May used a rubber band to tie back her hair in a ponytail, locked the doors of the Isuzu and slid the key into the exhaust pipe. From the back of the pick-up she took a long flashlight. She walked confidently through the undergrowth, skirting a bomb crater half filled with green stagnant water.
The three motorbikes were in the shade of the jagged rock. One by one she pushed them to the water-filled crater and rolled them in. When she’d finished she stood at the edge watching the oily bubbles gradually subside until the surface was still once more. She wiped her hands on her trousers and walked over to the anvil-shaped rock.
The hatch covering the tunnel entrance had been pulled back into place but there had been no one to replace its covering of dirt. She pulled it open, and put her head to the opening, listening. There was only silence. She dropped down into the tunnel. Three kitbags lay to one side. Closing her eyes, she breathed in, sniffing like a tracker dog. She smelled sweat, cigarette smoke and beer, and the minty odour of toothpaste.
She pulled the hatch over her head, blocking out the light. It was a perfect fit and the darkness was absolute. May sat for a while, her back pressed against the hard, dry clay, breathing in the smell of the tunnels. The entrails of Mother Earth held no fear for her. They would protect her, as they had done in the past. She twisted around and began to move down the tunnel in a half crouch, still in total darkness because she wanted to use the batteries of her flashlight as little as possible. Besides, there were no traps in the early part of the tunnel. All the dangers lay ahead.
Ramirez played the beam of his torch along the floor of the tunnel. It ran for some fifty feet before it bent to the right. The roof was arched and the tunnel was slightly wider at the base than at the top. It was about three feet tall, so Ramirez could crawl on his hands and knees without banging his head. The Viet Cong, being smaller and slighter, were able to run along in a low crouch, giving them the advantage of speed. Ramirez knew, though, that speed wasn’t what counted when exploring the underground labyrinth. Care and caution were the watchwords. The tunnels were a death trap for the unwary.
‘How’s it going, Sergio?’ asked Hammack. The black man was about ten feet behind Ramirez.
‘No problem,’ said Ramirez. ‘Makes all the difference knowing that a VC isn’t just around the corner with a loaded AK-47, doesn’t it?’ Ramirez looked over his shoulder. Sweat was pouring off Hammack’s face and he wiped his forehead with his massive forearm. ‘Don’t forget to drink,’ said Ramirez. ‘It’s easy to get dehydrated down here.’
Hammack grinned and his gold tooth glinted. ‘You wanna teach me to suck eggs while you’re at it?’ he said.
Ramirez smiled. ‘Bet you’re regretting all that fried chicken now, huh? You must be what, twenty pounds heavier than last time we were down here?’
‘At least,’ said Hammack. ‘You want me to go point, thin man?’
‘Hell no,’ said Ramirez. ‘This is the fun part.’
He turned away from Hammack and began to crawl forward, his flashlight in his left hand, his knife in his right.
‘There,’ said Bamber, pointing at the jagged rock formation to their right. He grabbed Chinh by the shoulder and told him to stop. He checked the map, looked at the milometer, then rechecked the map. ‘Yup, this is it,’ he said. He pointed to the side of the road. ‘Can you pull off here?’ he asked Chinh.
The driver frowned. ‘No road,’ he said.
‘I know there’s no road, but the undergrowth isn’t too thick, you can drive through it.’
Chinh pulled a face. He shook his head.
Bamber took a handful of Vietnamese banknotes out of his pocket and thrust them at the driver. ‘If it’s your paintwork you’re worried about . . .’
Whether or not Chinh understood what Bamber had said, he grabbed the money and put the car in gear. He edged the Mercedes off the road and through the vegetation.
‘I just want us away from the road,’ said Bamber. ‘Just in case someone goes by and wonders why Chinh’s waiting.’
‘Sure,’ said Wright. He peered out of the window at the darkening sky. ‘We made it just in time.’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Bamber. ‘We’ll be out again at dawn. And the car’s less likely to be spotted at night.’
The Mercedes slowed to a crawl. It had to skirt a bomb crater and then circle around a clump of tall trees covered with vines. Bamber looked over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the track they’d left. ‘Okay, Chinh, this’ll do fine,’ he said. Chinh brought the car to a halt.
Bamber opened the door and climbed out. Wright followed him. ‘Is it far?’ Wright asked.
‘Over by the rocks,’ said Bamber. ‘According to the map, it’s by a rock shaped like an anvil.’
He popped open the boot and clicked the combination locks on his suitcase. ‘Mickey Mouse or Snoopy?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘The mouse or the dog? Which do you prefer?’ He held up two knapsacks, the sort children used to carry their books to school. One had a grinning Mickey Mouse on it, the other featured Snoopy lying on his kennel.
‘Either,’ said Wright.
Bamber tossed him the Mickey Mouse bag. ‘You’ll need this to carry your stuff,’ he said. He handed him one of the infra-red goggle sets, spare batteries, a flashlight, and a large plastic bag.
‘What’s the plastic bag for?’
‘You’ll find out,’ said Bamber, packing his stuff into the Snoopy knapsack. He took his jacket off and threw it into the boot. ‘I suggest you strip down to the basics,’ he said.
Wright removed his jacket. He was wearing dark brown Chinos and a fake Lacoste polo shirt that he’d bought for a couple of pounds on Sukhumvit Road. He loosened the straps on the knapsack as far as they’d go and put it on his back. It was a snug fit, but not uncomfortable. He took it off again and filled it with the equipment that Bamber had given him, then put in the two bottles of water.
‘Ready?’ asked Bamber.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Wright.
Chinh got out of the car as Bamber slammed the boot shut. ‘Where we go now?’
‘You don’t go anywhere,’ said Bamber. ‘You stay here, with the car.’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘We’ll be back here in twelve hours.’
Chinh looked at the two men, totally confused. ‘You go walking at night?’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about what we’re doing,’ said Bamber. ‘Just make sure you’re here when we get back.’ He took a one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, tore it in two and gave one half to Chinh. ‘You get the rest tomorrow,’ he said.
Chinh nodded enthusiastically. ‘No problem,’ he said.
Bamber put the map case under one arm. ‘Okay, Nick, let’s go.’ He walked towards the rocks and Wright followed. A bird squawked off to their left, then fell silent. The colour was draining from the trees and bushes, turning them from bright green to a muted grey. Something settled on Bamber’s neck and he felt a sharp stabbing pain. He ignored it. He studied the map, and took a bearing with a small compass. ‘This way,’ he said, pushing through a cluster of broad-leaved bushes. Hundreds of small flies swarmed around them and a large purple dragonfly buzzed over their heads.
They walked through a clearing, then around a clump of tall palm trees. The ground dipped and then they stood in front of the rock formation, weathered from centuries of wind and rain. Bamber looked around. He pointed at the anvil-shaped rock. The wood and bamboo hatchway was clearly visible in the dirt. Bamber went over and pulled it up. He peered inside.
Wright came up behind him. ‘That’s it?’ he said.
‘That’s it,’ said Bamber. ‘That’s the way in. Doc and the rest are already down there.’
Wright crouched down. ‘It looks so small,’ he said.
‘More than enough room,’ said Bamber. He folded the map case. ‘Why don’t you go down first, just to get a feel for it. I’m going to make sure that Chinh understands he has to wait.’
‘Okay,’ said
Wright.
Bamber walked through the undergrowth, making almost no sound. Crickets clicked all around him, like Geiger counters gone crazy. The sun slipped down below the horizon, leaving behind only a red smear in the sky. Dark clouds scudded overhead and beyond them stars began to become visible, winking into existence one at a time.
Chinh was standing at the back of the car, the boot open. He was fiddling with the catches to the metal suitcase. Bamber crept up behind him. In a smooth, fluid movement he grabbed Chinh’s head and twisted it savagely, snapping his neck like a dry twig.
The tunnel dipped down ahead of him and Sergio Ramirez felt his centre of gravity move forward so that more of his weight was on his hands. Grains of dirt sprinkled down from the roof and pitter-pattered on his scarfed head. Behind him he could hear Hammack grunting with exertion. They’d been underground for almost an hour and by Ramirez’s reckoning they’d covered about half a mile. The muscles in his shoulders were aching and he’d scuffed his palms in several places. The floor of the tunnel was rock hard, and it was like crawling along a road.
Ramirez stopped and played his flashlight beam along the length of the tunnel. Something moved and Ramirez stiffened.
‘What?’ asked Hammack, behind him.
‘Centipede,’ said Ramirez. It was more than six inches long, dark green in colour with countless legs, and it was moving purposefully towards the Americans, its antennae twitching. Ramirez had once been bitten by a similar insect and his arm had swollen up like a football for more than a week.
The centipede seemed oblivious to the flashlight. Ramirez pressed himself against the side of the tunnel and raised his knife.
‘Kill it, man,’ hissed Hammack.
‘Well, Jeez, Bernie, why didn’t I think of that?’
‘What’s the hold-up?’ called Doc, from the rear.
‘Centipede,’ said Hammack.
‘Just kill it and let’s get moving,’ said Doc.
‘Yeah, well, if I had a gun, I’d just shoot it, but seeing as I’ve only got a knife I’m gonna have to wait until it gets close, okay?’ said Ramirez. ‘Now will you guys just pipe down and let me take care of business?’
Doc and Hammack fell silent, but Ramirez could still hear them breathing. The centipede stopped and its antennae twitched as if probing for vibrations in the air. ‘Come on, lovely,’ whispered Ramirez. He held the knife in his fist, point downwards. ‘Come to Papa.’
The centipede’s legs began to ripple again and the insect moved forward. It headed towards the wall and ran along it. Ramirez jabbed the knife at the middle of the insect and impaled it. The centipede reared up and tried to snap at his hand. Ramirez twisted the knife and it made a crunching sound. Still the centipede refused to die. Ramirez scraped it along the tunnel wall but it continued to thrash about. He held it down with the knife and squashed its head with the end of his flashlight, gently so that he wouldn’t break the bulb. Green, milky fluid squirted from the insect’s body and splashed along Ramirez’s hand. Eventually it went still and Ramirez pulled his knife out. He flicked the dead insect out of the way. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Nick Wright sat with his legs down the hatchway, staring into the darkness. Around him insects clicked and whirred and he heard something slithering on the rocks behind him. There’d be snakes, he was sure of that. Snakes and spiders and God knows what else. He shuddered. His mouth had gone dry and he wanted to drink some of the water in his knapsack but knew that he should save it for later. He held the flashlight in both hands. It was made from black rubber and was long enough to hold three batteries. How long would three batteries last? he wondered. Six hours? Twelve?
A figure materialised in the gloom. It was Bamber. ‘Okay?’ Wright asked.
‘Yeah, he knows what he’s got to do,’ said the FBI agent. He crouched down next to Wright and illuminated the map with his flashlight. ‘The first part’s a piece of cake,’ he said. ‘The tunnel runs pretty much north all the way. There’ll be kinks and bends but nothing to worry us.’
Wright nodded. He switched on his own flashlight. Bamber’s face shone a deathly white in the beam.
‘I’ll go first,’ continued Bamber. ‘Stay fairly close. You’ll probably find that you don’t need to have your flashlight on.’
‘What about the goggles?’
‘Let’s see how you get on with the flashlight first,’ said Bamber. ‘You’ll find the goggles uncomfortable if you wear them for more than an hour or so.’ He gestured at the hole. ‘Do you wanna go down?’
Wright swallowed. His throat felt as if it had shrunk to half its normal size. ‘Okay,’ he said. He edged forward and slid his legs into the hole, taking his weight on his arms. For a second his feet swung freely and then his toes scraped on the floor and he dropped down. He scraped his cheek against the side of the tunnel as he wriggled through.
Wright twisted his neck up so that he could see the square of light above his head. Bamber was looking down on him, smiling. Wright flashed him a thumbs-up and tried to grin. He ducked down and examined the tunnel. To the north, it ran off into the distance, then curved to the left. Wright could just about shuffle forwards in a crouch, his knees up against his chest, but it was painful and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. He squatted back down. There wasn’t enough room to walk bent double, and his only option was to crawl.
‘Okay, Nick?’ called Bamber.
‘Yeah,’ replied Wright. He moved back, making room for Bamber to come down. He bumped against something soft. It was a green kitbag, with ‘USMC’ stencilled on it in white letters. ‘There’s some stuff down here. It looks like they left it.’
Bamber’s feet dropped through the hole. The FBI agent’s toes scraped against the side, kicking down a small avalanche of dirt, then he lowered himself down and squatted, facing Wright. The beam of Bamber’s flashlight was shining up under his chin and it gave him a ghostly appearance, his eyes transformed into black pits in a stark white face. He reached up to grab hold of the cover.
‘Leave it,’ said Wright, quickly. Too quickly, he realised. He could hear the panic in his own voice.
‘Nick, we’re going to be almost two miles away from here,’ said Bamber. ‘Open or closed, it’s not going to make any difference.’
‘Humour me,’ said Wright.
More grains of soil tumbled down from the hatchway. Wright shone his flashlight along the sides of the tunnel. He patted the tunnel wall with the flat of his hand. The earth was hard, like concrete, reddish in colour.
‘It’s solid,’ said Bamber. ‘It’s been like this for twenty-five years, it’s not going to collapse now.’
Wright rested the back of his head against the clay. ‘I know,’ he said. He took deep breaths. The air was hot and sticky and it felt as if he had to drag in each lungful. He looked up at the hole and the stars behind. They were maybe four feet underground. Just about the depth a coffin would be. He tried to block the image out of his mind but it kept returning: a black coffin, lowered into the ground, a group of mourners standing on artificial grass as a robed priest muttered Latin, then a handful of wet earth thrown down, thudding against the polished walnut. Wright standing next to his mother, holding her hand and listening to her cry, squeezing her fingers to let her know that he was there, but getting no reaction from her.
‘Nick?’
Wright snapped back to reality. ‘What?’
‘Time to go.’
Wright nodded.
Bamber shuffled around and crawled forward on his hands and knees. The beam of his flashlight danced crazily, throwing eerie shadows against the tunnel walls. Wright tried to clear his throat but almost choked, and he began coughing, the noise echoing around the confined space. Bamber was almost fifteen feet away and the light from his flashlight was already fading. Wright crawled after him, his eyes fixed on the soles of Bamber’s training shoes.
Ramirez emerged into the chamber and stood up, arching his spine and exhaling deeply. He was
drenched and his hair and skin glistened. The chamber was almost twenty paces long and ten wide and about twice the height of a man. Hammack crawled out behind him. He too was soaked to the skin. He stood up and surveyed the room with Ramirez. There were reed mats on the floor, and on the far end of the chamber a sheet that had once been white was pinned to the wall. At the opposite end an old projector sat on a wooden table, covered in cobwebs and dust.
‘Wonder what the last feature was?’ said Ramirez.
‘Probably A Thousand And One Ways To Kill The White Devil,’ said Doc as he crawled into the chamber. He ran his hand over his face, wiping away the moisture that clung to his skin, then took off his rucksack and shook it. It too was dripping wet. He took a swig from one of his canteens, spat, then drank deeply. He wiped his mouth and offered his canteen to Ramirez.
There was a flurry of movement above their heads and dozens of small black shapes whizzed by, spinning and curving through the air. All three men ducked instinctively.
‘What the . . .’ said Hammack.
‘Bats,’ said Doc. ‘They’re harmless.’
The bats flew around the chamber, their sonic radar allowing them to whiz by the men so closely that they could feel the draught from their wings, then almost as one they flew off down a side tunnel to the left of the makeshift movie screen.
Ramirez handed the canteen back to Doc. Doc had taken a Marlboro pack and his Zippo lighter from a small plastic bag and he lit up.
Ramirez shook his head. ‘Can’t see why a doctor smokes,’ he said.
Doc exhaled and grinned at Ramirez. ‘This from a man who snorts heroin?’
The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 33