by Tom Wilson
The lieutenant studied the map closely. He moved his finger westward a few klicks.
"Somewhere there," Black agreed. "He is likely hiding in the daytime and traveling at night, so he will not be easy to locate."
The lieutenant nodded confidently. "We will find him."
"We will not have long to look. Perhaps only two days."
"Ten minutes," came the navigator's announcement, and the C-130 began another descent, this time to fly even lower, to skim over the treetops.
"Jesus," said Sergeant Black, and started to become more frightened as the aircraft pitched and bucked in the turbulence caused by the mountain effect. This was the worst part for him. When they flew so damned low above the pitch-black jungle, he always thought of shitty things, like smacking into the sides of hills. He'd be happier when they gained altitude to jump out of the damned, dangerous contraption.
"No threats," announced Cecil the Crow in a pleasant voice.
Sunday, October 1st, 1045 Local—Hoa Lo Prison, Hanoi
Major Glenn Phillips
Some days were worse than others at the Hanoi Hilton. The worst for Glenn were the ones when he got into his depressed moods and began thinking they would never be released or freed. That the war would just continue to be dragged out by the politicians, and the people back in the States would get so tired of it, they'd stop giving a damn about the guys they might leave behind. Especially guys dumb enough to let themselves be shot down. Then his mind would rebel against that thought, because they were Americans, by God, and Americans don't leave their men behind. Someone in charge, maybe President Johnson, would decide that if a war is worth fighting, it's worth winning, and the next thing they'd see would be a bunch of U.S. Marines outside kicking the V's asses out of the way so they could free the prisoners.
He'd thought about it all the day before and finally had gotten himself in trouble, for the more he'd thought, the angrier he'd become.
He wasn't acting as an American ought to.
Yesterday evening he'd refused to bow when two guards came into his cell.
The rule was that whenever a V entered your cell or you passed one in the yard, you were to bow to the waist. But he'd just stood there and said, "Can I help you?" as if he were in his bachelor pad back in the States answering his door. It hadn't been a planned thing but a capricious one, to show the V that regardless of where he was, he was an American, and, by God, Americans don't bow. Not to kings or queens or fucking V, Americans don't bow.
It had been a silly gesture, and he'd known it, but somehow it had been important to him. They'd taken him to the interrogation room and beat the hell out of him, then did their rope tricks. Once he'd noticed through a painracked fog that a skinny shin, his skinny shin, was pressing against the back of his head.
The entire episode was unimportant to anyone except Glenn Phillips. All they wanted to do was teach him a lesson and get him to bow, not try to get nuclear secrets or anything. But for a while it had been important to Glenn.
He'd finally said, hell yes, he'd bow next time. Then after a few whacks with a rubber hose they'd stopped.
In a way he'd won, though, because when the V were through with him and tossed him back into the cell, he hadn't been able to bow at all. All he'd been able to do was lie there making retching sounds as they locked him in the leg-stocks on the concrete bunk. Then he'd curled up in pain, and they'd beaten him with the rubber hose to get him to straighten enough to put the heavy iron cuffs on his wrists.
He hurt all over, but it was the pain from the leg that had been badly broken during his ejection that was most nauseating. He'd lain in the half-curl position all night and was there when the turnkey had come to unlock the iron cuffs and give him his morning meal.
He'd tried to eat the stuff, but his face hurt when he did, because his lips and nose were swollen from the rubber-hose beating. The turnkey was the same mean little bastard who had started it all, and he'd just laughed when he saw Glenn was having trouble with the food, and again when he saw him picking out a few maggots.
A few of the turnkeys were almost human in the ways they treated the prisoners, but this one was a rat-faced asshole, and the P had to be cautious around him.
A while after Ratface had left, he heard a distant tapping and put his ear against the wall to hear better. Later one of the P came by sweeping the hall, making a slap-slap sound, and as he did so, he tapped out words in their code.
It was another hour before he'd put the news together.
The V had moved a group of P to another camp, probably to nearby Cu Loc, which the P called the Zoo.
Which was okay, for the Zoo was no better or worse than here at the Hanoi Hilton, except there were a couple of badass American-hating Cubans who'd arrived at the Zoo to help teach the V how to beat up on the P.
The senior camp officer said to listen to the words of their SROs, because that was the way it was, period.
Obviously some of the P were giving an SRO, the senior ranking officer in a cell block, a bad time. As the only major, Glenn was SRO of the area called the Sahara by the P, but he'd had no problems with the five other P there with him, and there wasn't much leadership involved, anyway.
The last news was more exciting.
Lucky Anderson was still on the run. At least the V hadn't caught him as of three days before, when they'd questioned another group of 354th fighter squadron guys.
Superb news!
After he'd digested it all and he lay there thinking of his friend trying to escape, he felt the rebellious mood returning.
Cool it, he tried to tell himself, but the news made him feel damn good.
"Keep going, Lucky," Glenn shouted through battered and swollen lips, "and don't stop until you get out! Then come back in a Thud and kill these bastards!"
He laughed out loud, and it felt good.
The badass turnkey heard him and came in with two other guards. They iron-cuffed his hands again and beat him with their fists and the hose until he howled and cringed like a dog. Then Ratface beat him until he stopped screaming.
Day 52, 1230 Local—Western Mountains
Major Lucky Anderson
He'd continued ever westward since breaking through the military-training area and into the western mountains. The first night he'd stayed on the mountainside, and when light came, he found himself looking down on a pleasant pass and a group of ancient, deserted pagodas. He'd continued to travel up high for a while, paralleling the road below. Then the mountain had grown steep and difficult, and he'd been forced down onto the small, rugged roadway that wove its way through canyons and mountain passes.
Every couple of miles there was a collection of huts on the well-traveled path, and each tiny village had to be avoided carefully, for in them he'd seen men with rifles. Thus far he'd been successful at remaining unseen. On occasion he'd almost run into late travelers on the wide path, but each time he'd been able to slip into a hiding place before they caught sight of him.
Three days earlier, unable to suppress the urge, he'd called a formation of Thuds he'd seen in the distance and was alarmed at the weak condition of the radio's batteries. He thought the voice who had answered as Bison lead was Billy Bowes, but he'd cut the conversation short to conserve batteries. He'd still had twenty miles to go before he would be in position for a good, clean pickup by the rescue people.
Had he drawn the power too low? he worried, but he dared not test the radio's batteries, for even that action drained them ever so slightly. From experience he knew that when they rested, batteries rejuvenated themselves a bit. He was letting them do just that.
He was growing shaky from hunger. This time he was so weak, he knew he couldn't last much longer without food. Since acquiring the walking stick, it had become dear to him, and not only because it was his calendar. Increasingly he used it to support himself as he walked. He was that weak. But whenever he'd seen game, mostly jungle rats that looked like large weasels, and tiny, spotted deer, he'd either been too nea
r a village or suspected one was around the next bend. The pistol would make noise now, and he didn't dare press his luck. His only food had been occasional sour fruit, small wild tubers, and crickets he found near the path.
Just that morning it had been food that had caused his latest and almost fatal concern. He cursed himself when he thought of it.
The sky had been growing light with false dawn, so he'd been looking for a hiding place for the day. As he'd stared across the creek that ran beside the path, a deer had cautiously stepped out of a nearby thicket and warily looked about. Lucky had immediately frozen in his tracks and stared as a shaky-kneed fawn ventured out behind the doe.
He'd salivated at memories of the taste of venison.
Should I? he was thinking, and was slowly drawing the pistol from the breast pocket of the flight suit when the doe and fawn bolted. He'd stared after them, feeling sad and starved and cheated. Then he'd heard a much closer sound and turned back toward the pathway.
The family had come upon him suddenly, and both he and they stared.
They were typical travelers of the beaten path. A man, his woman with a baby slung on her back in a crude wicker carrier, and two young children walking before them.
They'd stared at him.
Dammit! he'd raged, and angrily pulled the pistol free.
The man had raised his arms defensively, and the woman chattered her alarm, terrified. The children had just stared at his face, mouths agape.
Kill them and hide the bodies, his reason told him. They're the enemy.
Lucky Anderson had raised his pistol at the man, stared for a moment longer, then had sullenly lowered it and trudged on by. He'd looked back at them only once, as they fled around a turn in the mountain path, and felt like crying.
All morning he'd continued to travel, stopping only to circumvent other groups of travelers and two small collections of huts. His troubled mind cried out for a plan, but it was difficult to think clearly, and all he could come up with was to keep going ahead.
He knew he should hole up for at least a few hours in the early evening, to get much-needed rest, but he grudgingly decided that he must travel through the day and night. Then he would surely be far enough from the valley for rescue, he reasoned, and it would not matter if the family had turned him in.
He walked just off the path so the boots wouldn't leave their marks, trying to remain silent and alert, increasingly supporting himself with the walking staff as he grew wearier.
He saw movement on the bank of the small stream and froze.
A jungle rat with its litter, eating the remnants of a dead fish.
He must have food. Was he too close to a village? He thought not, and again began to pull his pistol from the pocket, very slowly, so he wouldn't alert mama rat.
But then, although he heard nothing, he sensed that something or someone was approaching on the path, and he melted into a nearby group of bushes, cursing his luck.
He sucked in and held a breath as six NVA soldiers appeared on the path with wary eyes and ready weapons. They moved smoothly and quietly, looking professional. Fifty yards from his hiding place their leader made a hand signal, and they spread out onto the hillsides, searching the area thoroughly and coming ever closer.
Mama rat and her brood bolted for cover, and one soldier pointed. The leader motioned him back to his task.
Lucky lay perfectly flat in his tiny area, breathing cautiously, peering out at the group with a single slitted eye, knowing he was about to be caught.
They came on toward him. As he was preparing to hide the pistol and radio so they wouldn't be captured with him, they stopped cold in their tracks.
The leader made a sharp motion with his hand, and Lucky saw another man, sturdily built and serious looking, dressed in black garb and carrying a stubby machine pistol, descend the northern hillside to join him. The two conversed in low tones, then the man in black filtered back into the jungle not ten feet from where Lucky lay. The others immediately came down from the hillsides and joined together, listening to words from their leader. When they proceeded past him, Lucky shuddered involuntarily. They were the most capable soldiers he'd yet encountered and had obviously been searching for someone.
If they hadn't been told to break it off, he'd have been taken. He was so shaken that he decided it was time to get the hell out of the valley, regardless of the extra day it would take before he could be picked up.
1410 Local—Phuc Yen PAAFB, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
Quon was sitting in on the briefing that Kapitan Aleks Ivanovic was giving to the Vietnamese pilots, listening as the young Russian told them how to engage Mee Phantoms.
His adjutant came into the room and motioned for him. In the hall he said the search-team sergeant had called on the radio telephone.
Quon paused. It was an important briefing.
"Has he found Lokee?" he asked.
"There was a sighting this morning."
Quon hurried to his office and picked up the receiver.
Word had been relayed to the search-team sergeant from the Hanoi Command Center. A family had come face-to-face with an apparition who could only have been Lokee.
Quon caught his breath, excitement racing. "Where?"
"In the Tay Bac, near a small village called Lang Xom." The sergeant paused. "It will take us two days to travel there."
The Tay Bac was a rugged mountain area west of the Hong Valley, many kilometers from the sergeant's ongoing search near the Viet Bac.
"You are sure it is he?"
"The family who saw him was frightened because the man had no face. It is Lokee, comrade Quon. Somehow he crossed the Hong Valley and made it into the Tay Bac. If I hurry there with my team, we will be able to capture him before he is rescued."
Just as in aerial combat, once the quarry was spotted, Quon became calm. His stomach grew easy and his nervousness abated. "Where are you now?" he asked.
"I am at the Song Lo, comrade Quon, with a forty-man team. We have found where he crossed the river using an old, broken rowboat to float across."
Quon looked at his wall map and a village there. "How far are you from An Lao?"
"Just three kilometers."
"Go there. I will send two helicopters to transport you and your men to the Tay Bac." He thought a moment. "Will your forty men be enough?"
"Enough to contain him in the valley where he was seen. Then I will bring in more men from the Xom Dong training barracks to close the trap."
Excitement welled through him. "Find him!"
"I promise you that, comrade Quon."
"You've promised many times already. This time don't promise, just do it."
1545 Local—Western Mountains, North Vietnam
Sergeant Black
They'd looked for the downed pilot for two and a half days, scouring the mountain on which Black had thought he was hiding and the nearby path for sign of his passage. But then Black had noticed a ragtag group of local militia traveling west on the road toward them, and he'd contacted the team and told them to approach and question the militiamen.
When the lieutenant appeared, the mountain villagers were impressed, for they seldom saw officers. Their leader thought he and his men were the search team sent by Hanoi.
What team? the lieutenant asked.
A man and his family had seen a monster on the mountain road who had threatened to kill them with an evil-looking pistol. The militia had contacted Hanoi on the radio they kept at their village.
And?
Hanoi said they knew of the monster. He was a dangerous Mee named Lokee. They said to pursue him diligently until a search team arrived, but not to kill him.
The garrulous militia leader had tried to impress the lieutenant with his position as headman of his village. He told him about his love and great esteem for Ho Chi Minh.
Weren't the lieutenant and his men from Hanoi?
Near Hanoi, the lieutenant had confided, but not from Hanoi itself. The
lieutenant used a cover story; they were from the Tu Ky Training Center looking for recruits who'd deserted.
The militia leader had been let down. Hanoi had promised they would deploy a team to the valley very quickly and seal it off so the Mee killer couldn't escape. They'd mentioned a commendation for his diligence, and even a reward if they caught Lokee alive.
The lieutenant's chest heaved as he briefed Black, for he'd hurried back with his news.
Black stared down at the mountain trail with a wistful expression. Half an hour earlier they'd heard the distant sounds of at least one and probably two helicopters. Likely they'd brought the searchers sent by Hanoi.
Not only was it now necessary to curtail their search for the downed pilot, they just might have been compromised. And since compromise was the worst possible fate for a recon team, Black ordered the team to withdraw eastward.
Half an hour later the lieutenant stopped and again called him down the mountainside.
One of the men had found boot prints and the mark of a walking staff, which were surely traces of Anderson's passage. They were fresh, not more than a few hours old. He suggested that they backtrack and make a thorough sweep during the night, for it would take another day for the search team to become organized.
"No," said Black, and be brusquely motioned them on down the trail. He had a gut feeling that things were beginning to fall apart. "Perhaps we can look on our return trip if they have not found him," said Black, but he knew that was unlikely.
Two hours later they were walking down the trail in the semidarkness when they came face-to-face with the advance guard of the NVA search team. Black quietly slipped into the dark jungle, leaving the indigenous team to their wiles.
The lieutenant went onto the offensive and set about questioning the grizzled veteran sergeant in charge of the team.
They were indeed looking for a Mee killer named Lokee who had been sighted not far away. The sergeant said his team would shortly be joined by several hundred men from the provincial barracks, who would tighten a noose around the area.
He was good, that sergeant. The lieutenant's rank hadn't discouraged him from asking what he and his men were doing there, and even wondering if they couldn't join his search. The lieutenant gave the cover story he'd given the militiamen: that they were from the Tu Ky Training Center pursuing deserters. He would check with Tu Ky to see if they could be spared, he said. In the meantime they must continue their own search.