The Kit Carson Scout: The Special Forces Squad has been sent to Cambodia (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 6)

by Eric Helm

  He then moved in front of her, looking at her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. She smiled at him as he touched the tail of her shirt, moving it so that he could examine her belly. There was a third leech there, and as he burned it away she jumped.

  “That hurt?”

  “A little,” she said. “It reacted badly to the fire. I felt it.”

  Gerber nodded and continued to examine her, realizing that he wasn’t quite as detached as he had hoped. He could feel the beginnings of desire, but shoved the thoughts from his mind.

  She bared one breast, grinning, but there was nothing hiding near it. When he was sure that he had gotten them all from her back, chest and stomach, he made her stand so that he could look at her legs. She turned slowly, letting him look at her closely, one knee flexed so that the muscles under the skin stood out.

  She tugged at the hem of the shorts, pulling them up. He found a final leech hidden near her crotch. She yanked at her shorts, and Gerber saw a flash of dark pubic hair. He burned the leech off her.

  As it fell, she reached for the cigar and said, “Now I’ll do you.”

  Gerber nodded, thinking that she had already done him. He wondered if the old men in Congress who year after year refused to discuss the possibility of women in combat units didn’t have the right idea. The forced intimacy of searching each other for leeches had certainly affected him in ways that looking for them on a man never did. He could see where it might be a problem in a combat environment. Then, grinning, he realized that he was in a combat environment., and it was a problem.

  He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, trying to ignore his emotions. He felt her hands on his body, touching his arm, his shoulder and his back. He heard the sizzling of a leech as she burned it off him. She got a couple more and then was standing in front of him, a hand on his hip as if they were about to kiss.

  She put the cigar in her mouth and inhaled deeply. She fiddled with the buckle of his pants. He reached down and grabbed her hands, stopping her. She glanced up, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “Is there a problem, Captain Gerber?”

  “Oh, yeah, there’s a problem.” He sat down and pulled off his boots. There were no leeches on his feet because his boots were too tight, but he found one on his knee, and Kit burned it off quickly.

  “There could be some higher up,” she said, tracing her tongue slowly across her lips.

  Gerber got to his feet and dropped his pants. Kit looked at him, but found no more leeches. In seconds he had his pants up again. Then he put on his shirt, but left his pack on the ground. Glancing over, he saw that Tyme was now working on Fetterman. Apparently Fetterman had managed to get all the leeches off the younger man, and with that he had calmed down.

  They rotated positions. Those on perimeter defense replaced those who had already removed the leeches. It didn’t take long. When they finished, Gerber studied his map, but there was nothing of interest around them. He found Fetterman and said, “This seems to be a good spot to camp for the night. Let’s get the men fed, give everyone half an hour of free time and then get them on line. Half alert for that.”

  “Yes, sir. And then?”

  “We’ll get an LP out about fifty meters away and go to two-thirds alert after midnight. We’ll move tomorrow at first light and then find a good spot to rest through the middle of the day.”

  “Any special way you want to run this? I mean, who does what?”

  “No.” He thought for a moment and then said, “How’s Tyme?”

  “Doesn’t like leeches at all,” said Fetterman, “but I think that phobia is taken care of. Once I got them off him, his attitude improved, and I don’t think it’ll affect him like that again.”

  Robin Morrow was able to promote a jeep once she landed at Hotel Three. She pushed her way through the crowd in the terminal, sweet-talked a young sergeant and got him to call someone else who promised to send transportation. Then she spent the next half hour trying to convince the sergeant that she didn’t want a date, that she had seen everything at Tan Son Nhut and Saigon that she cared to see and that she wasn’t interested in learning about the real war in Southeast Asia. And there was no meal available in Saigon that would change her mind.

  A corporal, angry because he had been tagged to drive a journalist around, came in, yelled for Morrow and then nearly fainted dead away. He glanced at her, smiled so wide that his face had to hurt and was glad that he had drawn the assignment. He picked up her camera bag and ushered her outside.

  He held out a hand to help her climb into the jeep and then didn’t even try to conceal the fact he was looking at her legs. He walked around the front of the jeep, smiling at her, but Morrow didn’t respond.

  “Where to?” he asked as he climbed behind the wheel.

  “General Crinshaw’s headquarters.”

  “Shit,” he mumbled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  As he started the engine and fumbled with the gear lever, she asked, “You don’t care for General Crinshaw?”

  “Don’t know him, ma’am, and I’d just as soon keep it that way. I don’t think he much likes us enlisted swine.”

  “Then you can wait in the jeep while I go talk to him,” she said.

  They passed through the gate where a single military policeman holding an M-16 stood. They turned east, and a moment later pulled up in front of the two-story building that was Crinshaw’s headquarters. He put the jeep into neutral and turned off the engine.

  “I don’t think I’ll be here all that long,” said Morrow. “I may need one more ride, and if I do I’ll buy you a dinner.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’ll be nice.”

  Morrow took her camera bag, slipped it over her shoulder and walked up to the glass double doors. She noticed a bullet hole in one of them, near the top, with a network of cracks that reached almost to the middle of the door. She was surprised that Crinshaw hadn’t had it replaced and then realized it was just the sort of thing Crinshaw would order his men not to repair. Looked impressive. Crinshaw the great warrior; in danger even in his office.

  She pushed her way through and walked down a short hallway to the stairs that led to the second floor. Once there she turned, walked halfway down the hall and opened the door that led into Crinshaw’s outer office.

  The old master sergeant was still there. He glanced up, said nothing and picked up the field phone. Morrow watched him spin the crank and then turn so that his back was to her. Finally he turned and said, “You may go in.”

  She smiled and started for the other door. Before she reached it, it opened and Crinshaw was in front of her, grinning at her.

  “Miss Morrow. So nice to see you. Come in,” he said, stepping out of the way.

  Once inside Crinshaw’s office, Robin wished she had brought a jacket. After the heat outside, it felt as if the snow would start at any moment.

  Crinshaw gestured at the couch along one wall. She noticed the weapons hung above it, each with its plaque telling the story of its capture. Just more proof that Crinshaw was the typical chairborne commando and not a line officer like Gerber. He had all kinds of war-related mementos to decorate his domain, and none of them had been captured by him.

  She sat at the far end of the couch, set her camera bag at her feet and waited. Crinshaw leaned close and asked, “May I get you something to drink?”

  “No, General, I’m fine. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

  Crinshaw joined her on the couch, his eyes falling first to her breasts and then to her legs. He smiled and asked, “What can I do for you?”

  She looked at him, trying to find some clue that he had a trick up his sleeve. This was the general officer whom she had helped crush when he had tried to court-martial two of Gerber’s men on trumped-up charges. He had literally thrown her out of his office then. Now he was trying his best to be charming. The only reason had to be the power of the press. She remembered what Gerber had said about her not being one of Crinshaw’s favorite people, but here he
was, being as cordial as possible to her. It had to be because she could advance his career with a couple of strategically placed stories in the newspaper for the folks at home.

  She leaned forward, pulled her reporter’s notebook from the bag and flipped through a couple of pages. She found a blank one and stopped.

  “Is this on the record?” asked Crinshaw, smiling.

  “If you don’t mind, although I’m not certain where this story is going to take me.”

  “Anything I can do.”

  “Okay. Are you familiar with a Kit Carson scout named Brouchard Bien Soo Ta Emilie?”

  “Yes, I am. What about her?”

  “What can you tell me about her? What kind of background check has she had?”

  Crinshaw leaned back and locked his fingers behind his head. He stared across his office at his massive desk with its large green blotter and at the Venetian blinds, closed against the late afternoon sun.

  “She came to us through the Chieu Hoi program. Walked into our base at Bien Hoa, carrying an AK-47. She was interrogated by MI and then turned over to us. Told them that she was half Vietnamese and half French. Her father and her brother had been killed by the Vietminh. She was tired of living in the jungle, supporting a cause she wasn’t convinced was the best for the oppressed peoples of South Vietnam. MI believed her story. There was enough solid information, so they were able to confirm a lot of what she said. Gave us some very good intelligence in the bargain, I understand.”

  “Then you’re convinced that she’s loyal to the South?”

  Crinshaw smiled. “Well, how loyal can you expect her to be? She changed sides once. What’s to prevent her from doing it again? I mean, she was a traitor once. Why shouldn’t she switch her allegiance again?”

  “Yet you sent her out into the field with our men?”

  “Sure, as a Kit Carson scout. They all know what that means. She was VC. Now she’s not. At least she claims she’s not. Anyone working with a Kit Carson knows what it means.”

  “Any reason to suspect that she might be any good or that she might switch back?”

  Crinshaw got up and walked to his desk. He pulled the top right-hand drawer open and got a cigar. He snapped the end off it with a silver tool, picked up a lighter and said, “You mind?”

  “No, please. Now, is there any reason to suspect she might switch back?”

  “I’m not sure how to answer that, Miss Morrow. She seems to be just what she claims to be — a loyal believer in the South Vietnamese government. But I do know that her brother is VC. Not the one who was killed, but the other one. She told us that much, which she didn’t have to. With the record-keeping in this country in the state it’s in, there’s actually no way we would have discovered it if she hadn’t told us. If there is something more you want, I would suggest you talk to the people over at Military Intelligence.”

  Morrow nodded. As she had listened to Crinshaw talk, she’d realized that most of his Georgia accent had disappeared. It was as if it was something he used to reinforce his anger, to prove to the victim that he was angry. She grinned and bowed her head, hoping to shield her grin from Crinshaw.

  Again she asked, “Can she be trusted?”

  “That, Miss Morrow, is the question.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE CAMBODIAN JUNGLE, SOUTHWEST OF KAMPONG TRACH

  Captain MacKenzie K. Gerber didn’t sleep well that night, a fact that was hardly surprising, considering his situation.

  He was with a fifteen-man patrol, well, fourteen-man anyway. You could hardly call Kit a man. Not unless you’d failed miserably in high school biology class. He and his patrol were several klicks inside publicly neutral Cambodia in clear violation of Cambodia’s sovereignty, looking for Viet Cong soldiers, who were also there in clear violation of Cambodia’s sovereignty and alleged neutrality. But Gerber was aware that the Phnom Penh government turned a blind eye to this as long as it was convenient, and in any case was able to do little or nothing when it stopped being convenient.

  Having slept on a rare spot of hard ground in the middle of a swamp full of leeches, rats, poisonous spiders and assorted insects, did little to improve his mood. Damn it, he thought, with enough venomous snakes to keep a herpetological toxicologist happy for a lifetime plus a few that could only swallow you whole, not to mention a mean distribution of mosquitoes measurable in kilograms per cubic centimeter of skin surface area, even Rip Van Winkle might have trouble getting a little shuteye.

  Except that Mack Gerber was a professional soldier, a Green Beret, with nearly a year and a half of experience in Indochina, and he’d learned not to sweat the small stuff. The day-to-day problems that were always with you, but which you couldn’t do anything about, you learned to accept and finally came to notice only on a subconscious level. That left the mind and the senses free to deal with the more important problems of staying alive and killing the enemy. Indeed, the chill rain that had fallen shortly after midnight, soaking his uniform thoroughly, had gone unnoticed until several hours later when the wind had picked up slightly and he’d begun shivering.

  Yet Gerber’s sleep was far from tranquil. His dreams were haunted by images, not of things that killed or ate you or sucked your blood, but of things that could nevertheless destroy a man. The two creatures that vied for dominance in his dreams were women, remarkably similar in physical appearance except for the strikingly dissimilar eyes. But once you got beyond gross anatomy, the similarity ended.

  One was a self-confident, sunburned young woman with an ever-present camera hung about her neck, a deep throaty laugh and the ability to drink beer like a Russian on the outskirts of Milwaukee. She had been a friend and a lover and because of her close association with Gerber had twice been subjected to the most brutal and degrading of treatment, yet had never complained about the cruel hands that fate had dealt her. Nor had she considered blaming Gerber for the situations, as others might have done. The other woman often complained, had once blamed Gerber unjustly for the death of a young soldier he had nothing to do with, preferred a glass of good wine over any other form of alcohol and seldom laughed in deference to biting her lip while grinning. She had been the kind of lover Hugh Hefner only dreamed about. Gerber couldn’t honestly say she’d been a friend. In his dreams, that night at least, she wore a stethoscope around her neck, and nothing else. Both women claimed to be in love with him.

  Gerber’s dilemma was that he wasn’t in love with the first woman, although exactly what his feelings toward her were did seem a bit confused at times, most of the time in fact. And while he was desperately in love with the second, past experience had given him good reason not to entirely trust her when she now professed a renewed love for him. Whatever the reason for the mistrust, it evaporated when she took off her stethoscope and turned around to show him a pair of buns so perfect you could ski off them. Gerber was just snuggling up to their marvelous curves when that part of the unconscious that never really sleeps nudged him awake and his eyes snapped open.

  He knew that in the jungle at oh-dark-thirty in the morning there was nothing for the eyes to see, but his nostrils were aware of the faint musky smell of a woman’s hair and the warm, gentle pressure of her buttocks against his side. Belatedly his mind became aware that the woman with the stethoscope had existed only in his dreams, and that here, in the middle of the Cambodian jungle, there should be no delightful curves pressed up against his body. Gerber felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and tensed involuntarily.

  “I’m sorry. I did not mean to wake you,” the faintly accented voice whispered softly. ‘I was cold from the rain, and two bodies are warmer than one.”

  The fact that Brouchard Bien Soo Ta Emilie had once been a Viet Cong soldier and might just as easily have been seeking to cut his throat as seeking warmth was not lost on Gerber. Nor was the observation that had she wanted to kill him he’d be dead by now an entirely comforting thought.

  “It’s okay,” said Gerber softly. “Just don’t sneak up on
me like that again. We don’t want any accidents.”

  “I am sorry, Captain. As I said, I was cold from the rain.”

  “Forget it. Go back to sleep.”

  The young woman snuggled up tight against him, but made no effort to touch him with her hands. After a time, her slowed, regular breathing suggested to Gerber that she had, in fact, gone to sleep, but lying in the cold and wet of a jungle cuddled up to a former VC soldier wasn’t exactly conducive to a good rest. Gerber realized the woman pressed against him might well have been responsible for the deaths of an unknown number of American and South Vietnamese soldiers.

  Jerry Maxwell had somehow managed to avoid mentioning anything about that part of Kit’s background. Gerber wondered idly if she’d ever killed anyone he knew, then somewhat embarrassed, wondered if the reverse might not also be true. It had to be an interesting situation for both of them, sleeping with the enemy. Kit seemed to be doing a better job of coping with it than he was. While she’d managed to get back to sleep fairly promptly, Gerber could not.

  For a long time he lay listening to the false, empty silence of the jungle, trying without success to bring on sleep. At last he tried to submerge his concerns about the mission in thoughts of Karen Morrow, the air force flight nurse with the incredible posterior and the sexual proclivity toward being a bit kinky. He was only partially successful. Occasional images of Robin, hurt and looking very vulnerable, kept intruding, and when he entertained the warmest of thoughts about Karen, the closeness and smell of Kit produced an annoying arousal that he had to fight down.

  Finally fatigue overcame him, and he drifted off. As he did so, his last thoughts were of Karen’s perfect backside. But as she turned toward him, her face took on fine, dark Eurasian details, her hair became long and black, and the stethoscope about her neck was slowly transformed into something else, becoming an M-16 held in her hands and pointed straight at his heart.

  When Fetterman woke him just before dawn, Gerber was a little disappointed, but frankly relieved not to find Kit still sleeping beside him. The Kit Carson scout was squatting on her haunches about ten meters away across the tiny clearing, brewing her morning tea in a canteen cup set atop a couple of hexamine tabs in a tiny trench she’d scraped out of the ground.