“Listen to me,” Dalton said in a low voice. “Listen to me. I know you’re afraid and it’s okay to be afraid. Because you got something to be afraid of and you just had something real bad happen.
“When I was a POW in Vietnam, they brought in a pilot late one afternoon. They carried him down the corridor past my cell, and I could see that he was in bad shape. He still had his flight suit on but it was all torn up and he was bleeding. He must have come down near a village. In a way, he was lucky to be alive, because once the villagers got hold of one of those who brought death out of the sky— as they called pilots— they usually hacked him to pieces before he could even get out of his parachute harness. But the NVA must have gotten to him in time. They liked pilots because they could get some good intelligence off them and they had publicity value.”
Dalton heard Jackson sniffle. He kept speaking.
“They put him in the cell next to me. I heard him crying that night. Hell, I remember crying my first night after I came to.”
Jackson looked up at the sergeant major in surprise.
Dalton smiled. “Anyone who wasn’t scared or didn’t feel afraid in such a situation would have to be nuts. I’ve met a few guys who weren’t afraid in combat, who actually enjoyed it— they were sociopaths. And those guys scared the piss out of me.
“Anyway, I reached through the bars and called to him. I got him to put his hand out and I held it. All night long. Because the thing we’re afraid of more than anything else is being alone.”
Jackson pulled back slightly and Dalton took his arm off her shoulders. “This devil doesn’t scare you as much as the thought of facing him alone. But that isn’t going to happen. Next time you meet this Chyort, this devil, you won’t be alone. We’ll be there with you.”
Jackson stood up.
“Okay?” Dalton asked.
Jackson nodded, her eyes red.
“Get some rest,” Dalton said. “I’d take one of Hammond’s shots if I was you.”
Dalton watched her walk away. Jackson reminded him in a way of Marie. He tried to pinpoint what the semblance was, then realized there was nothing in particular except that Jackson had needed him.
He sat in the dark of the bunk room, his mind not on the upcoming mission, but on the past. The first time he had been under fire. The day that had torn him away from Marie for five long years.
* * *
“He must keep this bandage on for three days.”
Specialist Fourth Class Jimmy Dalton listened as the interpreter relayed his instructions to the mother. Dalton spoke Vietnamese, not fluently, but well enough so that he could have given the information himself, but he had learned that it went over better coming from the interpreter. It was scary enough for these people to come with their medical problems to the large foreigners and allow themselves to be exposed to treatments they could not understand. The concept of one of the foreigners speaking their language was something that took a while for most to assimilate
and accept, and Dalton’s priority was his patient’s health, not immediate cultural acceptance. He knew the latter would require time and patience, and he was going to be here for a year, so he was prepared to take it slow.
Dalton was dressed in plain green jungle fatigues, a Special Forces patch sewn onto the left shoulder, the gold dagger and three lightning bolts standing out against the teal blue background on the arrowhead-shaped patch. On his head, his green beret felt stiff and new, unlike the battered and faded ones the other members of the team wore.
Dalton looked up from the young boy as the northeastern sky flickered. Seconds later the manmade thunder that went with the light rolled over the camp. The sound of mortars and artillery pounding Khe Sanh had been a nightly serenade for the past seventeen days. Located less than four miles to the southwest of the bombarded Marine Corps base, the Special Forces camp at Lang Vei was an inviting target to the NVA forces as the Tet Offensive exploded in earnest throughout South Vietnam. Every man assigned to Lang Vei knew it, but so far, they had been left alone other than an occasional mortar attack.
“You should all leave,” the woman told the interpreter in Vietnamese.
Ba To, the interpreter, glanced at Dalton, knowing he had heard. “Why is that?”
The woman swept her hand at the dark jungle that surrounded the camp. “Many, many soldiers from the north. And their large metal beasts. They will kill all of you.”
“Tell her she’s welcome,” Dalton told Ba To. He rubbed a rag across his forehead, then proceeded to repack his M-3 medical bag. Metal beasts. They’d captured an NVA officer a week ago who’d told intelligence that tanks were being brought up to the Laotian border, only a kilometer and a half down Route 9, which ran along the southern perimeter of the camp. The report had been greeted with skepticism by the brass and concern by the rank and file. Dalton’s team sergeant, Mike Terrence, had sent an urgent
request for LAWs, light antitank weapons, to their B-Team headquarters. They’d received a hundred of the plastic tubes just two days ago. The LAWs, in addition to the 106-millimeter recoilless rifle in the camp’s center weapon pit, was the extent of their antiarmor capability.
Dalton looked across the berm and the rows of barbed wire at the jungle, less than two hundred meters away. The N VA using tanks was unheard of. At worst, the intelligence rep had insisted, if there were tanks, the N VA would use them for covering fire from the treeline. That made no sense to Dalton, but then again he was only a nineteen-year-old medic, straight out of the Special Forces Qualification Course at Fort Bragg. He’d been in-country only three weeks and the most dangerous thing he’d done was make the resupply run to Khe Sanh the first week he was at Lang Vei and hunker down in a Marine bunker while mortar and artillery rounds came in.
From the sound of the firefight to the northeast, there was no doubt that the Marines were catching hell. Since the offensive had begun, the only way in and out of Khe Sanh was by air. The same was true of the Special Forces camp. Highway 9 was cut to the east of Lang Vei, essentially isolating the A-Camp other than for helicopter resupply for the past two weeks.
The mother and son walked off toward the huts holding the Laotian refugees who had flooded into the camp in the past week, running before the N VA forces who were using their country as a free zone to organize their assault. Dalton wished Ba To a good evening, and they headed in opposite directions to turn in for the night.
Besides the American A-team, Detachment A-101, there was a mobile strike force company of the local Civilian Irregular Defense Group, CIDG, inside the walls of the dog-bone-shaped camp along with the battered remains of the Laotian battalion that had briefly fought the N VA before running to Lang Vei. Twelve Americans and three hundred indigenous troops, at the remotest edge of South Vietnam, close to the borders of both Laos to the west and North Vietnam just to the north.
This was what Dalton had been trained for: to work with the indigenous people of a country to teach them how to take care of and protect themselves. As a medic, Dalton had spent most of the past several weeks not walking combat patrols, but plying his medical skills among the never-ending line of patients. He’d already performed more minor surgery than most interns back in the United States. There was nowhere else for these people to go for treatment.
Dalton walked along the inside of camp, passing the dark forms of soldiers manning their posts. His goal was the command bunker that also held the small dispensary where he and the senior medical sergeant kept their supplies and bunked down.
Halfway there, right in the center of the camp, Dalton halted. His back felt like there was an army of small ants climbing up it, and he reached back to brush them off, when he realized that the feeling was inside his head, not actually on his skin.
The flat thump of a mortar round leaving a tube interrupted this strange feeling. Dalton had been in-country long enough to know that by the time one heard the sound of the mortar firing from outside the camp, the projectile was already over its apogee and on the
way down. He ran for the nearest sandbagged position, the 106-millimeter recoilless rifle pit. Dalton jumped over the top of the four-foot-high sandbag wall as the first mortar round hit just outside the perimeter.
“Mind your p’s and q’s and watch where you put your feet, laddie,” a voice with a thick Boston accent greeted Dalton as he sat up, dusting dirt off his shirt.
Staff Sergeant Herman Dunnigan was the team’s junior weapons man, and the 106 was his pride and joy. He’d stolen it from the Marines two months ago, and Captain Farrel, the detachment commander, had already been called on the carpet twice for the return of the weapon. With the reports of N VA armor, the entire team knew that Farrel was is no rush to return the rifle to
the Leathernecks, who were much better prepared at their firebase for any sort of armor attack.
Dalton slid across the base of the pit until he was next to Dunnigan, who handed him an already lit cigarette, pulling its replacement out of his fatigue shirt pocket. Two more rounds went off in rapid succession, somewhere in the south side of the camp. Dalton flinched at each explosion.
“They got the range, ” Dunnigan commented. “They most certainly do, the little bastards. Of course, they’re probably getting adjusted by someone in the CIDG, so why the hell shouldn’t they have the range?”
It was accepted that the NVA had spies in both the CIDG and in the Laotian battalion. It was a bitch having to guard against attack from the outside and betrayal on the inside of the wire, but it was the nature of the Special Forces’ job. Dalton knew that some of the soldiers he was patching up could be shooting him in the back that very evening.
Dalton didn’t answer as he took a deep drag on the smoke. His hand was trembling. He was scratching his neck before he realized that, again, the itchy feeling was coming from inside.
“Something’s coming ” Dalton said as he carefully snuffed the cigarette out and put the remains in his pocket. He swiveled around on his knees and peered over the barrier toward the jungle.
“You don’t need to see ’em,” Dunnigan said. “We ’ll be hearing them first.” He gripped Dalton’s shoulder. “Listen.”
Dalton held his breath, just as he’d been taught when getting ready to fire his rifle. There was a very low roar, an engine running. Dalton’s first thought was that it was the camp’s generator, but then he realized it was of a deeper pitch and coming from outside the perimeter.
Dunnigan was on the hand-cranked phone, calling the mortar pit. “I need illumination. West side. Over the treeline.”
“Tanks?” Dalton asked as he hung up the phone.
“Damn straight, laddie. Didn’t you feel ’em moving up earlier?”
Dalton looked at the other man. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder why Dunnigan was in the pit this late in the evening. “Feel them?”
“You live long enough, you’ll know.” Dunnigan’s head was cocked listening for the sound of the 4.2-inch mortar on the north side of the camp to fire. “Sometimes I wonder, though, if it isn’t you know, and you’ll live long enough.”
Dalton was still puzzling over that when they heard the heavy thump of the camp’s four-deuce mortar. Seconds later a flare burst high overhead, illuminating the western side of the camp.
“High explosive, load!” Dunnigan was looking down the barrel of the 106-millimeter, aiming it.
Dalton grabbed a round out of its cardboard container and slid it in the back of the rifle, shutting the trap on it. Only then did he look where the other man was aiming.
Four PT-76 tanks were rumbling out of the treeline and heading straight for the wire. They weren’t top-of-the-line battle tanks, but rather armored reconnaissance vehicles built by the Soviet Union, with a 76-millimeter gun mounted on top in a small turret. Still, coming straight at him, the tanks more than impressed Dalton.
The recoilless rifle spit flame. A burst of fire on the front slope of one of the tanks was followed immediately by a secondary explosion, popping the turret off.
“H.E., load!”
Dalton fell into the rhythm, loading as fast as Dunnigan fired. They flamed a second tank as four more came out of the trees. By the time Dunnigan had fired for the fifth time, the lead tank was in the wire, less than fifty feet away. It paused, the 76-millimeter gun in the turret turning in their direction.
Dalton felt like time was suspended as he slid a fresh round into the rear of the rifle and locked it down. Dunnigan had his
eye pressed up against the aiming scope. Both guns fired at the same time.
A shock wave hit Dalton in the chest, knocking him back. The sandbags in the front of the pit had taken the impact of the N VA round, and all that remained was a large divot in their protective barrier. The PT-76 that had fired was in flames.
A hand slapped Dalton on the back, bringing his attention back into the pit.
“H.E. Load!” Dunnigan was mouthing the words but Dalton couldn’t hear anything other than a loud ringing in his ears.
He slid a round in but everything suddenly went dark other than the burning tanks as the flare expired. Dalton could see tracer rounds flying by overhead and he knew that one of the tanks was firing its coaxial machine gun at them.
Dalton shook his head trying to clear the ringing. Dunnigan was on the phone, screaming for more illumination.
Dalton saw figures running, silhouetted by the last tank they’d hit. He suddenly realized they were sappers in the wire. He threw his M-16 to his shoulder and fired, finger pulling back on the trigger smoothly, aiming quickly, not able to tell if he was hitting anyone, there were so many. His finger pulled and there was no recoil. Dalton’s training took over as he pushed the button on the side of the magazine well, letting the empty one fall out. He pulled a fresh one out of his pouch and slammed it home.
Another flare burst overhead. Dunnigan had his shoulder into the recoilless rifle. Dalton stopped firing long enough to scan the area. There were three tanks bearing down on their pit. He could see the blinking flashes on the side of the turrets— their co-ax machine guns. And all three were pointed straight at him and Dunnigan. In front of them, Dalton saw sandbags being torn apart by the machine-gun bullets.
Dunnigan fired. The shell skidded off the deck of the lead tank. Then there was a bright flash of light and Dalton felt his breath get sucked out of his lungs as he was lifted into the air and then slammed into the ground on his back. He struggled for air, his brain momentarily not functioning, and then his lungs worked again.
Dalton opened his eyes and saw a bright shining candle. A flare, high overhead, slowly drifting down under its parachute. Dalton sat up, surprisingly unhurt, it appeared. He looked about the pit. The recoilless rifle was smashed, the barrel bent. Dunnigan was sitting against the rear of the pit, his chest covered in red from a jet of blood pulsing out of his neck. Dalton scooted over to him, ripping the bandage out of the case on his web gear.
He pressed down on the severed artery, and the white gauze was immediately soaked through with the deep red of blood coming straight from the heart and lungs. “Hang in there!” Dalton yelled, unable to hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. “You ’re gonna be all right!”
Dunnigan’s eyes went wide and Dalton knew there was someone behind him, but he also knew that if he stopped the pressure Dunnigan was dead.
Dalton felt the bayonet puncture his lower back, like a sliver of freezing cold entering his body. He arched forward, reacting even as his mind forced his hands to keep the pressure on Dunnigan’s wound. Dalton turned his head to the left, just in time to see the stock of an AK-47 heading straight for his face.
* * *
There was a flash of bright light, then there was only darkness.
Dalton looked down. His hands were clenching the edge of the bed, his knuckles white. He forced his fingers to let go. Slowly he let go of the memories of Vietnam. He cleared his mind and passed into an uneasy slumber.
* * *
Feteror’s demon avatar slowly materialized as he stalked
down the empty corridor. The dull glow of the dim night lighting in the building rippled through his form, the sound of his claws on the tile floor a low clicking noise echoing into silence. He paused at a door. He reached down. It was locked.
His form disappeared as he reentered the virtual plane and flowed through the thick steel, coming out the other side and reforming on the real plane. The room was lit with the glow of a dozen screensaver programs. Feteror walked to the center console. He reached out a long claw and carefully tapped on the keyboard, accessing the program he wanted.
It had taken him two months to get the code word he needed to enter the GRU classified database. Two months of hovering unseen on the virtual plane in the background at various GRU sites, waiting for someone to log on in front of him.
The screen cleared and the main menu came up. Feteror’s right arm dematerialized as he reached forward, sliding it through the screen and directly into the computer. He could sense the inner workings and tapped directly into the mainframe. Suddenly his entire form disappeared and he flowed into the computer. He raced through the inner workings, a shadow passing on the border between the real world and virtual until he found what he was looking for. He absorbed the information, imprinting a copy into his own psyche. The data was encrypted, but that wasn’t a problem— he could always get Zivon to help break the code.
There was one more thing. When the maintenance workers had accidentally allowed him access to the security cameras inside SD8-FFEU, Feteror had taken full advantage of the opportunity. He had accessed the small camera inside of General Rurik’s quarters— no one was exempt from security’s eye in the GRU— and scanned it. He had zoomed in on the photo next to the army bed: a woman with two children. The woman whose ring Rurik wore.
Feteror scanned through GRU personnel files until he found the information he needed.
Satisfied, Feteror headed back out of the computer and headed for SD8-FFEU.
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