by Dick Stivers
The harsh growl of the jeep's engine sounded loud in the night, drowning out the many little jungle noises that whizzed by along both sides of the open vehicle.
But the jeep sounds did not drown out the sudden burst of rattling gunfire from up ahead.
Instinctively, Jill hit the brakes.
The jeep skidded to a stop.
She sat very still, not realizing she was holding her breath.
The weapons fire continued.
She could distinguish the crackle of small-arms punctuating the heavier blasts.
She cut the jeep's headlights but left the engine running.
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She saw a flickering brightness up ahead, around what was evidently a bend in the road. The glow was red, licking the night sky as she watched.
Fire.
The village was being put to the torch!
She was too late!
Already American and Army of the Republic of Vietnam forces were moving into the village, razing it. Probably because the villagers had the audacity to resent the way their country, their lives, were being invaded by corrupt foreign governments. Maybe the civilians had provided food and shelter for the Vietcong.
This was it.
Her response was automatic.
She reached down on the seat beside her for the tape recorder and camera.
This atrocity would not go unrecorded, unpunished.
This one would see the light of day.
She unfastened the flap of a pack and took out her equipment. Then she took a deep breath and got ready to start down the road again. She would proceed on foot, even though that would be tricky.
Continuing in the jeep would present an easy target. She would be more likely to get shot.
The jungle pressed in close on both sides of the road.
Jill Desmond was about to step down from the jeep when a hand reached out, grabbing her arm.
She screamed into the night.
Jerking around, she saw a face looming at her out of the darkness: flat features, lank black hair, cloth tied around the forehead.
Vietcong.
Reflex took over.
Jill's foot left the brake, slammed the gas pedal. She popped the clutch.
The jeep shot forward.
She was thrown back against the seat.
The VC let go.
The left front wheel of the jeep dipped off the roadway. The lurch threw Jill heavily to the side.
She grabbed for the wheel, straightening herself and the jeep. Her foot was still on the gas. She left it there. Keeping her head down, she drove, her heart pounding wildly.
Somehow the jeep stayed on the road.
She heard firing from behind her.
From the sound of it, there were at least two or three others back there with the man who grabbed her, triggering shots after the fleeing vehicle.
A slug ricocheted off the body of the jeep with a whining spang.
Jill cringed, feeling the first tinge of fear.
She barely made out the bend in the road in time to whip the jeep around it, rather than crash into the culvert dead ahead. Once she negotiated the turn she brought the jeep to a halt.
Her jaw dropped at the scene of carnage spread out before her.
Unimaginable carnage, everywhere she looked.
The hooches of the village were grouped in a rough circle. Beyond them was the thick blackness of jungle night.
This had been a peaceful place once.
But no more.
All the huts were ablaze. Villagers ran around in frenzied shocked, scared confusion. Smoke and gunfire filled the air.
Jill saw an old man stumble out of one of the flaming huts. He was on fire.
Watching in numb horror, Jill saw a young woman race through the night with her baby clutched to her chest. The fire cast a red glow over her terrified face. The mother's face disappeared in a spray of blood. She had run into a bullet. The baby dropped shrieking from her arms, into a puddle of mud.
The villagers were being driven from their homes like stampeding cattle by the torches of soldiers. The civilians were being systematically slaughtered.
Then she saw the black pajamalike "uniforms." Not ARVN. Not soldiers, as Jill had thought.
Vietcong.
She saw at least two dozen VC firing into the village. Sometimes they shot to kill, sometimes only to disable. Then they would finish the job with the long knives they carried. The firelight glinted on the hacking, bloody blades.
A VC toting a machine gun raked fire across a fleeing knot of civilians, stitching them, shredding flesh, pulping bone. Bodies erupted gore.
Jill Desmond was sick.
Deep-down sick. Far past the vomiting stage.
A tiny moan escaped her throat.
It was stilled by the cold touch of metal that suddenly pressed against her temple.
"Do not move," a heavily accented voice growled close to her ear.
Jill did what the voice told her. She remained still except for the trembling that she could not control, spasming up from her gut.
The man holding the pistol moved around to her side. In the reflected glow of the village's destruction, she could see him.
The face was lean, skin pulled taut over high cheekbones. Dark eyes glittered with the light of madness. No. Not madness.
Savagery.
He wore a crude uniform and was evidently the leader of this group of VC who had surrounded the jeep. His eyes took in every detail of the news woman.
A razorlike smile slit his face.
"American," he said softly, the comment almost lost in the clamor of gunfire and screams from the village. "Very good."
The Cong leader stepped back and motioned curtly with a pistol. Two of his men stepped toward the jeep.
Jill shrank from them. Her mouth moved.
"No," she whispered. "Oh, God, no…"
They grabbed her arms, yanking her from the jeep.
She screamed in pain. Her cries were ignored.
Thirty seconds later, the jeep stood deserted in the road.
The VC vanished into the jungle with their captive.
* * *
Bolan ignored his weariness.
This was his first tour of duty in Vietnam, his first experience with war, but he had already learned to push himself beyond the natural limits of endurance. His life depended on it.
He was still in camou fatigues, but he had traded his sniper rifle for an M-16 equipped with noise-and-flash suppressor. A .45 automatic nestled in leather on his hip. Grenades were clipped onto the belt around his waist. A long double-edged knife was sheathed behind the .45.
He moved on foot along the road, traveling at a good clip. He was a moving shadow, nothing more. He knew that he could cover ground almost as fast as the jeep. He reckoned the disrepair would slow Jill Desmond's progress.
This way was quieter.
He heard the gunfire to the north. He stopped. He listened.
It could be a firefight between VC and American forces, but the young combat specialist doubted that. The VC had "liberated" lots of French and American weapons over the years.
Bolan launched into a jog again.
A few minutes later he reached Three Click Fork.
The firing to the north had died down.
Bolan hesitated only a fraction of a heartbeat, then headed in that direction.
Everything was quiet to the south. He eliminated that possibility.
Bolan had to follow his instincts.
They told him that Jill Desmond had turned north. That she was right in the middle of that trouble up ahead.
God help her.
Before he had gone very far, he spotted the glow of the fire through gaps in the trees, growing brighter as he advanced.
Running directly into hell.
He saw the deserted jeep.
Bolan went into the brush at the side of the road in a rolling dive, came up with the muzzle of the M-16 lined up on the vehicl
e. His finger rested on the trigger, ready to send death down that road at the first sign of danger.
After a long moment he let out his breath again.
There was no movement around the jeep.
Bolan came out of his crouch and hurried on to the vehicle.
He drew up beside the jeep…and stared past it at images out of a lunatic's nightmare.
Destruction was everywhere.
What had been a peaceful village hours ago, when Able Team had passed through on their way home, was a blood-drenched hellground. Corpses everywhere. Corpses of every age, both sexes.
Sporadic firing broke out. A few VC darted around the flaming ruins of the huts, finishing off the survivors of the massacre.
A mop-up party.
A larger force had done this and had left.
Jill Desmond wanted to learn the truth about the war.
There was no better place.
The Executioner got to work.
One of the villagers, a man whose legs had been shattered by bullets, lay on the ground, pleading for mercy from the black-clad VC who loomed over him. The VC's grinning face became a devilish mask in the glow of the firelight as he lifted his knife, ready to chop.
His head exploded in a shower of blood and gray matter. He pitched backward in a death sprawl.
Bolan tracked right, squeezing off another round.
Another of the bastards went spinning into oblivion as a slug punched open his head.
Two more VC went down before the others realized someone in the shadows was sniping at them. The ones still alive cast about frantically for some sign of the wraith-like, silent sniper.
Shouting in anger, one of the VC peppered the nearby jungle with rounds from his machine gun. He was kicked backward an instant later by a burst that splattered through his neck.
Another threw a grenade into the trees.
Bolan was on the move and out of range by the time it exploded. The Executioner dropped the grenade thrower with another short burst from the M-16. He slammed another clip into the assault rifle and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
He stayed on the perimeter of the village, always on the move, pausing every few feet to deliver death to another of these vermin who preyed on their own countrymen.
He had to take one of them alive, so he could find out where the others had taken Jill Desmond.
He snapped off another shot. A running Cong flopped to the ground. Bolan scanned the area.
There had to be at least one more VC around here. There had to be.
Bolan moved out from the tree line.
In the darkness he heard the snap of a twig to his left.
He slipped to the side as automatic-weapon fire ripped through the space where he had just been.
The muzzle-flash came from near one of the burning huts.
Bolan put a round through the ambusher's chest and another through his thigh. The VC fell, weapon spinning away. He sprawled on the ground thrashing and screaming in pain.
He was still alive.
Bolan stepped forward.
The wounded VC fumbled for a grenade.
Bolan's booted foot lashed out and broke the man's wrist. The grenade bounced away harmlessly, pin intact.
Bolan pressed the muzzle of the M-16 against the guy's chest.
"I hope to hell you speak English."
The Cong's eyes were wide, filled with terror. But he did not respond.
Bolan switched to Vietnamese. His fair command of the language got his point across.
The guy twisted his head back and forth in response to Bolan's question. The fear grew stronger. So did the pain as shock wore off. Blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. His breathing was harsh, ragged.
Bolan asked once more where the others in the group had gone.
Again the man shook his head.
Bolan's eyes darted around the burned-out village, looking for any sign of Jill Desmond.
Nothing.
She was gone.
Taken.
A coldness grew inside Bolan, a white-hot coldness.
He thought about what would happen to the woman if she remained a VC captive for even a short time.
Then he shifted the M-16 and pressed the hot muzzle against the sweating forehead of the wounded creep.
For the last time, Bolan asked his question.
This time, the guy answered.
"Xan Lung!" he screamed out.
Bolan eased off the pressure of the M-16 threatening to blow the guy's skull to bits. He stood, trying to decide what to do with the man, when the VC made the decision for him.
The VC scrambled as fast as he could toward a fallen machine gun, dragging his shattered leg behind him. He got his hands on the weapon.
Then Bolan's burst from the M-16 ripped the VC apart.
The Executioner was alone in a village of death.
He drew a long breath and let it out slowly. Fatigue tried to claim his body and soul. But he refused to acknowledge it.
Time to get moving.
* * *
The nights were never totally quiet.
There were insects and other small creatures moving through the jungle. The sounds of nature went on.
The path Bolan followed was narrow and winding, the bushes around him so thick that only the smallest glimmer of moonlight penetrated.
He moved by instinct most of the time, hurrying along the trail at a soundless jog, the jungle fighter in his element.
He quickly circled the perimeter of the decimated village before leaving it behind, and his first thought was confirmed.
Jill was not among the dead.
The VC had her.
They could make use of a captured American, especially an attractive female journalist.
There would be more than the inevitable rape. They would debase her totally as a woman, as a human being.
Mack Bolan was not going to let the woman die.
He stepped up his pace.
With his rifle at the ready, his combat senses fine tuned to danger in the jungle around him, he hustled along.
The wounded VC back at the village had told him with two words where the others had gone.
Xan Lung.
A village one hour to the north that had already felt the purging touch of the VC. They had taken over the village, constructed a munitions dump there. They abandoned the settlement when the Americans learned of the VC presence and shelled the area.
The village was well off the main "highway."
Bolan headed in that direction, making his own path at first, then following the trail he came across. He was fairly sure that the VC had used the path earlier that night. An occasional vine that had been hacked away from the jungle trail told Bolan that the wounded man had not lied. The VC hadcome this way.
With Jill.
The path was muddy in places. The muck suctioned at his boots. The ever-present stench of decayed vegetation filled his nostrils, making the air thick.
The sound of voices came to his ears.
Bolan slowed.
The voices were low pitched. The source was ahead of him, just off the trail.
He melted into the bush on the same side of the path and stood absolutely still. His alert senses had saved him from walking directly into a security perimeter. He heard two voices, conversing in Vietnamese.
Okay.
If they were lookouts, they weren't very good ones. Deep in the jungle, though, he supposed it was easy for them to get overconfident.
He moved up on them so softly that not even the night creatures were disturbed.
Within moments he was a few feet from the enemy but neither of them had any idea of his presence.
One of the VC laughed at a comment from the other one.
Bolan knew he had to take out both of them almost at the same time to prevent any outcry.
He rushed forward between the two of them. Surprise registered on one of the men's faces, but not for long as Bolan rammed
the M-16's butt sideways. There was a cracking sound as skull bone shattered. One VC, dead on his feet, stumbled back, blood spurting from his nose and mouth.
The other man only had time to emit a startled grunt. He started tracking his rifle upward, but the Executioner pivoted in a lightning-fast maneuver and swung the gun stock again. The second VC, his head caved in, dropped lifelessly to the ground alongside his comrade.
Bolan left them there.
A few steps and he was back on the trail.
Where there was one set of guards, there would be another.
Bolan advanced a few meters, then left the trail. The going would be slower, but he was willing to sacrifice a little speed.
Long minutes passed as the nightscorcher made his way through dense clinging undergrowth.
A whiff of cooking came to him, intermingled with the usual smells of this jungle world.
The VC camp at Xan Lung.
Suddenly a guttural voice challenged him.
Bolan dived forward, somersaulting and coming up in a crouch. He spotted the shadowy bulk of a sentry in the darkness and triggered off a round.
The silenced assault rifle chugged.
The figure in the shadows staggered, clutching at its middle, and fell.
Bolan moved to the man's side, knife unsheathed, poised.
The VC was dead, drilled through the heart.
Bolan drew a deep breath.
He moved forward on his belly, leaving the dead sentry behind him.
Another few minutes brought him to his goal.
Bolan huddled in the thick choking growth and peered out into a clearing that was illuminated by a small fire.
There were at least fifteen Vietcong in the camp.
Some of them were drinking, some were gathered around a cooking pot suspended over the fire.
Most of the huts that made up the village of Xan Lung had been destroyed, but a few were still scattered around the clearing.
Dominating the scene was a bombed-out concrete building — the abandoned munitions dump. Parts of it had been leveled by American shelling. Sections of the roof had collapsed, but the walls still stood for the most part.
Bolan's eyes flicked from figure to figure down there, checking out everyone.
There was no sign of Jill Desmond.
She was either inside one of the huts or inside the munitions dump.
Or she was dead.
A choked scream from the munitions building gave Bolan his answer.
