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

by Eric Helm

  Gerber’s first reaction was to bite her head off for building a fire in enemy territory, but he realized that her tiny fire would make no smoke and leave less evidence behind than the mere passage of their patrol. Leaving some sign behind you in the jungle was unavoidable if you were being followed by a really good tracker. The trick was to leave as little as possible, so it wouldn’t get noticed by some dummy who could then call in a really good tracker for assistance. And the smell of the tea brewing, while it might carry a short distance in the jungle was, unlike the uniquely American aroma of coffee, a typical Vietnamese mealtime odor, and thus, a sort of protective coloration of its own. Besides, the troops would need something warm to get them started this morning.

  Gerber’s sodden uniform was like a clammy second skin from last night’s shower. And anyway, he told himself, while the smell of tea might attract unwanted guests, they were likely to be a lot less alert upon arrival than either coffee or just the distinct odor of fourteen cold, wet Americans and Tais would make them.

  Gerber noted with mild amusement the somewhat comical efforts of Sergeant Anderson to assist Kit in a task for which she obviously had no need of his help. Anderson seemed to be taking an intense personal interest in the attractive young Vietnamese woman. Gerber had to admit that a comparative analysis of the gross physique of Sam Anderson, a blond Nordic giant, and Emilie Brouchard, the diminutive, dark-haired, dark-complexioned, half-French Vietnamese, made for some interesting speculation. Seeing Anderson towering above the woman as she crouched, checking her tea and paying him only the slightest attention, it was difficult to imagine how the two of them would fit together, if they ever did get together physically.

  From a personality standpoint, a match between the two was even more improbable. Anderson was a quiet, self-reliant man of few words, whose only previously exhibited vice had been an affinity for absorbing the same sort of zest at making things blow up that Sully Smith, the team’s senior demolitions specialist, exhibited.

  Anderson was something of a health nut. He had an electric blender back at Camp A-555 that he used to produce godawful vegetable juice concoctions, which he drank in preference to a rarely sampled beer. He also owned a ceramic electric yogurt maker, which usually failed him because of the inefficiency of the camp’s refrigerators, at least until recently. He usually allowed himself one bowl of a wonderfully smelling, disgustingly tasting Danish pipe tobacco each evening while in camp, but never on patrol. While he would participate in the ritualistic smooths involving Beam’s Choice that had become part of the routine in Gerber’s A-Detachment, it was generally believed that no other bottle had passed his lips since infancy. He was the only man on the team who still bothered with a complete set of morning calisthenics.

  Kit, on the other hand, smoked small black cigars with a passion, had disdained the offer of one of Anderson’s health cocktails back at camp and had, as Gerber had observed, an affection for Kentucky sour mash bourbon that rivaled his own. Indeed, twice during their trip, he’d seen her produce a small flask from her pocket and have a nip when she thought no one was watching. Gerber had been a bit concerned by it at first, but since she didn’t seem to be doing it to the extent that her judgment was influenced by it, Gerber had let it pass. As long as it wasn’t affecting her performance on the mission, Gerber didn’t care if she drank fifty gallons of the stuff. It was an affliction he could understand.

  “I suppose we all have our own personal crutches to help get us through this war,” he mused softly.

  “How’s that again, sir?” asked Fetterman, who was still kneeling beside him.

  “Nothing, Master Sergeant. I was just thinking out loud about how everybody has certain needs, no matter what situation they’re in. Forget it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Fetterman. “I quite understand.” Which, being Fetterman, he did. Far more perfectly than Gerber could have imagined.

  “Let the men heat up their rations for breakfast. Routine security, half on guard while the other half eats, then switch. Right after that we’ll move out. Tell the men to use their hexamine tabs only. No open fires.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you think that’s a good idea, sir? I mean, the smell will carry farther when we heat the stuff up.”

  Gerber nodded in the direction of Kit. “I’d say as far as that’s concerned, the damage has already been done. Wouldn’t you, Tony?”

  “Yes, sir. Just making sure you’d thought of all the ramifications and felt the same way. I’ll pass the word to the men.”

  Gerber opted to set up the little folding metal stove he dug out of his recon pack rather than scoop out a shallow trench as Kit had done. It was about as easy to do one as the other, and while the stove would take a couple of minutes to cool down after use, the ground was too hard to scrape out a trench with your hand. Besides, Gerber had an inbred aversion to dragging the blade of his knife through the dirt when he didn’t have to. It dulled the edge and necessitated cleaning the knife afterward. If you didn’t wash the blade, there was no telling what kind of intestinal parasite you might pick up from the germs left behind by the fecund Vietnamese soil. Just wiping it would never get them all. And if you washed the blade but didn’t oil it, it would start to rust in a matter of hours out here in the bush. Never mind that the blade was stainless. As long as it was steel, it could still rust, and the climate of Indochina was ideal for promoting oxidization.

  Gerber unfolded the tiny stove, in reality a small hinged framework of flat pieces of aluminum alloy, designed to hold a canteen cup. He shook a couple of hexamine tabs out of their small tube and placed them on edge beneath the stove. The instructions written on the tube said that two of them would boil a canteen cup of water in three to four minutes. Gerber knew from personal experience that it usually took three tablets and a little over five minutes. He tried half a dozen of the army-issued damp-proof matches without getting one to light and finally started the hexamine with his Zippo. Then he filled his canteen cup about two-thirds full of water and set it on to boil.

  Sergeant First Class Derek Kepler, the team’s intel sergeant, had managed to acquire a quantity of LRRP rations for the A-Detachment during his last trip to Nha Trang. In fact, he had acquired quite a large quantity of LRRP rations, so large that he had also been forced to acquire a two-and-a-half-ton truck to haul them in. Kepler had developed quite a reputation among the men for acquiring things needed around Camp A-555. So much so that the men had taken to referring to him as Eleven Fingers Kepler.

  Kepler’s latest acquisition had made fascinating listening when Gerber, in a brief moment of forgetfulness, had made the mistake of asking him where the truckload of food had come from. Gerber had wisely stopped listening shortly after the part where Kepler explained how he got the two MPs to help him load the cases of rations onto the truck as he was stealing them. It had seemed wiser not to ask how Kepler had managed to get the rations and the truck across a few hundred miles of Vietnamese countryside to the camp.

  The LRRP rations were light in weight, simple to fix, could be eaten cold if necessary, although they left a lot to be desired that way, and left little residue to be buried or packed out when you were finished with them. In short, they were perfect for the sort of reconnaissance or ambush patrols frequently conducted by Gerber’s men. So naturally every request Gerber filed for them was denied by General Crinshaw in Saigon. After many failed attempts to procure the rations, which weighed less than half of a comparable C-ration and tasted a lot better, Gerber happened to mention the problem to Kepler one day.

  Less than a week later, a couple of tons of the rations and the deuce-and-a-half had mysteriously materialized at the camp along with a smiling Sergeant Kepler, immaculately dressed in the crisply pressed uniform of a full bird colonel assigned to the inspector general’s staff. The truck, carefully repainted and with a new set of skillfully altered serial numbers, was now being used for general utility duties at Camp A-555, complete with some very official-looking paperwork indicating that it h
ad been issued to the South Vietnamese contingent there during the tenure of Dai Uy Trang, A-555’s first Vietnamese commander, now deceased. A small part of the enormous quantity of LRRP rations was now filling the packs of the men in Gerber’s patrol.

  Gerber pulled out one of the ration packs and checked the label. Spaghetti in meat sauce. It wasn’t exactly Gerber’s idea of an ideal breakfast, but he’d eaten worse on many occasions. He tore open the waterproof outer wrapper and shook out the contents, pocketing the coffee packet for later. He nibbled on the granola-like cornflake bar while he waited for his water to heat, and when it was hot enough, tore open a corner of the main-course pouch and added enough water to reconstitute it. The rest he mixed with a cocoa packet. The stuff was even better than he’d anticipated, and he was contemplating not saving the coffee for later, after all, when he looked up from his meal to see Kit standing next to him. Gerber was so startled he nearly dropped his spoon. The damned woman could move more quietly than anyone he’d ever known, with the possible exceptions of Fetterman and Krung.

  Even Cat Anderson, who’d gotten his nickname because he could move his enormous bulk with such uncharacteristic stealth, sounded like a wandering water buffalo by comparison. She wasn’t in the same class with Fetterman and Krung, of course. Nobody was. At least he didn’t think so, but Kit did it so easily, so naturally, that it was more than a little unnerving.

  “Good morning, Captain Gerber,” she said politely. “May I offer you a cup of tea? There is plenty left.”

  Gerber was about to tell her that he preferred coffee, but couldn’t see any point in seeming unfriendly, especially toward a former Viet Cong who was sneaky enough to slip up on you and cut your throat before you could hear her. He nodded and held out his cup.

  “I want to thank you for last night,” said Kit, lowering her voice.

  “Last night? Thank me for what?” Gerber asked, momentarily confused by the statement. He noticed that he, too, had unconsciously lowered his voice.

  “For helping me to keep warm,” Kit replied innocently. “It was very kind of you. However, I thought it best to move before the others woke so that none would think anything happened between us.”

  “I didn’t think anything had happened,” said Gerber flatly. He wasn’t sure he liked the direction this conversation seemed to be taking.

  “Of course not. You were merely showing me a kindness, for which I thank you. I thought it best to move so that no one else would think anything unusual happened, and, of course, nothing did. Besides, although sleeping with you was much warmer, it was not very comfortable,” she said, turning away. “All night long something very hard kept pressing into the back of my legs. I think I must have been lying on your pistol.”

  Gerber was thankful she had turned away. It helped hide the flush on his cheeks.

  They moved out after breakfast, Fetterman taking the point while Krung and Corporal Bhat shadowed their back trail. For over four hours they sloshed through more of the swamp, picking up another batch of leeches in the process. When they finally reached firmer footing at about eleven, Gerber called a halt so they could burn the leeches off.

  Remembering the experience of the day before and not wishing to repeat it, Gerber quickly sought out Fetterman, and the two men checked each other for the blood-engorged worms. Kit, Gerber noticed, seemed a bit miffed at his avoidance of her, but was getting plenty of voluntary help from Anderson while an unabashed Kepler watched the proceedings with ill-concealed delight. Despite the large amounts of near nudity and Kepler’s good-natured leering, which Anderson appeared to find mildly annoying, Gerber noticed that today's ritual of removing the small black vampires was devoid of the sexual innuendos that had accompanied yesterday’s bloodletting.

  Gerber also noticed that Sergeant Tyme, although clearly not amused by the situation, showed no indication of repeating his previous nearly hysterical reaction to the leeches. Instead, looking a bit pale, he sat off by himself, burning the leeches away with grim determination and slowly grinding each one beneath his boot heel.

  They laid up for a couple of hours during the hottest part of the day, those not on guard sleeping in the sun in the middle of a small clearing because the hordes of mosquitoes made sleeping in the shade impossible to bear. Gerber, having wrongly assumed he would be safe from Kit’s advances during the daylight, and having already stood his turn at guard, had just flopped down when a familiar shadow fell across his chest.

  “Captain Gerber, please, may I speak with you?”

  “Certainly, uh, Kit,” answered Gerber, catching himself just in time. He’d almost said Miss Brouchard, but some little voice had warned him that doing that might be an even bigger mistake than being nice to her. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “I have the feeling that you are angry with me for some reason. All day you have avoided me. Did I say something at breakfast that offended you?”

  “Not at all,” said Gerber. He tried to look her in the eye for the next part, but couldn’t quite carry it off. “It’s just that I, that is, we’ve all been rather busy, what with crossing the swamp this morning and all, and I really haven’t had time to waste, uh, I mean to engage in conversation with you. Or anyone else for that matter.”

  “I have said or done nothing to offend you, then?”

  “No. Of course not. Nothing at all.”

  “And you do enjoy talking with me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “That is good. I like very much talking to you. You seem to really listen, and to care about what I have to say, and it has been such a long time since I have had someone I could really talk to. There has been no one I could really talk to since my husband was imprisoned by the Hanoi government.”

  “Your husband was put in prison by the North Vietnamese?” Gerber couldn’t keep from sounding a bit surprised.

  “Yes. He was an educated man. A teacher. But he would not teach what the Party political commissars wished him to teach. He believed that a representative form of government was the best kind of government and that the government the Communists had established in the North was not a true representative democracy, despite the fact that the Party insisted it was a people’s democracy. He taught this to his students, and when one of them reported my husband to a political commissar, they put him in prison. That was the last I ever saw of him, nearly four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Gerber. “I didn’t know. Jerry Maxwell had told me you were married, but he didn’t say what happened to your husband. I suppose I should have figured out something had happened to him because you weren’t using your married name.”

  “Yes. I took back my maiden name when I became convinced that my husband was dead.”

  “Dead? I thought you said he was in prison.”

  “They told me at first that he was being reeducated so that he would understand the Party and the workings of their people’s democracy. But how long does it take to reeducate someone? When our baby died and I tried to write to him, my letters were returned unopened. I made inquiries of the authorities, but for weeks I heard nothing. Then one day I was informed that my husband had been released from the reeducation center six months earlier and, having seen the error of his previous ways, he had voluntarily joined an army unit that was going south to fight in the war of liberation there. My husband was a man who placed family above all else, Captain. He would never have done such a thing, and certainly not without first contacting me somehow. That is when I knew my husband was dead.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Gerber.

  “Sorry? Why should you be sorry, Captain? You did not kill my husband, nor withhold the medicines that might have saved the life of my child. The Communists did that.”

  “I meant that I share your sorrow. That I grieve for your loss, both of your husband and your child,” said Gerber. “I meant that you have my sympathy.”

  “I do not want your sympathy, Captain. I want only your respect, and your trust and perhaps…
something… more. You are a strong and intelligent man, like my husband was, and like my father. I do not think that I can call you a nice man because of your profession, but I think maybe you are a good man, yes?”

  “Kit, Emilie, I, that is… Let me try this again. You’ve behaved in a most professional manner throughout the mission thus far. You’ve already earned my respect.”

  “But not your trust. You do not need to say it. I can see it in your face. There is no need to apologize. Yet perhaps there will come a time when you will need to trust me. I have told you that the Communists caused the death of my husband and my child, so you are wondering then, how is it that I became a soldier for the Communists.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” Gerber admitted.

  “I was not given any choice, Captain. I have no family. I never saw my father after he returned to France. After my husband was imprisoned, my mother did her best to look after me and my child until she, too, became ill and died of tuberculosis. Then I had no one. Although I had some education, I had no skills. There were only three choices open to me. I could work as a common laborer and turn old and sickly before my time. Or I could volunteer to fight in the South with the army. Or I could become a prostitute. The latter I could not bring myself to do.

  “Things were not so bad in the army, I told myself. At least I would have food and clothing. And I had heard rumors that things were better in the South. I do not think I really believed those rumors at the time, but I thought that if they were true, perhaps once I got to the South, I would be able to slip away and blend in with the civilian population, maybe even someday make my way to France and find my father. Perhaps, too, I still held out some hope that the lies the Party had told me were true and my husband was still alive, and if I went South with the army I might find him. I do not think I really believed that either, but at the time I desperately needed something to believe in. I was not — what is the expression you Americans have? — I did not have my head on very straight then. I did not have my shit together.”