Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  Kimble tensed at Taylor’s change of attitude. “You see something?” The headlong pace slowed drastically.

  They entered the curve, the knoll now paralleling them about fifty yards away. The ground to the left spanned off into darkness, flat and featureless. A shallow drainage ditch appeared on the right. The curve bent sharper quickly and both men in front saw the mound of fresh dirt across the road at the same instant.

  “Cut left! Head back!” Taylor shouted. He tried to keep the knoll and the road-cut in view at the same time, sweeping from one to the other with the shotgun and praying that the killing squad hadn’t had time to establish their position on the knoll. From there an enemy could pour fire onto the road and their own weapons would be as effective as spit-balls.

  Kimble hit the gas and twisted the jeep off the road. The first rut tore the wheel from his hands, throwing him heavily against Taylor. The machine leaped insanely back toward the road and burrowed the front wheels into the shoulder. Unrestrained, they buckled sideways to their limits, the sudden deceleration pitching both officers against the dashboard. The shotgun flew from Taylor’s grasp like a released bird, glittering, bouncing toward the mound now only a few yards distant.

  Another shape descended into the still-blazing headlights, sprawling soddenly between the gun and the jeep. The clarity of his comprehension amazed Taylor as he instantly recognized Ordway, and then the jeep was rising under him. He felt Kimble’s weight increase as the machine rolled ponderously, like an old horse preparing to roll in the dust. It dropped over with a dull thump and Kimble scrambled across him and disappeared behind it. Ordway twitched briefly, the shadows magnifying the slight motion.

  Bright pain rocketed up Taylor’s leg when he tried to crawl. Again, his mind surprised him as it coolly inventoried the data that his foot was pinned and his chest ached when he breathed. He knew he should get away and he yanked at the obstinate foot, ignoring the pain. As he did, the silence was broken by a scrabbling noise. He sought the source, hoping he would not see what he knew must be there.

  At the junction of the trench and the ditch to his left front, a small man rose to his knees. He raised an oversized fist above his head and pointed the other at Taylor. He was just inside the illumination from the lights, his pose and stature an illustration from a temple wall, an imp from hell indicating his victim. Taylor waited helplessly for the raised arm to pitch the grenade. Red spouts exploded toward him from both sides of the kneeling man and the sound of the rounds going overhead was one with the muzzle blast.

  There was a lake on the base at Quantico. Sometimes it got this hot and humid there, too, and the night-dwellers hummed around you. Sweat rimmed white arcs under your arms and on your back it sketched a child’s map of Africa. You listened to a frog. A fish splashed. If the moon was right, the small waves blinked diamonds as they hurried away from the disturbance. Always a whippoorwill chanted in the forest. Fireflies challenged the stars with cool green-yellow messages to the universe.

  Another movement distracted Taylor.

  Ordway scrambled forward in the dirt, arms, legs, hands and feet thrashing in a frenzy. His right hand closed on the stock of the shotgun and he extended it toward the man in the same motion. The throaty rumble of the twelve-gauge boomed authoritatively over the sharper crack of the VC weapons. The face of the kneeling figure collapsed in frothing action. For an instant the naked mass of the brain shone exposed, disappearing as the smashed head bent back impossibly, spraying chunks of flesh torn away by buckshot. The body, as though in pursuit, lifted off the ground, the lower legs still neatly folded. The grenade hung in the air before plummeting. A cry of unbelieving terror rose from the ditch to stop short in a surge of flame and the crush of the explosion. For a second or two after that there was a rainpatter that Taylor told himself was earth and metal.

  A bubbling moan called from where the grenade had gone off. Ordway rolled to his feet, charged to the edge of the road, and fired. He dropped to the ground again.

  Silence came back, trying to heal the night. Ordway, carefully coming erect, failed to disturb it. Taylor basked in it, still alive. A tug at the pinioned foot brought back awareness of that pain as well as the one in his chest. Pain reminded him of Kimble. He twisted to face the rear of the jeep.

  “Help me, you worthless bastard!” he hissed. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Kimble’s head popped out, a caricature of relief and residual fear.

  “Are they all dead?”

  “Get my foot loose!”

  Kimble came around the jeep on his hands and knees. He stopped abruptly and rocked back on his haunches, holding his right hand away from his body. He stared at the ground and grunted. Cautiously, he lowered it again and lifted something.

  “I found the .45!”

  “Just get me loose!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Ordway’s shouted report drove home the foolishness of their whispered dialog. “Four of ‘em! Dead!”

  Taylor shouted back. “Good! Give us a hand! I’m stuck!”

  Ordway trotted to them, leaned the shotgun against the hood, and pulled at the seat. Taylor felt the pressure ease and rolled on his back. Planting his hands, he jerked back and was free. He wiggled the foot and winced. “Thank Christ that’s over. It’s not broken or anything. Let’s—”

  A burst of fire from behind them sprayed dirt in front of the jeep. Ordway dove for the shotgun as Kimble dug at the automatic under his belt. All three whirled to see one of the VC staggering toward them from the ditch. He carried an M-16 in his left hand, the right dangling in a pulp, funneling a stream of blood down his leg. From the eyebrows down, the face was devoid of features, a wet slab marked by a darker hole that had been a mouth.

  He squeezed the trigger again, still aiming by guess and still low to the right. Taylor found himself able to see only the muzzle of the rifle and hear nothing but screams before Ordway’s return fire plucked ineffectually at the useless right arm and kicked up dirt in the distance. The sightless body swung toward the sound as Kimble stepped in front of Taylor. He held the pistol awkwardly in a classic target-firing position. It bucked only slightly as his bullet took his man just above the black pajama trousers. A small dust cloud puffed from the strike and the man snapped shut like a pocketknife, his feet clearing the ground and his arms flying together. When he landed his hands were still touching in front of him as though he was apologizing for a grave social error.

  The man rolled onto his side and forced himself to all fours and clawed at the ground for his rifle. Kimble took two steps forward, positioned himself, and shot him again. The man skidded sideways and lay still. Kimble prodded him with a toe and, satisfied, turned to Ordway with the expression of a librarian hearing whispers.

  “Don’t you ever make a mistake like that again,” he said.

  Taylor and Ordway looked at each other. The Corporal smiled, giggled, began to give way to the hysteria Taylor felt expanding in himself.

  “That’s enough!” He snapped it at Ordway, relieved that his voice didn’t crack. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here!” He limped to the rear of the jeep, Kimble hurrying to help at the front. They leaned into it, grunting and cursing, finally rocking it and dumping it back over on its wheels.

  Taylor said, “You drive,” to Ordway. The engine grated ominously before coming to life. He backed and filled, grinding gears indifferently in his haste, and then they were roaring back toward Vung Tau. Taylor twisted in the front seat for a look at Kimble and found him looking back where they’d been. Before Taylor could speak, the Captain faced him, features limp in misery.

  “I’m sorry, Major. My God, I—”

  “Sorry? You don’t know anything about sorry, mother-fucker, but you will. I’ll see to it.”

  “Sir?” Ordway’s voice was conciliatory.

  “You’ll do yourself a favor if you’ll shut your mouth and drive. You hear me?”

  “Yessir.”

  Taylor fumbled in the ba
g still under the seat until he found three rounds to replace the expended ones. He reloaded, holding each shell with his fingertips, thumbing them into the weapon and scanning the road at the same time. That done, his right arm held the weapon snug against his chest, the other hand stroking away dirt and grit with sensual gentleness. The night chilled and the motion stopped, the hand tightening on the barrel. He shivered, then jammed back against the seat as soon as it passed. There was no talk and little movement until they were almost to the gate.

  “Buzz right past the guard,” Taylor directed, having trouble getting the words past unaccountably stiff jaw muscles. “He won’t bother us. Pull this thing in behind our building.”

  Ordway did as instructed, leaving the unapproving sentry behind. As soon as they stopped, Taylor stepped to the ground.

  “Nothing happened tonight, you understand? Nothing happened. We’re going to wash this thing. If either of you knows any prayers, you better say one for no holes in it. The scratches on this side were there when we came back to the BOQ parking lot from the bar. We picked up the Corporal, got lost, drove around, and finally got back here. That’s our story. Is it clear?”

  Even as they nodded agreement, he sent Ordway for the bucket and swab in the quarters.

  “You’re not going to tell the Colonel about this?” Surprise forced Kimble’s voice up, making it almost childlike.

  “Of course not. Much as I’d love to see him crucify you, I’m not covering for you, I’m covering for me. I’m senior and he’d have to put me down with you. Sooner or later you may think that’s an attractive idea. Don’t bet on it. You may embarrass me, but you’ll get no joy from it.”

  Kimble shook his head. “Major, I don’t think you can imagine how ashamed I am. I’m the world’s authority on embarrassment. No small accomplishment for someone who’s less a man than most, is it?”

  Weariness struck through Taylor’s body, a scalding solution that ate at his joints and left them reluctant.

  “Warren, I’ve put up with your infantile bullshit since I got here. When that little prick came up with the M-16, you stepped in front of me. You had a golden opportunity to continue being the incapable asshole you think you are, and you blew it. You probably saved all our lives. That doesn’t mean I won’t make your remaining time here a living hell, because you put me in that spot in the first place, but I believe there’s something there you ought to think about.”

  Kimble gestured and started to speak and Taylor poked a finger into his chest to stop him. “I’m not done. One more thing. Speaking as one gentleman to another, I’m telling you if I ever hear you mention that insipid bitch Lenore again, I’m going to break your fucking skull.”

  Kimble gasped and Ordway showed up with the bucket of water and swab. Taylor turned away. The Captain stood stiffly alone before stalking heavily to join in sloshing water over the vehicle.

  It took two hours to clean the jeep and assure themselves there were no bullet holes in it. Afterwards they showered, no one interested in conversation, and fell onto their bunks.

  Taylor smoked a last cigarette, losing himself in the wane and glow of the coal.

  Ordway wished he could go to sleep, or at least slow down the rapid drumming of his heart, so hard he was certain the Major had noticed it. When he closed his eyes the exploding face of the first VC traced across his mental vision in a never-ending series of stop-action photographs. His mind persisted in alternating Disneyesque shots of flowers opening. It made everything worse and he had to keep opening his eyes to avoid being sick.

  He’d made a mistake, not checking the bodies closer, but there just didn’t seem to be any way a man could look like that one did and still be alive, much less be able to move. He’d done what needed done and they’d lived because he got the guy with the grenade. His memory balked at that, leaping to the image of the Captain dropping the VC. That wasn’t any good either, the way the VC walked toward them. The hairs raised on his arms, starting at his wrists and moving up, like an advance of fleas.

  He tried to think of nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Kimble remembered the same VC. He thought of moving to protect Taylor, desperately wishing he didn’t have to. He admitted to himself he hadn’t reacted instinctively or by moral guidance, but because he didn’t know what else to do. That puzzled him and he tried to think it through, but the harder he tried, the more he found his mind calling up the screaming when he shot the man. Why would Ordway, who’d been so coldly efficient at first, yell like that when the other VC came at them?

  Taylor wanted only to forget the terrible helplessness of being trapped. He had been so sure of death, not once, but twice. Being able to feel pain, of knowing he was alive, had been incredible. And then had come the shock of more shooting and the blind malice of that rifle, like a dead snake striking in reflex. He shuddered and dropped the cigarette butt in the seashell he’d brought from the beach. His last thought was the hope that his throat wouldn’t feel so raw in the morning.

  Chapter 25

  Shortly after 0900 they stood in front of Winter’s desk, watching for any signs of disbelief while Taylor spun an explanation for their premature return. Kimble added nothing, satisfied with nods of punctuation, the rest of his body slumped inside his baggy uniform. Taylor maintained a relaxed parade rest.

  By the time it was over, Winter was hunched over the desk, head down, both arms extended parallel. As if in sympathy with Kimble’s nods, his fingers tapped the wood like a pulse. For a full minute the room was otherwise silent as he studied the problem, occasionally shifting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. When he removed it, he looked at Kimble.

  “I’ll do everything I can to get you out of here as soon as possible.” At Kimble’s wild grin he cautioned, “Don’t get too enthused. I can’t just sit you on a plane. There’s administrative stuff. And I won’t consider releasing you until I’m assured your relief’s on the way.”

  Kimble’s grin melted and he made an attempt to come to attention. “I understand, Colonel. I’ll appreciate any help. I have to get home.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I’m truly sorry you have this problem.”

  “I know, sir.”

  Winter nodded solemnly, but there was something in the response that caused Taylor to cut his eyes far enough to check Kimble’s expression. It was the same forged determination he’d displayed all morning. Still, Taylor was sure he’d caught a flash of apprehension in Winter’s manner.

  Winter himself put an end to the speculation. “Now I’ve got another matter to discuss with Major Taylor,” he said. “Write me a detailed report of your meeting with the Comm people. Prepare a separate tab for your impressions and recommendations.”

  The fatherly concern drained as Kimble approached the door. By the time it closed, Winter was grim.

  “You were limping when you came in. What happened?”

  Taylor said, “Twisted my ankle running on the beach. No sprain or anything.”

  “Good.” The upper lip curled over the cigar in a sneer. “There was a fire fight of some kind down there last night. No one seems to know what happened, except a jeep ran into a road cut. The VC had rounded up some locals to do the work. Apparently the civilians lit for home when they heard the jeep coming. The cadre stayed and four of them got wasted.”

  “No one knows who was in the jeep?”

  Winter’s stare was fixed now. “Nobody can figure it. The best guess from down there is that it was a load of drunks on the back roads. And that doesn’t explain why they were armed, unless they’re nuts.”

  “Maybe it was one of their own patrols that got lost and don’t want to admit it.”

  “They don’t send out people armed with shotguns.”

  “Did they find shotguns? Must have belonged to Charlie.”

  “They didn’t find any. They found two VC with enough buckshot in them to build a tombstone.” He lolled back in his chair. “If they find a jeep full of bullet holes down there, somebody’s
ass is candy. If I was the CO, I’d hang ‘em.”

  Taylor grimaced. “Hard to figure what gets into people.”

  “Sometimes it’s harder to figure how people get out of whatever gets into them gets them into.”

  “You want to try that in English?”

  He heaved himself back to his leaning position on the desk. “It’s not important. Not right now. I sent Kimble off because I wanted to let you know the Binh thing is falling apart fast.”

  “How come?”

  “Same old shit. Pressure. We can’t hold Trung much longer.”

  “He could have an accident. The VC could find out where we’ve got him stashed and get to him.”

  “I thought of that. No good. The pressure source must know we have both Trung and Tu. Nothing’s been said about Tu. I figure that means the heat’s from a relative of Trung’s. If it was VC stuff, it seems like they’d be yelling for both to be released. The story is, the girls who sat in on the poker game are willing to swear that ‘someone’ threatened to have Trung and Tu locked up because they cheated the ‘someone’ at cards. And if anything happens to Trung, we’ll really catch hell to produce a healthy Tu.”

  “How about a stall? After all, they’re both supposed to be hiding in Hong Kong.”

  “The concerned party is willing to go to Hong Kong.” He rubbed his nose with a forefinger. “That means money and it means enough influence for an exit visa and so on. Trung’s friend is no alderman. This is a biggie, my boy.”

  “This biggie—is he big enough to survive an argument with a truck? Maybe he could have Trung’s accident.”

  Winter chewed on his cigar. “You know,” he said at last, “conversation with you has a chilly quality—like talking to a disaster, first hand. Are you sure you weren’t the black plague once? Anyhow, I already thought of that, too. We don’t know who he is and we don’t have the time to set up anything. And it could be legit, a relative seriously concerned about Trung.”