by Rob Buckman
In his mind, he went over the plan. Shoot the tires out to stop it. Do what you have to do to the people inside and get the hell out. The moment he fired, they'll know where he was. 'Five minutes that's all you've got, tops. What about the people inside the car?' The security guard he'd kill, he knew that. The other three men? Play it by ear. Kat Ballard?... Kat Ballard? His mind refused to function. What are you going to do to Kat Ballard? The question kept going around in his mind, bringing a pain to his soul as he thought about her. He thought about the night they had danced and he'd held her in his arms, the kiss. That ever so beautiful kiss with its taste of honey and promise. But she was the reason he lay under a dripping bush, soaked to the skin, cold, hungry, and tired. With two bullet holes in his hide, waiting to blow some guy’s head off, someone he'd never met. He was going to enjoy every second of it as well. Yet nowhere inside him could he find resentment for what she'd done, at most, a sadness of dreams that would never be. Plus the urge to teach her a lesson, she would never forget.
'Damn it! It hurts!' He thought, and it shouldn't. Not any more, not after what I've been through and after what she'd done.
But it did, each time his thoughts drifted to her. Feeling as if a cold hand had wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing hard every time her face came gentle on his mind. The curve of a cheek, the subtle tone of reddish gold hair or the way she held her head. Erect, proud, almost arrogant, emerald eyes flashing fire as she turned away that last time. Maybe the last time he would ever see her. Now he wanted and loved her so much it hurt, the memory of her walk, her hands, her kiss starting a fever in his brain. The memory of her walking away sending a chill though his heart, ripping him apart. People like Kat Ballard weren't supposed to get to him, not any more, not after all these years. Believing it himself, having felt little or nothing for anything or anyone for so long he thought it normal. Now he did. He wanted to live, to feel warm sunshine on his face, taste the fresh breezes of spring, the cool wine of summer and the crisp tingle of winter. To touch her lips again and taste the honey waiting there, to feel loving arms around him, touching him, holding him. Locking her in his embrace, safe from the world, the soft touch of her lips and hands taking this pain away with her love. 'If I'd never met her all this would have all been so easy. 'Some stupid simpleton in the back of his head kept telling him that he loved her. Had loved her from the moment their eyes met, the moment the faint trace of her fragrance touched his heart. His whole body ached to touch her, to feel her in his arms again, to kiss her sweet lips one more time.
"Bullshit" he murmured, laughing at the voice, but it sounded hollow, echoing back, mocking him. 'That bitch is as tough as nails, with a tongue like the edge of a diamond.' Falling in love with her would be like falling into a mix master. You'd end up twisted three ways from Sunday, not knowing which way was up.
'Yea. But you still love her!' The crazy voice echoed inside his skull, mocking him. 'You can no more hurt her than you could a new born kitten'.
"Damn it! Damn it! And damn her! You wait and see what I do to her. She's going to wish I'd never been born!" It was getting to the point where he couldn't even think straight with her in his mind. But he had to if he was going to survive. 'Bitch.' He said in the silent depth of his mind.
A week ago, life had been very simple, live for today and let tomorrow take care of its self. He had his land, his house, and a friend. Plus something to keep him busy, what more did he need? He remembered when this had all started ten short days ago. The only thought on his mind had been cleaning that little sand bar off and dredging some gold up. It must have looked so simple to them, just someone they could intimidate. They had twisted and manipulated facts to put them outside the law; pulled strings and collected favors to get what they wanted. Until now that is. They’d tried to force him to sell his land and were planning to kill him and drop his body down a mine shaft the moment they got their hands on him. What bothered him the most was, he still had no idea what the hell this was all about. They had come to kill him, puffed up with their own importance and power. Casually disregarding the law, walking hard heeled over everything and everyone that got in their way. They thought nothing could touch them and killing him would be so easy. Now they had run into someone they didn't understand, but someone who understood them better than they did. They had come looking, and expecting an easy kill, finding instead that the target had declared total war on them. Soon they would understand the phrase 'No quarter, no mercy.' If they didn't they would be dead in the very near future and then it wouldn't matter. It was only a matter of a few seconds before the tire came into view. A fraction of a second later the shot echoed off the hill side, blowing first the left, then the right tire. For a moment, he thought the heavy car would go completely out of control and flip, but the driver fought the wheel and kept it on the road.
Even before the second shot stopped echoing across the hills, he was up and running. Down the slope and across the open ground, taking the fence with a quick leap, rolling over the top. The landing cost him, pain shooting through his side pulling the wound open. He stood up and walked out onto the roadway, as the car finally came to a stop fifty feet away. He walked slowly towards it through the rain and mist. He held his weapon one handed straight up in the crook of his elbow. At least he gave the men in the car that much of a chance. As expected, the driver jumped out first, dragging a MAC 10 from under his coat. At least the man died game, as the 7.62 mm from the L70 punched a neat hole in his forehead, the back exploding out over the car and road.
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
Charley wiped the bar off, setting a drink down in front of three men who’d just sat down, looking them over as he did. He came to the conclusion they were up here to hunt, the question was, hunt what?
"You up here for the hunting?" He asked, eyeing the three men.
"We were." Was the curt reply and a suspicious look.
"How come you're leaving? No Luck?" Charley asked offhand, not really expecting an answer.
"No. The game was not to our liking." Charley gave them a sharp look. There was no mistaking the double meaning. The stub of his cigar moved to the other side of his mouth, his fighting side.
"You know a guy by the name of Mike Grainger?" Murphy asked, seeing the look.
"Might do. Why do you ask?" Under the bar, his fist closed around the stub end of a loaded pool cue.
"He a friend of yours?" Murphy asked.
"As I said. Why do you ask?" Murphy knew he'd had to be careful around this guy. You could never tell which side the players were on. They didn't give out score cards to this sort of game. But the Marine Corps Force Recon Badge on the back of the bar told him a lot.
"Oh nothing. I just thought you might be a friend of his."
"I am. If you've got something to say. Spit it out!" Charley voice had taken on a grating edge that many a recruit in his first firefight would have remembered.
"Right up front ain't you?"
"You know any other way?" Murphy thought that one over for a few second.
"Now that you mentioned it. No I don't."
"Then say what you have to say, drink or leave." Charley didn't give a damn that there were three of them. He'd handled more than that in his time, and on a worse day.
"I think your friend is in a lot of trouble."
"Now why would you say that?" His grin around the cigar was tight, with little friendliness in it.
"Let’s just say that one of your local gentry has been hiring people to find him."
"You being one of them, I suppose?"
"Yes!" Murphy made no excuses for what he did. "But I, or I should say we declined the offer."
"How come?" Murphy got a little red around the ears.
"Let’s just say for argument sake that he did me and some friends a solid one time and I don't forget." Murphy didn't understand Charley’s nod, as if he knew the meaning behind what he'd just said. There was silence for a moment, then Charley reached behind him and picked up a wooden s
hield, placing it face down on the bar. He spun it so that Murphy could see the names of the ten men listed on the back.
"Those names mean anything to you?" He asked. Murphy looked them over.
“Can't say that they do. But I suspect that they're all members of your recon team."
"Those names are there because one man wouldn't believe the brass when they said that they had all died or been captured. He went out on his own and tracked them into Cambodia and North Viet Nam. Freed them and brought them back safe. There's a few others who don't forget as well as you."
He told the story in a soft voice, the words catching in his throat as ghosts of the past filled the room, remembering all too well the way he felt after being captured.
* * * * * *
"There is no escape from this camp!" The voice of the camp commander boomed out over the loud speaker system. He paused for a moment and looked around the men assembled in front of the raised bamboo platform. "In any direction, there is jungle. Full of poisonous snakes, man traps, swamps, and natives loyal to North Vietnam. Any attempt to escape will fail, and if alive when caught, you will pay the ultimate penalty, death!" He spoke English in a softly accented voice, mainly for the American POW's.
After that, he switched to Vietnamese, saying that same thing. Not that any of the POW's were impressed, they'd heard it all before, some of them many times. A few had been here for two years, some only a few months, and one only days before. The word had gotten round that he'd been captured after an ambush of an infantry patrol and was the only survivor. Charley savage could see he was an FNG, a fucking new guy by the state of his uniform. Even though it was torn and dirty, it was definitely of recent issue, and his general demeanor was one of stony silence, probable from sheer terror, he thought. He also kept to himself, and didn't volunteer any information about who he was, or what unit he was with. That puzzled Charley, but he was too tired to really pay attention. Poor food, overwork and lack of medical attention were taking their toll on him, and mostly he walked and worked in a constant fog of fatigue. The days went by, merging into one another, monotonous, life draining until one night everything changed. It was the first moonless night, and he was awakened out of a troubled sleep by someone shaking his foot.
"Get ready to move out in an hour, and have the rest of the men ready as well," a voice whispered. It was so dark that he couldn't see who it was, nor could he recognize the voice.
"What?" He asked, still groggy, not even sure, he was awake.
"Get yourself and the rest of the men ready to move in one hour." The voice repeated.
"Who is this?" He asked, staring into the gloom, but whoever it was had gone.
One by one, Charley woke the rest of the men, telling them the same thing. All asked the same question, but there was no way he could explain it.
"Who the hell told you this Gunny?!"
"I don't know. Just that I have everyone ready to move in an hour." It was then that he discovered that the new guy was missing, and after a careful search of the hut, he located the hole dug under the bamboo wall.
"Now what the fuck does he think he's going to do, kill all the fucking guards?!" Someone whispered in a harsh voice.
Slowly the time passed, seeming to drag on endlessly. Outside the lockup, there was silence, and at first, no one took much notice of it. Then it became quiet, as if even the bugs and the frogs were holding their breath. Through the bared windows and doorway, they could see the light in the guard quarters and other building and to the naked eye, everything looked the same.
"Is it an hour yet?" Someone whispered.
"How the hell should I know, I left my watch in my other fucking suit!"
"Shut up!" Charley snapped, feeling on edge, but he couldn't say why. Hope maybe? Then a figure passed between the light in the guard shack as it came towards them, and a moment later a key rattled in the padlock on the door.
"Okay guys, you can come out now." A voice said in a normal tone.
"Shush! You want the guards to hear you!"
"I don't think they can hear you in hell." The voice answered with a chuckle.
"What on earth..."
"Don't ask questions. Go over to the guard shack and get yourself some weapons. Then check the other building for anything useful, like food and medical supplies. I'll meet you at the main gate in twenty minutes." With that, the figure vanished into the darkness again. That first step out the door was the hardest, all thinking it was a trap. Charley went first, and nothing happened, no light, no shouting, and no shots.
"I'll be dipped in sheep shit!" He muttered. "Let’s do what the man says. Go!" Quickly they spread out through the camp, heading for the building in twos.
Charley and Fred Myer headed for the guard shack, and one quick look through the window told him the story. All three guards inside were dead, a look of horror on their faces, as if they'd seen death coming for them. Between them, they gathered up AK47s, ammo and anything else they could find that might be useful and headed for the next building. This was a dormitory, and all ten sleeping guards were dead. Here they found an assortment of clothing, much of it GI issue, including boots. Charley grabbed some duffel bags and stuffed them full before tying the boot laces of as many as he could find and slinging them over his shoulder. After that, they headed for the gate. This was open, and looking up Charley could dimly see the guard hanging over the rail. He shivered, wondering what the hell had happened.
"I see you found a few useful items," A voice said in his ear. Charley almost jumped out of his skin, it was as if the shadow next to him had started speaking.
"God damn! Don't do that, you scared the fucking life out of me."
"No, just them." Charley could hear the laughter in the man's voice.
Just then two more men turned up, one with a Coleman lantern. He hung it on the barbed wire and they began sorting through the items. First the uniforms and boots, finding one that fit, and throwing their old clothes away. By then the rest of the men were back, all with armfuls of things; food, medicine, c-rats, and even a bottle of whiskey. After several trips back to the dormitory and guard shack all twenty men ended up with fresh clothing, boots, weapons and food, and they even finished up the rice that the guards had been cooking, washed down with weak coffee and a little whiskey.
"So, what now Gunny?" Someone asked.
"Shit! I expect we make like the good shepherd and get the flock out of here," He answered.
"You will need this Gunny." A voice behind him said, and a compass passed over his shoulder. "Head South by East until sunup, then lay low till dusk. I'll scout ahead and leave you instructions and warnings if I spot anything."
"Who the hell are you?" Charley asked turning round. The figure was moving away from them and he could only see a vague outline of a tall blocky figure.
"A friend." The man answered and continued moving into the darkness as if he could see.
And that's how it went. They rarely saw the man, except at night when he came into camp, and then only long enough for him to grab something to eat and tell them what to expect ahead. Then he was gone again. For a week, they only moved at night, even if it was difficult and the progress slow. Then the man told them to start moving fast during the day, blazing a trail for them to follow. Even then, the progress was slow, as the trail took them through dense jungle or over steep hilly trails, and in the condition they were all in could only make a few miles a day. But wherever he was leading them, they never saw another living sole. Occasionally they'd find some chickens hanging on a tree limb and one time a baby pig. In all it took a month for them to reach an American fire base, yet they were in remarkable condition for all of that. Helicopters whisked them away south to hospital and it wasn't long before the boys from military Intelligence showed up, wanting to know how they had escaped. Each man told his story, or as much of it as he knew, and they were especially interested in Charley Savage's story, as he had the most contact with the man. When he told them what had happened at the
POW camp he saw them look at each other, one even shivering.
"So. Who the hell was this guy?" He asked at last.
"You mean he never told you his name?" A Captain asked, a surprised look on his face.
"No, sir. Never a word."
"The Viet-Cong call him, ‘bóng tối chết’ the shadow that kills. His real name I can't tell you, but he is known around here as, the ‘Comanchero’."
"Oh shit!" That name said a lot, and all the little pieces fell in place.
"He deliberately let himself be captured so the VC would take him to one of their POW camps, his sole intent was to get you out."
"Anyway can I see this guy and thank him?" Charley asked.
"No, 'fraid not. He is no longer in country, he went back over the fence into Cambodia." The Captain said, shaking his head.
Yeah, right, and if you believe that, I have some land in Florida I’d like to sell you, cash on the barrel-head only, sight unseen, he thought. There was a debt here that he needed to repay, and one day he would, somehow. He did hear later that they had caught some North Vietnamese Regulars, and in interrogation, they had told military Intelligence about the reaction to the empty POW camp and the death guards. Hanoi was pissed and scared, forbidding anyone to talk about what they had seen, putting out the story that a Special Forces team had hit the camp and rescued the POW's. Yet the whisper had gone round, and more than one VC or North Vietnamese regular on guard duty looked carefully at the shadows at night, never knowing if it might reach out and kill him.
* * * * * *
"You know him that well then?" Charley shook his head.
"Didn't know who he was until a few days ago. Where did you meet him?"
"Meet isn't exactly the word." Murphy told his story the same way, quiet and calm. Images of that night flashing before his eyes. Wet, cold and shivering with fear, thinking he'd never see the dawn. Nobody spoke for a while, each thinking his own thoughts about the past, people they knew, friends that would never came back.