had enough to worry about, enough to fear this night from men. No need to borrow trouble from Mother Nature.
They were something more than halfway across the stream when Hog lost his footing, gave a stifled little groan, and tumbled over sideways. He kept his grip on Alex Bradford's legs, but the current of the stream was sucking at them both, threatening to drag him under, or deprive him of his human burden.
Stone started splashing toward them at the double. Reaching down, he tangled his fingers in the wounded colonel's hair and yanked his face above the surface of the water. Bradford gave a long, shuddering gasp, expelling water from his nose and mouth, and then Hog was scrambling to his feet, cursing fluently as he regained his balance and his grip upon the wounded prisoner.
"Okay?" Stone asked above the sound of the rushing water.
"Got 'im," Hog grunted, already turning back and moving on toward the opposite bank.
Stone risked a backward glance and saw Loughlin and the others crossing without apparent incident, closing the gap between them. He continued on, and gained the bank a moment after Wiley made it, gratefully depositing his bundle on the mossy bank and dropping to a restful crouch. "No time for that," Stone told him, motioning to Lan Vang to hit the trail again as soon as Loughlin and his charges reached the bank and scrambled dripping from the water. "We can rest on board the Huey."
"Shit."
Hog hauled himself erect without another word, hoisted Alex Bradford on his meaty shoulders, and moved out to follow without further protest.
All of them were well aware of what recapture would mean for the P.O.W.'s—and what it would mean for Stone's group if the Vietnamese were able to take them alive. Stone had survived captivity in Asian hands himself, and he had no desire whatever to repeat the lesson.
He would not be taken alive, no matter the outcome of their race with time. If it came down to that, he chose a death in combat, standing up and facing down the enemy, hand-to-hand and eye-to-eye. A soldier's death, rather than the rotting, living hell of some crude zoo in the highlands.
As for the others, they had talked it over many times, before and after missions like the present one, and Stone knew they were in accord. Surrender was as foreign to these men as fear, no part of their vocabulary. While they might retreat, it was strategic, never coming close to the rout they had inflicted on defenders at the prison camp so very recently.
Their mission was accomplished, so they left.
Stone paused, mentally correcting himself. Their mission was almost accomplished. There was still the trifling matter of an exit out of Laos, and safe delivery of their charges to their waiting families.
Mandrell and Wilcox were the wild cards. Mark Stone had come in search of only one P.O.W., Alex Bradford, and now he was going home with three. He had no idea whether there was family waiting for the other two or not. Most likely, they had long been given up for dead. Sometimes the wives remarried or found other solace, and the children, some of them no more than infants when their fathers had gone to war; could hardly be expected to remember from a picture on the mantel.
It was rough, no doubt about it, but the men behind him deserved another shot at life, no matter what that life turned out to be. If they were forced to uproot certain memories and find an opening for others, it was better, sure as hell, than rotting in a bamboo cage in Laos.
No P.O. W. in Stone's experience had ever shown regret at leaving his captivity, and these were no exception. As they traveled, covering the ground and clicking off kilometers in darkness, even Wilcox seemed more animated, more coherent than the zombie that Stone had first encountered on his initial penetration of the camp. Not speaking, well aware of all security precautions, Wilcox still seemed more alert and awake, and he was keeping in close touch with his cellmate, Mandrell, through a system of grunts and hand signals they had obviously worked out through the years of their captivity.
Stone left them to it, and he didn't give a damn if they were cutting paper dolls back there, as long as they could stand the pace, and not hold the column back. So far, he was pleasantly surprised by the stamina of the two ambulatory prisoners; he had expected them to be so weakened and emaciated that all three would have to be carried the majority of the way.
Stone heard the sounds an instant
before Lan Vang froze in his tracks, a dozen yards ahead of the advancing column.
They were sounds of battle—with a difference. Between the shouts and jungle-muffled sounds of sporadic gunfire, there was something else: a noise like raucous, throaty laughter.
Stone raised a hand, signaling the others to wait where they were with their charges. He moved up beside their Free Laotian guide, and together the two of them slipped through the undergrowth, homing on the source of the sounds ahead. A gliding, slow advance of fifty yards, and there was nothing in the least bit muffled about the sounds now.
A woman screamed, and Stone could hear the sound of knuckles striking flesh as she was quickly silenced. Another burst of gunshots, almost casual, followed by another strangled scream.
Stone reached out cautiously to part the ferns in front of him, allowing himself to view the battlefield beyond. There was a little village up ahead, carved out of a jungle clearing, temporary, judging from the makeshift huts and hastily constructed cooking fire. The villagers, perhaps a score of peasants dressed in ragged garb, were herded close together by the fire, surrounded by a motley force of well-armed men.
Two of the men were occupied in attempting to drag a fighting and kicking young woman into the nearest thatched hut. Her jacket had been torn away already to reveal her teenaged breasts, and she was fighting the inevitable with grim tenacity.
"What's going on?" he asked their guide, although Stone thought he knew the answer independently.
Lan Yang spent another moment surveying the scene, and then leaned closer, his narrow lips almost brushing Stone's ear as he whispered his answer.
"Bandits!"
Chapter Eighteen
Stone watched the action for another moment, easing off the safety on his rifle. He was weighing angles, calculating probabilities, assessing needs. The villagers were clearly in the worst of trouble, but his men, especially the P.O.W.'s, were in equal jeopardy, or worse. Delay to intervene in what was not his fight would give Stone's enemies a chance to cut their lead, to close the gap and come in striking distance. Worse, it ran the risk of making them impossibly late for the rendezvous with Meyers and the Huey.
M.I.A. Hunter Page 12