Mackey carefully outlined the debriefing reports taken from the seven wounded WLF women who were now Stateside. A sense of elation soared through him as he saw Boland’s gray eyes flash with anger as he told him how Lane abused her troops. He knew Boland had little use for lousy leadership, be it practiced by a man or woman. If nothing else, Boland protected his men, nurtured them and earned their undying loyalty. And when Mackey mentioned the Cellar, Boland came to his feet.
“This has got to be some kind of sick joke, sir.” He gripped Fremont’s folder.
The colonel nodded sagely. “I only wish it were. But our sources say it’s true. Just think what it’s doing to her, Jim. Fremont’s a highly honed, sensitive girl, someone who cares deeply and is in a position of command as a squad leader. Fremont would stand up for—and try to protect—her people from Lane’s methods.” He waited a moment, allowing the information to be absorbed. Boland’s mouth tightened. “She’d stand up for her people, Jim. She probably knows what the Cellar’s like, I’d venture.”
Jim paced the office, wrestling with his own anger. “I’ve been following the formation of the WLF through the Stars and Stripes newspaper, sir. Major Lane has been depicted differently there, Colonel.”
“Yes, well, Lane’s a consummate political animal. She knows how to put on a smiling face to win over the public and the press.” He tapped the ashes off the cigar. “I was upset as hell when I was handed these reports. Major Lane is under my command. I’m a hard bastard who demands everything of my officers and men, but I don’t condone the kind of tactics Lane is employing.”
Boland ran his long, large-knuckled fingers through his dark hair. “There’s a fine line between enforcing discipline and unnecessary cruelty,” he agreed.
“We’re in a very delicate situation with SEATO and the Thais. I can’t afford to have these reports continue. I need solid evidence to get Major Lane removed.”
Jim cocked his head. “Aren’t these reports proof enough?”
“No. None of the women will testify before a military hearing. Lane has them too frightened,” he lied. “The only one that might was Sarah Gent and she had an emotional breakdown. I have no wish to abuse the poor girl further by subjecting her to stress in order to get to Lane.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve been toying with one option, Jim. And that’s where you can help me. In all seven debriefs, the women mentioned Fremont in glowing, positive terms. They did corroborate her leadership abilities, which, by the way, are similar in scope and talents to your own. She’s been running interference between Lane and her squad for three months, now. Fremont stands for the same principles we do here in the military, Jim. If there was anyone over there who could and would testify against Major Lane, it would be her.”
Coming back to the chair, Jim sat down. “Go on.”
“In another fifteen days, Fremont and five other women will be released from the WLF-restricted area to go on in-country leave to Bangkok. If you could conveniently meet with her, cultivate her confidence and friendship, we might have a willing witness to Lane’s atrocities.”
Boland sat back, digesting Mackey’s statement. Originally, he had thought Mackey had wanted his team for a special assignment. “Sir, this is way out of my league. I’m black ops, but not covert.”
“You’re the only man I want for the job, Jim. I have to have someone who would be sincerely interested in establishing a relationship with her and cultivating her trust.” Doubt registered strongly on the officer’s pensive face.
“And then what?”
Mackey leaned forward. “Then, we’ll ask her to carry a concealed microphone on her so that we can get enough evidence to put Lane away. It’s that simple.”
No, it was damned complex, Jim wanted to counter. “You’re asking her to be an informant to her outfit,” he said slowly.
“That’s incorrect. We’d be asking her to gather intelligence on Major Lane’s function as a commanding officer. We’re not interested in the other girls.” Mackey saw a flicker of doubt in Jim’s darkening gray eyes. “Look, Jim, I could order you to do this, but I’m not going to. This kind of assignment goes beyond a military objective. There’s no standard operating manual written for the strategy or tactics on something like this. I care deeply what happens to those girls over here. God knows, there’s enough pressure on them to perform without having to live with a monster like Lane running loose among them.”
With his finger he stabbed the file Jim held. “Place yourself in Fremont’s shoes. How would you be feeling with threats hanging over your head? Ten days in the Cellar on bread and water, sitting in your own stinking shit. Hell, our own pilots who got shot down over North Vietnam went through that kind of torture. These girls aren’t POW’s. They’re thinking, feeling creatures just like you and me who deserve the best they can get. Think, Jim…”
The silence grew between them as Jim studied the photo again. Mackey smiled inwardly—he always knew how upset Boland was by how much his mouth had thinned. Well, it was a single line now. Good. He threw in his last salvo to force Boland’s total commitment.
“The debrief reports say that Fremont’s pulled two patrols a day for the last month. That’s right, Jim—sixty patrols. Even your men couldn’t stand up to that kind of brutal punishment for very long. If Fremont gets shot out in the bush because she’s too damned tired to stay alert, Lane will be happy to put her on the KIA or WIA list. She and her kind of leadership will have successfully buried another dedicated soldier. Don’t you think Fremont’s worth helping?”
Large, intelligent green eyes that mirrored sensitivity and vulnerability stared back at Boland as he studied the picture. “Even if I do make contact with her, she could end up hating me on sight. I understand those WLF women are very focused on their mission.”
“I think it’s worth our trying.”
Jim stared over the desk at the colonel. “All right, sir. I’ll try. How far is this investigation going anyway?”
“This is strictly a regimental level problem. It starts here, it ends here.”
Boland’s face became set. “If Fremont cooperates, I want your word that we won’t be dragged into anything more than having to testify. Our private lives are our own. Neither of us deserves or wants any press on this.” He looked down at Mackey. “Do I have your word on that, Colonel?”
Mackey thrust out his hand. “My word, Jim. All that will show up will be a well-earned Letter of Commendation in your personal file.”
“Is there any way to contact her before Bangkok?” Jim asked.
“No. The WLF area is off-limits to everyone.”
“When’s this R & R?”
“In two weeks.”
Jim grimaced. Not only did he have his men to get squared away and dug in on Hill 116, but now he would have to concentrate on this project—if he took it.
Mackey patted his shoulder. “You’re overlooking one facet, Jim—personal chemistry.”
“But will she understand we’d be setting her up as an informant?”
“That’s something you’ll have to explain to her, Jim.”
How? Boland wondered as he left the command post and headed back over toward Alpha. After two months of being out in the bush, he wanted a woman all right, but not like this. He was no good at lying. And what would she think of him if he could convince her to be an informer?
It was dishonorable, he admitted sourly, walking slowly across the churned-up earth. And that went against his grain. He’d never resorted to subterfuge before and now he’d just agreed to do it. What did that make him? Nothing that he wanted to look at too closely. Well, he hadn’t created the problem. Major Lane had. Mackey was right: he was good at gaining trust and unraveling complex issues with people. That was his forte. Before, it had been applied to troop management and field warfare, “or tac and strat.”
But this was different. Muttering a curse, Jim tried to shove Mackey’s request aside. If it had been anyone but the c
olonel, he would have turned him down cold. Of all the officers Boland had ever worked with or for, he respected Mackey the most. And the man had one hundred percent of his loyalty. Mackey had to be damned honorable to take on something as delicate and potentially dangerous to his own career for those women. But his fairness to the enlisted women came first, Jim concluded. Feeling slightly better, Boland allowed his guilt to dissolve.
Chapter 5
THEY WERE deep in Echo when Cathy sensed danger. Perspiration streaked down her darkly tanned face as she knelt upon the damp jungle floor, her utilities colored with large splotches of sweat. Dense foliage ringed with banana and mango trees surrounded them. Mahogany trees lorded over the smaller trees, thick, woody vines that resembled steel cable hanging around them. Huge, twisted roots from trees rose out of the earth like arthritic fingers.
Carefully, Cathy retraced her steps to the awaiting eleven-woman squad. Each face spoke of anxious strain as Cathy squatted down on her heels next to her squad leader, Sergeant Peggy Thatcher.
“Well?” Thatcher demanded hoarsely.
“It’s a trap. Smaller branches have been broken off. Someone’s moved through here earlier. They’re all fresh breaks.” Her fingers wrapped strongly around the M16 for assurance and she eased off the safety. “I think we’d better withdraw and try flanking the LA that’s waiting in there for us.”
A thick stand of bamboo crowned the hill above them, making it impossible to retreat. They’d have to back out the way they came in. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get Marine artillery support. There’s more than a squad of LA in there. I can feel it.”
Thatcher gave a low snarl, feeling the weight of responsibility. “You’re point. Not the goddamn squad leader anymore! Keep your mouth shut and just do your job.” Thatcher shifted, miserably trying to rearrange the ammo pouches around her waist web belt. “Major Lane wants contact, not retreat,” she muttered, as if to convince herself of the order’s validity.
“It’s a trap, Sergeant,” Cathy repeated, glancing up at the younger women in the squad. Of the original one-hundred-and-twenty women who had come over, ten had been killed and seven wounded in the first three months. If Ingram and Lane weren’t haranguing them daily on safety procedures out on patrol, they were pressuring them for higher body counts. That’s why Cathy had been removed as squad leader two weeks earlier: she had kept her women too safe.
After her squad had been taken from her, she had been transferred to Thatcher’s unit and told she was permanent point. Point was totally exposed and alone, but that was all right with Cathy. This was what she was best at: hunting and locating.
Thatcher’s gaze jerked to Cathy. Ever since Fremont had been assigned to her squad, she had questioned every damned order. It was insubordination of the worst kind. Getting up, Thatcher turned to Janet Hayes, the radio woman. “Call Delta and give them our coordinates. We’re going in.” Turning to Fremont, she hissed, “You’re on report for disobeying orders.”
Hayes uttered a slight gasp and she froze, realizing she had no control over her bladder. Fumbling with the handset, Janet finally remembered the radio frequency, punching in the code with shaking fingers.
Cathy caught the sergeant’s arm in a viselike grip. “Dammit, Thatcher, they’re waiting in there for us. You can’t risk the whole squad—”
Thatcher shoved the muzzle of her rifle into Cathy’s chest. “You move or I’ll drop you.”
Pulling the Ka-Bar from the sheath around her lower right leg, Cathy turned in one fluid motion, catching Thatcher off guard. Knocking the sergeant’s feet from beneath her, Cathy fell hard on the woman, pinning her down. She pressed the blade against Thatcher’s throat.
“We’re retreating and flanking,” Cathy rasped. “You’re not killing all of us for those news reporters—”
Before Thatcher could croak a reply, enemy rifle fire shattered the shocked stillness, ripping into the small stand of coconut and banana trees where they knelt. Bark splinters became deadly projectiles. The women scrambled out into a circular perimeter of defense, spraying wildly with their M16s as they dove for cover. Cathy rolled off Thatcher, lunging for her rifle.
A deafening wall of return fire hit their position.
“Radio!” Thatcher ordered, crawling between two of her rifle women now returning fire.
Thump!
“Incoming!” Thatcher cried, flinging herself over Hayes to protect the radio.
Shrapnel! Cathy jerked her head up after the mortar exploded, hearing Thatcher’s scream. There was a hole gouged in the sergeant’s exposed neck, blood eating a dark strain across her utilities. Hayes sobbed hysterically and pushed the limp sergeant off her. She froze as she stared at her hands, now smeared with warm, sticky blood. Mead, who was now in command, was frozen, trying to hide behind the spindly trunk of a banana tree. Out of conditioned reflex, Cathy took over.
“Incoming!” Cathy yelled, jerkily getting to her feet and then lunging forward. She landed hard on top of Hayes to protect the radio. If the radio was damaged, they were all dead.
Crump!
Another scream. Who? Cathy dazedly looked up. Acker was thrown back at least six feet, blood, torn flesh and the white of jagged bone protruding from her shoulder and arm. Cathy grabbed Hayes, who lay in a cowering lump, managing to yank the handset off the hook.
Without thinking, Cathy placed the call directly to Mike Company artillery instead of sending the request via Delta.
“Mike one—Mike—”
Another incoming. Jesus Christ!
“Mike One, Mike One, this is Delta Niner. Over.” Fremont gulped for breath, sweat streaming down the taut planes of her face.
“Hurry up!” Hayes screamed, covering her hands over her head. “We’re gonna die!”
“Delta Niner. This is Mike One. Over.”
Cathy flattened. She heard the whump of mortar. There would be seven to ten seconds before it hit.
“Contact made—”
She didn’t finish. Rocks, splinters of bark and dirt careened into their position. This round was closer than the last one. Once the LA got a fix on them, they’d systematically wipe them out if they didn’t move out of the trap.
“Need fire support. Unknown size encountered. Pinned—”
The reassuring voice of a man’s voice on the other end of the phone interrupted. “Mike One to Delta Niner, we will switch you to arty with priority code.”
“Mike One, I need Medevac,” she yelled, “a nine-liner. Put them on the same channel!” Dear Christ! This was a fiery hell. Randolph cried out. Cathy jerked her head to the left. Randolph had taken shrapnel in her legs and was writhing around on the ground and screaming.
“Alpha Niner, Alpha Niner. Priority,” another voice drawled.
“Priority,” Cathy said, trying to steady her shaking voice. Sweat leaked into her eyes, momentarily blinding her. She yelled off the grid coordinates.
“Mike One will give you a spotter round right away,” the voice said, “Medevac’s on the line. Go ahead….”
Oh, God, hurry up with those arty rounds. Hurry! Cathy glanced around at her dwindling squad. Five women were actively returning fire. Another was frozen into immobility.
Seconds dragged by. Cathy hung on to the radio, protecting Hayes and it with her own body. Another mortar exploded, this time on the other side of their perimeter.
Pain. White-hot, searing pain. Not much blood on her arm. Cathy stared at where the shrapnel had sheared through the sleeve of her upper arm. Oddly, she no longer felt the pain, disregarding it.
“Arty!” someone shouted jubilantly.
First, there was the white marker round. Miraculously, it was right on target and Cathy confirmed the hit on the LA position. Then, the shells began shrieking in. The 105s began tearing up the real estate in front of their position. Trees, roots and all, shot upward. Rock formations on the hill above them exploded in all directions. Unseen LA cried out. Cathy sobbed with anger over Thatcher’s stupid blunder.
Cathy fumbled badly for the handset, barely able to hold on to it.
“This is Delta. Mike, I have a number nine Medevac priority.”
Cathy screamed for Hayes to move. When the woman didn’t, she dragged both of them toward a freshly fallen tree for better cover. “Have a number nine,” Cathy gasped, finishing off grid information so that the choppers could fly into a clearing west of them.
They had to move out! Cathy got to her knees, screaming at the remaining women, gesturing for them to begin a retreat. Some hesitated. The enemy fire into their position lulled as the artillery began to make the difference.
Cathy leaped to her feet, exposing herself in order to get the women to move. One by one, they picked up their wounded, zigzagging out of the perimeter.
“Pick up Thatcher!” Cathy snarled at Mead. And then she turned, her fingers sinking deeply into Hayes’s shoulder.
Another spate of fire erupted, dirt spouting up in geysers all around her. Cathy put the butt of the rifle against her hip, firing back on semiautomatic. The harsh bark of the rifle shattered her ringing ears. In seconds, the clip was expended. She didn’t have time to slam in another magazine. Slinging the rifle across her shoulder, Cathy put one hand on Hayes, jerking her upward, and the other on the handset.
More rounds shrieked overhead, now pouring in from two different directions as Cathy worked the radio. Less and less enemy bullets followed them as they ran for the clearing. Sobbing for breath, Cathy halted with Hayes at the edge of the open area. The rest of the squad was strung out, hiding behind the trunks of trees, white-faced, their eyes huge with terror.
The artillery barrage gradually eased. In its place, silence crept into their position. Cautiously, Cathy raised her head, wiping the sweat from her eyes.
“Hey…” someone whispered, “no more firing.”
It was quiet. “Yeah,” Cathy agreed dully.
Randolph’s groan diverted Cathy’s attention.
“Johnson, get over there and put a tourniquet above the wound on her thigh,” Cathy directed in a fierce whisper. She jerked Hayes up by the collar, her teeth clenched. “Get up and guard the rear.”
Danger Close (Shadow Warriors) Page 7