Operation Norfolk

by Randy Wayne White

  Relieved, the vigilante began to plant his explosives quickly. It seemed a shame to destroy all this complex weaponry paid for by U.S. taxpayers, but those were his orders. He supposed they didn’t want Cwong to have a chance to use any of it, or give it away, if the mission failed.

  He used plastic explosives on the crates of ammunition and thermite bombs on the field ordnance. He looked for the ATC tank the CIA agents had mentioned but didn’t see it. Hawker didn’t like that at all.

  He hoped to hell Cwong had sold the tank, or at least had shipped it someplace else. The vigilante didn’t savor the idea of having to deal with some armor-plated monstrosity that could chase him through the jungle and into the sea.

  Hawker almost emptied his pack of explosives on the arsenal. It was a hell of a big area. He had to dodge guards three times, lying on the ground, watching them saunter past. It seemed a little surprising that they hadn’t found the dead guards yet, that there hadn’t been some kind of alarm sounded.

  ker-WHUMPF!!!

  Hawker dropped to his belly on the shaking earth.

  An orange gaseous ball of fire had just erupted from the wharf area, throwing debris and smoke and flames high up into the South Pacific darkness. The thermite bomb planted beneath the crane had gone off right on schedule. It must have taken up a fuel tank too, judging by the size of the fireball.

  Damn. He’d lost track of the time, concentrating so intently on getting the arsenal rigged and watching for guards. He had wanted to be outside Cwong’s big house when the bomb went off, to see if the explosion drew out the man’s bodyguards. Hawker needed to make sure Cwong didn’t leave with them.

  Now he’d have to play it by ear.

  Throughout the compound men were shouting and running frantically. There was the tinny rattle of automatic weapons fire. That was good. The guards were reacting emotionally, shooting at ghosts.

  The worst thing he could do now was move slower than the other men, to make a show of trying not to be seen. With that in mind, Hawker stood and jogged toward the main house. He saw a dozen men running en masse off to the right, but they paid no attention to him.

  Beyond the guards’ shacks was a sand lawn, covered with carefully tended tropical plants, a fountain, and weird Buddha statuettes. The vigilante jogged right up to the main house without being challenged before a man stepped out of the back door, calling to him to Vietnamese.

  Hawker didn’t hesitate: He swung the Colt Commando around and dropped the man where he stood with a quick burst of fire. With all the noise now, no one would even notice.

  Next he ran around the side of the house to the front, getting there just in time to see four stocky Vietnamese come flying off the huge antebellum front porch, AK-47s in hand. They were being urged toward the burning wharf by an amazingly corpulent Vietnamese in a red satin smoking jacket. The man’s shaved head made his great gray face look even bigger.

  It was Cwong. It had to be Cwong. Hawker would have known even if he hadn’t see old blurry photos of the Viet Cong general taken in the late sixties during the Vietnam war.

  He raised his automatic rifle immediately, bringing the steel sights to bear on Cwong’s chest.

  No. He wouldn’t kill him now. Not like this. First he wanted to stare the man in the face, to let him know who his executioner was and why he was about to kill him.

  In an instant the opportunity was gone. Cwong slammed the door behind the men, and there was the sound of locks being turned.

  But there would be another opportunity.

  Hawker would make sure of it.

  sixteen

  James Hawker waited patiently until Cwong’s bodyguards were out of sight and a dozen more men in their sloppy khaki Viet Cong uniforms went sprinting past to reinforce the wharf area for an attack that would not come from that direction.

  Then he calmly swung up onto the porch and looked in the big window. He saw a large room with glistening wood floors, Oriental carpets, and ornate furniture. Above a fireplace made of igneous rock, he could see the big red banner and yellow star that was the flag of North Vietnam.

  But he saw no people. He didn’t see General Con Ye Cwong, the man who had specialized in torturing American soldiers during the war and who now continued his methods of torture long afterward.

  Hawker didn’t see anyone at all.

  He stepped away, glanced around, then kicked in the window. Hawker dove through the opening and came up on his feet holding his assault rifle in his right hand, a U.S. army shrapnel grenade in the other.

  Three shots suddenly splintered the wood above his head. The vigilante dropped to his belly and saw a man standing on the balcony above holding some kind of automatic pistol. Hawker didn’t have time to aim. He just turned the Commando toward the man, held it on full automatic fire, and let it roar.

  The slugs ripped through the man’s groin and abdomen, and, screaming, he spilled over the balcony railing onto the floor.

  The vigilante was on his feet immediately. He punched out the nearly spent clip and pressed in a fresh one. Sprinting to the steps, his head searching back and forth, he heard some kind of thin wail—the noise of a child crying. Hawker pulled open a door in the hallway to see a small girl lying in the corner of a dark closet. She was small, no older than twelve, with blond hair, and she had her knees pulled up to her chest. The girl was crying.

  She looked up when Hawker opened the door, big tear-bleary bright-blue eyes staring right through him. “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, please,” she begged.

  Hawker knelt beside her and felt her cringe when he touched her shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” he said. “Listen to me, sweetheart. I’m going to take you out of here. But we have to move fast.”

  The girl studied him for a moment, then lost control and leaned forward, sobbing “Want my daddy. Please, I want my daddy!”

  Hawker patted her head. “I’ll take you to him. But first you have to listen to me. I want you to be brave for just awhile longer. Can you do that?”

  The girl wiped her nose. “I can do it,” she said. “I want to come with you.”

  “You will, sweetheart, you will. But right now I want you to run outside. Jump off the side of the porch. The porch is built up on blocks. Crawl under the porch and wait for me. You’ll hear some gunshots, probably a lot of them. If I don’t come for you within ten minutes after the gunshots stop, I want you to take this flashlight and run right toward the highest part of the mountain behind us. As you go up the first big hill, start blinking this light. Blink three times, off and on. If you keep running, there will be someone there to help you. Can you do that?”

  The girl was getting to her feet. “I can do that.”

  Hawker turned from the closet. He could hear the sound of footsteps on the floor above them, men running. He said, “What’s your name?”

  “Sarah. Sarah Billings.”

  “Are there any other children around here, Sarah? Any other children who need help?”

  The girl almost lost control again, but steadied herself. “No. Just me.”

  Hawker took her by the arm and led her quickly down the hall, the Colt Commando vectoring back and forth. He put his little flashlight in her hand and gave her a gentle push. “Then get going, Sarah. And do exactly what I told you to do.”

  He covered the girl as she climbed nimbly out the window, waiting until he saw her disappear beneath the porch before turning back. And just in time—for now two men on the balcony came sliding into position, AK-47 automatic weapons in their hands. The vigilante opened fire on them before they were able to spot him. One of them was killed instantly, but Hawker watched the other go crawling off holding his belly. The man was screaming in agony.

  He waited for just a moment, then charged up the stairs. Heavy footsteps coming down the hall to the right were accompanied by the wild chatter of Vietnamese.

  Hawker heard briefly the heavy, deep voice of Cwong, then the slamming of a door. The vigilante poked his head aroun
d, then immediately dropped back as several men opened fire on him.

  He pulled the pin on the shrapnel grenade and threw it down the hall without looking.

  There was a scream, an exclamation, then an explosion that shook the whole foundation of the house.

  Hawker looked down the hall again, seeing the torn and writhing bodies through the smokey haze of dust and plaster. He had to shoot two men who reached for their weapons when they saw the tall, lean American at the head of the hall. They dropped to the floor simultaneously, dead.

  Then Hawker stood for a moment and listened. He heard only the voice of Cwong coming through the door at the end of the hall; the deep voice was calling out harshly yet was obviously filled with terror. He’s probably calling to the guards, Hawker reasoned, wanting to know if the invader has been killed. A slight smile formed on Hawker’s lips: The big man was nervous.

  Hawker walked quietly toward the door, stopped, and tested the knob.

  Automatic weapons fire splintered the door from within. And once again Cwong screamed out, demanding something in Vietnamese, most likely an explanation.

  The vigilante slid out of his backpack, searching through it until he found the smoke grenade canister. He pulled the pin on the grenade but held the firing lever in place. Drawing the .45 Smith & Wesson, he emptied the clip at the area beneath the old brass doorknob. Hawker stood back as slugs poured through the wooden door in answer.

  Then, in one smooth motion, he kicked the door open and tossed in the smoke grenade. He expected more heavy fire, but there was none. Just a hoarse scream as the grenade went off with a whoosh.

  Red smoke poured out of the room, and Hawker stepped in cautiously, expecting anything but what he saw.

  Cwong sat huddled in the far corner of the room. Hawker could see him dimly through the acrid haze. The Vietnamese villain was sitting holding an empty AK-47 in his lap, blubbering like a huge bald baby. His eyes grew wide as he saw Hawker, and the vigilante continued to walk steadily toward the man despite the outstretched, pleading palms.

  “American?” Cwong called out. “You American? Yes, I have many friends who are American! American GIs! Many friends!”

  Hawker was standing over him now, the knuckles of his big right hand white on the Colt Commando, his face like a cold mask. Cwong was trying to get to his feet, a big ludicrous grin of terror on his face. “I very rich too,” he said. “Much, much money!” He motioned wildly. “Have it right here! Right here in house. I give you all the money you want, GI. Give you much money. Just go ’way! Leave me alone!”

  The vigilante’s lips barely moved. “I already have all the money I want, sport.” Slowly, ever so slowly, he was raising the barrel of the weapon toward Cwong.

  Hysterical, Cwong said, “Then drugs! Give you all drugs you want. Drugs, women, get anything for you!”

  Hawker said, “I didn’t come to take, General Con Ye Cwong. I came to give. Brought you a present from two ladies. Their names are Sha and Sarah, and they both want you to have this.…” Hawker shot a short burst and watched the man’s face contort in agony, then horror as blood began to pour from his groin. Cwong flipped over on his belly, kicking wildly. “And this is for all your American GI friends,” Hawker added, giving the man another short burst in the buttocks. While the fat man screamed and clawed at the floor in pain, Hawker said, “And this is for me,” and shot him twice in the spinal cord.

  He wanted Cwong’s death to be lingering.

  seventeen

  Downstairs now, James Hawker could hear the tentative shouts of Cwong’s guard. A few of them had obviously caught on that they were not being attacked from the sea.

  He turned immediately to the window and looked outside at a coconut palm that threw a feathery silhouette only a few yards away. He opened the window, took the coil of rope from his now nearly empty backpack, and tossed the grappling hook up into the sagging fronds. Hawker had to throw it twice before he got a solid hold.

  Then he coiled the remaining rope on the floor, pushed a fresh clip into the Commando, another into the .45 Smith & Wesson, and carried his final two thermite grenades to the head of the stairs.

  He looked down to see three men looking back at him. He fired a short burst to protect himself, then tossed down the two grenades.

  The heat from the explosions was withering even on the second floor. Hawker retraced his steps to the room and paused for a moment over Cwong. The man was still moaning in pain but was no longer moving. And who could blame him? It’s not easy to move with a splintered spinal cord.

  Not out of kindness, but out of fear that the man would somehow survive to rebuild his insidious organization, Hawker shot him a final time, this time in the head. Then, without looking back, he slid out the window and climbed down the rope to the ground.

  Sarah Billings lay like a frightened animal beneath the porch. She jumped when the vigilante touched her shoulder, nodded when he pressed his finger to his lips, then followed along without making a sound.

  Holding the Commando in his right hand and the girl’s small palm in his left, he pulled her along toward the back of the complex. Twice they had to stop and hide as soldiers sprinted past.

  Then they were outside the huge camouflaged arsenal area, and the chain-link fence was just ahead. Not far to go now.

  The vigilante already had his wire cutters in hand as they skidded to a stop at the barrier. Dropping immediately to his knees, he began to cut the heavy wire. He had just made an opening big enough for them to get through when the girl said suddenly, “Hey, what’s that? Something’s coming!”

  Hawker turned to see a massive vehicle near the arsenal grinding toward them, showing one huge spotlight. The spotlight was vectoring back and forth, sweeping nearer to them with every second.

  It was the military ATC, the stolen tank come looking for them.

  He took the girl’s arm, pulled the fence apart, and pushed her through. “Run!” he whispered hoarsely. “Run toward the mountain!”

  Then the spotlight was on him, dazzlingly bright. It swept past but immediately returned to hold on him. It blinded him to even look at it.

  He was halfway under the fence now, still calling to the disappearing figure of the girl to run, not to stop, while at the same time trying to pull the radio detonator from his pocket. Heavy weapons fire clattered behind him—something really big, probably fifty caliber. The ATC had him in range and was firing at him.

  Finally Hawker pulled himself under the fence. But no sooner had he gotten to one knee with the detonator in his hand, when he felt a tremendous impact hit him high in the left shoulder. The pain stunned him for a moment, and he realized he had been hit. The slugs had knocked him several yards. Amazingly, the detonator lay nearby.

  He crawled toward the detonator, feeling something hot on his back, wondering how he could feel anything at all when his entire body had gone numb. He grasped the detonator in his one good hand and rolled over on his back to see that the dazzling light was still a couple hundred yards away. It was right beside the arsenal storage now, but coming ever nearer. Hawker had to use his chin to force open the spring-locked cover, and he fumbled for a moment trying to find the toggle switch before hitting it. There was a split-second of nothing followed by a stupendous explosion.

  Everything seemed to go off at once, the plastic explosives on the houses and storage warehouses, the thermite bombs and plastic explosives in the arsenal setting off all the munitions and rockets—an earth-shaking, deafening, blinding explosion that threw a fireworks display into the night sky.

  And in the initial blinding white light, Hawker watched the tank flip heavily up into the air and burst into flames as it hit the ground.

  Dizzy, he tried to get to his feet. He stumbled and fell. Then someone was beside him, taking him by the right arm, urging him along. It was Sha. Behind her, looking very small, was Sarah Billings.

  His voice sounding strange and very far away, Hawker said, “What are you two doing here? Get up the
mountain! Get out of here!”

  But the woman got her shoulder under his arm, forcing him to his feet, urging him along. And then he was actually moving on his two good legs, jogging along on instinct, following the two females blindly.

  Later he would remember almost nothing about the trip up the mountain, except that they had stopped once so Sha could tape something to his shoulder, something she said would slow the bleeding. But now they moved in total darkness, through caves, over rocks, the whole thing a blur as he went along like a man on drugs.

  Somehow—he would never know for sure how the girl and Sha did it—they got him to the beach and into the inflatable boat before he passed out. He awoke only once, aware of dark waves rolling toward his face, then a feeling of being lifted as they swept beneath the boat. Sarah seemed to be talking into something—the radio? Yes, the radio. Yelling something about a helicopter she needed, about where the helicopter should meet them.

  Hawker let his head slide backward as she continued to yell into the radio and saw something lifting and rolling on the dark near horizion. He tried to focus on it.

  An island?

  Yes, it was an island.

  Maybe it was the one where they had spent those few days—the island on which Sha had built the jungle hut. Yes, that was it, the place Sha longed to return to so that she could be with him, a man and a woman, alone, away from all the ugliness that had come close to destroying her life.

  Watching the island rise and fall, getting ever closer, James Hawker let his eyes close, a faint smile on his face. Whether he was dreaming or dying and approaching heaven, he couldn’t say.

  About the Author

  Randy Wayne White was born in Ashland, Ohio, in 1950. Best known for his series featuring retired NSA agent Doc Ford, he has published over twenty crime fiction and nonfiction adventure books. White began writing fiction while working as a fishing guide in Florida, where most of his books are set. His earlier writings include the Hawker series, which he published under the pen name Carl Ramm. White has received several awards for his fiction, and his novels have been featured on the New York Times bestseller list. He was a monthly columnist for Outside magazine and has contributed to several other publications, as well as lectured throughout the United States and travelled extensively. White currently lives on Pine Island in South Florida, and remains an active member of the community through his involvement with local civic affairs as well as the restaurant Doc Ford’s Sanibel Rum Bar and Grill.