Max had been so laser focused on his kill zone that he hadn’t heard Tom fire his weapon, but Curly and Shemp fell, too. Max and Tom glanced at each other. Move. The duo advanced and pumped extra rounds into the Four Stooges to make sure they weren’t playing possum. The light exited Max, and a dark feeling of invincibility replaced it, but that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was helping Dad.
Up ahead, beyond another shadowy patch of trees, Max caught a glimpse of movement and then it was gone. Then he noticed a tremble in the leaves.
Max locked his red dot on the movement in the foliage. Closer now, he was so amped that crimson filtered his vision, and he could only make out an AK pointed in his direction. Although a dark force pushed him to shoot first and ask questions later, he remembered his dad telling him to identify the threat before taking the shot. This had been reinforced in SEAL training, too.
The whites of two eyes stared at Max, and he strained to make out the dirty face of the person aiming the AK. It was Dad. His heart told him to drop everything, run to his father, and give him a hug, but his tactical brain pushed away those feelings. The shootout had already been noisy enough that there wasn’t any use in keeping quiet now. “Dad!” Max called.
“It’s us,” Tom said.
“Boys!” Hank called out.
Max continued in his father’s direction. “Tom and I are coming to you,” he said.
“I was afraid my mind was playing tricks on me,” Hank said.
Max closed the gap between them, and his heart overrode his tactical mind. Tom lost his tactical mind, too. The brothers gave their father a hug. Max felt whole and alive. He was determined not to lose Dad again—even for a moment. “We’ve got a vehicle,” Max said.
“If we can make it to the SUV, we can use it to drive back to Hanoi,” Tom said.
Hank gave them another hug. “Thank you.”
“Tom, you got comms with Willy?” Max asked.
“Workin’ on it, but the mountain seems to be blocking us.”
The not-so-distant report of a rifle reminded them to keep their reunion brief. The sky had become gray, and Max assumed point. Hank followed, and Tom brought up the rear. As they neared the compound that previously had been empty, men barked orders and engines idled from that direction. Before taking another step, Max spotted a metallic button on the ground in front of him—antipersonnel mine. Max froze in his tracks. Hank and Tom saw Max stop, and they froze, too. The three of them crouched low. Max signaled for his father and Tom to stay put, just to be safe. He didn’t know if he was at the entrance to a minefield, in the middle, or at the exit. He carefully examined the ground between himself and Dad. Drops of agitation rolled down his face and his sweaty shirt became cold. He found his footprints and carefully slipped into them, retracing his steps. When he reached his father’s side, he whispered in his ear, “Minefield.”
Hank’s eyes seemed to expand to the size of ping-pong balls.
Hank knew what to do, but Max told him anyway: “Just follow my footsteps.” Max said it with a level head, but deep inside, his head felt anything but level.
Max led Hank back to Tom, and gave Tom the same information. Tom’s lower jaw dropped. Max found more footprints and used them to backtrack. A hundred meters in the direction of where Dad was held prisoner, leaves rustled, branches broke, and a voice called out in Chinese what sounded like commands. They were stuck between the prison guards behind and a possible minefield in front. Max felt like a trapped mouse. Damn.
Rather than risk moving deeper into a minefield, Max decided to retrace his steps to safety—even if safety was in the face of the approaching enemy. He moved his lead foot first, and the moment he recognized a print, he lowered his foot in it. He continued this as efficiently as possible—not too fast, not too slow; not too careful, not too careless.
From one direction, men and vehicles in the military compound became louder, and from seventy-five meters in another direction, prison guards closed in. With a nearby minefield, the only way out seemed to be to their right, so Max patrolled in that direction. The prison guards shouted and fired their weapons. The shots didn’t land close. Maybe they’d discovered Max’s team’s tracks, or maybe they were attempting to flush them out. Max dropped to the prone position, so he wouldn’t be seen. Hank and Tom did, too.
The land gently dipped into a shallow gully. He hoped there were no land mines there. If we can reach the gully, we might be able to crawl out of this. Max grasped the sling of his submachine gun near the upper swivel and let the hand guard rest across his forearm. Then he pulled at the ground with his arms and pushed with one leg, dragging the other leg. He low-crawled through ferns, pushing dead vegetation with his face. Then he came face-to-face with a viper.
Max’s body turned to stone.
The large, shiny, blue-gray scales on its stout back were smooth, marked with thin white-orange bands spaced wide apart. The snake’s bright orange head was flat and elliptically shaped. Its short fangs glistened like blades. Vertical pupils inside the viper’s yellow eyes stared into him. Its horrific beauty mesmerized Max.
If the viper bit him in the face, he wondered how many seconds he’d have to live. He’d have to kill it before it harmed Tom or Dad. Just give us some space, buddy and let us through. We mean you no harm. The viper studied Max as if thinking about what to do next. Max stared back unruffled. Then the viper slithered away and disappeared into a hole. Max pushed a rock over the hole, closing the door. Yes.
He resumed the low crawl on his belly, leading his crew through the gully, which took them to the open meadow where dry grass covered the open land. Their SUV wasn’t much farther away. An explosion sounded, and men cried out as if the prison guards found the minefield—the hard way.
A loud turbocharged diesel engine motored within a hundred meters of them. Max stopped crawling in the gully. He was facing the side, and without moving his head, he looked up. The dead grassy meadow rose to a hill, and at the top of it was a thirteen-ton beast—a Chinese Type 92 Infantry Fighting Vehicle. It was operated by three crewmembers and could carry nine troops. Max had the dreadful feeling that his cloak of invisibility had fallen off, and now he was the emperor with no clothes.
The IFV’s 7.62mm machine gun opened up and plowed up the ground just twenty meters away from Max and his teammates. As clods of dirt became airborne, green tracer rounds burned into the dead grass and lit it on fire. They’re shooting at shit. The 7.62 rounds came within fifteen meters, continuing toward Max’s crew. Maybe they aren’t shooting at shit. From the IFV’s angle on the hill, the gully couldn’t shield them.
“Prepare to haul ass!” Max called.
The machine gun fire walked within ten meters of them.
“Go, go, go,” Max shouted. The three of them ran.
The IFV moved again, chasing them with its machine gun.
Max gauged their options. If they could make it deep enough into the grove of trees ahead, the IFV wouldn’t have enough space to follow. They hustled past the tree line, but the trees were spaced far enough apart that the IFV could still follow. They had to go deeper.
The machine gun fire stopped. “Hot damn! They’re out of ammo!” Max said.
Then a more ominous threat reared its fearsome head, and an autocannon pummeled the air with 25mm rounds in rapid succession. The high-explosive rounds blasted trees, chopping them down.
“They changed guns!” Tom cried out. “Run like hell.”
The trees groaned as the autocannon belched more death into the grove. Max picked up his thighs as fast as he could, and his upper body leaned so far forward that he expected to fall on his face at any moment.
Max glanced back at Dad. After being held captive, now he must be running on pure adrenaline. Max’s adrenaline was clearly flowing at full throttle. He returned his attention forward. He furiously dodged trees as he ran. More trees meant for less maneuverability for the IFV. Even so, a hunk of burning shrapnel whizzed past Max and stuck in a tree. He didn
’t let up on his breakneck pace.
When they reached the end of the grove, Max hoped their vehicle was still waiting for them.
Tom spotted it first. “There it is,” he said.
Max stopped at the SUV and unlocked it. His legs jiggled from fatigue as he and Tom helped Dad into the backseat. Then Max sat behind the wheel, fired the 4WD up, and spun out in the dirt.
With one hand on the wheel, Max used the other to pull a smashed energy bar out from a pocket and give it to Hank, who ripped off the wrapper and ate ravenously. Tom gave their father another, and he wolfed it down just as quickly.
Max drove onto a main road, and Hank peered out the window. “I almost forgot how big the sky is,” he said. “Thank you for remembering your old man.”
“How could we forget?” Max said.
Tom was busy with his radio. “Highwayman, this is Tomahawk,” Tom said over the radio. Because it was Willy’s favorite song, his Marine brothers jokingly called him “Highwayman” and the call sign stuck. Tomahawk was a nickname given to Tom by his Ranger buddies because he owned a tomahawk, knew how to use it, and took it with him during deployment. “Highwayman, Tomahawk, over.”
Max steered past a harvested rice paddy.
“Tomahawk, Highwayman,” Willy’s voice came back over the comms. “Update your location, over.”
Tom transmitted their current GPS coordinates and their route.
Then a diesel engine rumbled behind them.
“I’ll be there within minutes,” Willy said, “over.”
“We don’t have minutes,” Tom replied. “Got a Chinese IFV riding up our tails.”
Max checked his rearview mirror to see what Tom was talking about. A hundred meters behind them was the IFV, chasing them. It must’ve skirted the grove and found the road they were escaping on. Max was already speeding as fast as the truck could grip the winding country road. He could take the 4WD off road, but even if they didn’t get stuck, the IFV was better equipped for rugged terrain and would soon overtake them.
The IFV’s autocannon hurled 25mm high-explosive rounds through the air and ripped out chunks of road ahead of Max. He swerved around the newly created potholes and debris.
“How can I help?” Hank asked.
Max gave him a smoke flare. “Roll down the window and be ready to light this.”
He did.
Tom nodded as if he read Max’s mind and transmitted: “Highwayman, Tomahawk, we’ll signal, you identify, over.”
“You signal, I’ll identify, roger,” Willy said.
Max told his father, “Pop smoke and hold it out the window.”
“Will do,” Hank said. He ignited the flare and hung it out the window. White smoke rose up and trailed behind their speeding car, creating a fog between them and the IFV. The smoke expanded in width and height.
“I see white smoke,” Willy said.
“That is correct,” Tom said. “Come and get this IFV off us.”
“Just maintain your course, and we’ll get it off you.”
“I hope you brought a tank,” Tom said.
Willy’s voice returned, remaining cool. “We’re two hundred meters ahead of your position.”
A hundred meters in front of Max, a farm and trees blocked his vision of Willy’s position. Behind, the white cloud blocked his view of the IFV. But he heard another explosion—then a string of explosions. The IFV had lost sight of them, but now it was firing its 25 mike-mikes on full auto.
Max passed the farmhouse, and a hundred meters out, a black sedan was parked off the road next to a canal.
“I see your vehicle,” Willy said. “Can you identify mine?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “You’re parked in the diplomatic vehicle.”
Max was pissed. “We’re getting our asses handed to us, and Willy is chilling in a dip-dunk car,” he said, using the pejorative term for diplomatic car.
Willy was unflappable. “Just maintain your course and pass us. Bring the IFV to my vehicle.”
The IFV penetrated the smoke and fired again. Boom-boom-boom! The blasts struck so close to Max’s window, they cracked the glass. Combined with the shockwave, Max flinched and almost lost control of their 4WD.
“Get out of your damn car, Highwayman, and get this beast off us!” Max pleaded. He sensed where the next HE rounds were going to hit. He couldn’t go any faster, and there were ditches on both sides of the narrow road, preventing him from maneuvering left or right. That restricted him to only one option he could think of—stop. “Hang on,” he said. He slammed on the brakes. The vehicle skidded and slid.
“Max, what the hell are you doing?!” Tom asked.
“Why the hell are you slowing down?!” Dad demanded.
Five explosions tore up the rode where they would’ve been if Max hadn’t stomped on the brakes.
“That’s why,” Max said matter-of-factly. He steered around the damaged road in front of them. Although he’d dodged death again, the next salvo was coming, and he’d reduced speed considerably.
Meanwhile, the IFV hadn’t slowed down, and it was quickly closing in on them. Max spoke into his radio as he floored the accelerator. “If you’ve got something for the IFV, Highwayman, it’s now or never. We ain’t gonna survive the next round.”
“Come on, Willy,” Hank said, leaning forward and gripping the seat in front of him.
Max accelerated through the intersection, but he wasn’t picking up enough speed. He glanced in his rearview mirror. The IFV was twenty-five meters behind them and gaining.
Next to Willy’s sedan, three heads popped up from the canal. Each man carried an RPG on his shoulder. They launched them. Two of the explosives detonated on the IFV’s side, and the other missed completely, blowing up in a field.
The IFV slowed to a smoking crawl, and its autocannon stopped its terror.
The three Nùng mercenaries ducked into the canal, then popped up with another set of RPG launchers. They launched three more rockets and this time, all three nailed their target.
There were no screams, but part of a body flipped through the air, along with pieces of the IFV. The resulting fire consumed what remained of the vehicle, making its profile unrecognizable. Secondary explosions from the 25 mike-mikes erupted, and the 7.62mm machine gun rounds rattled off as the heat cooked them.
“The ecstasy,” Max said.
“Poor bastards,” Tom said.
Hank showed neither joy nor remorse.
The three Nùng mercenaries left their expended rocket tubes and hopped into Willy’s car. Max continued to drive to Vietnam, and the black sedan sporting a diplomatic license plate followed behind them. Willy spoke over the radio. “I’m on your six now. I’m going to pass your car and lead y’all across the border safely.”
Hank had no comms, so Tom relayed the message to him.
“Tell Willy thank you,” Hank said. He discarded his spent smoke flare.
Willy’s voice came back over the radio. “Welcome back.”
As Max checked his rearview mirror, Hank spit bright, frothy blood from his lips.
“Dad!” Max exclaimed.
Hank touched his chest and wheezed. “I thought it was the running and all, but I’m still having a hard time breathing.”
Tom felt his father’s back. “You’ve got a tear on the right side of your shirt, and it’s all wet.” He examined him more closely. “Your right side is covered in blood. I think you’ve been shot.”
In Max’s experience, it wasn’t unusual for a guy to get shot and, in the chaos of war, not realize it until later. The frothy blood in Dad’s mouth could’ve been caused by an injury to the lung. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital,” Max said.
While Tom pulled out his blowout kit and began patching Hank up, Max called Willy and told him the situation.
“I’ve got to find the missing anthrax,” Hank said. His wheezing became more labored.
“Don’t worry about the mission now,” Max said.
Tom laid their father dow
n and finished bandaging him. “Just try to relax.”
11
Max followed Willy’s car to the French Hospital of Hanoi, where they stopped in front of the emergency entrance. Hank spit up blood in the backseat again, and his face had become ashen.
Vietnamese orderlies pushed a gurney outside.
The brothers and Willy stepped out of their vehicles. Willy motioned for the orderlies to bring the gurney as he and the brothers went to Hank’s side.
“I can walk,” Hank said.
When Max and Tom tried to help him, he pushed them away.
“I’m okay,” Hank said. After a few steps, he stumbled, but Max and Tom caught him and helped him onto the gurney. Willy and the brothers stayed with him as the orderlies wheeled him through the automatic doors and into the hospital.
Inside the emergency room, nurses and technicians took Hank’s blood pressure. Then they cut off his clothes and hooked him up to an IV. One doctor examined him while another inserted a tube in his chest. Probably to drain blood, Max figured. A nurse fitted an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.
A doctor turned to Willy and said in fluent English, “We need to take him to the operating room now.”
Max, Tom, and Willy walked through the hospital to find the waiting room. Max had never been in a Vietnamese hospital and feared the worst, but when he saw the light-colored wooden walls, skylights, ferns, and other potted plants and inhaled the fresh smell, he was somewhat relieved. In the waiting room, the three of them sat at the far end away from a handful of people gathered around an overhead TV that played France 24 news on low volume and displayed closed captions. The buzz of the hospital staff was minimal.
“Hope he’s going to be okay,” Max said.
“Me, too,” Tom said.
“Your father’s got some hard bark on him,” Willy replied.
Max glanced around to see if anyone appeared to be eavesdropping. “What about the police?” he asked quietly. “Won’t they investigate this?”
Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 8
