The Cover of War

by Travis Stone

  Chaske looked to Golota, fearing he would open fire. To his relief Golota had hidden his weapon.

  The team hunched under their hats. The boat drifted within fifteen feet of the women. The women looked up. They stared too long.

  Cam called out a greeting in Vietnamese. It went unanswered. They paddled around the next bent and out of sight.

  Could they tell we were impostors? Chaske thought. How long before they report us?

  63

  The knock on Hitchcock's door broke his train of thought.

  Goddamn it. 'Come in,' he said, impatiently.

  Corporal Mancini's greasy head appeared in the doorway. 'Sir. I have something you might wanna hear.'

  'Make it quick.'

  Mancini came in. 'A Cayuse registered to Civil-Air-Transport, took off from Tan Son Nhut yesterday morning, and hasn't been heard from since-'

  'So what?'

  'I talked to our man in Air-America. He saw them fly out.'

  Hitchcock looked back to his reports.

  'I checked up,' Mancini ploughed on. 'Their approved destination was in Thailand, but Lima-85 had them until they dropped below radar alt, north of the Bolovens Plateau.'

  'Make your point.'

  Mancini's voice sped up. 'Our guy saw a spook-team aboard that chopper.'

  Hitchcock rolled his eyes. 'CAT transports spooks all the time - that explains their deviation from flight path. Christ son - do I have to think for you.'

  Mancini's fat eyebrows arched. 'Sir. Our man said Chaske Thorn was aboard the chopper-'

  'You're wasting my time.'

  'Thorn's some kind of spook legend. Men talk about him in the bar-'

  'Wrap it up, Corporal.'

  'Thorn's on leave. He's not meant to be on a disappearing chopper in Laos.'

  Hitchcock looked up.

  'This Chaske Thorn,' Mancini went on. 'Is Danny Thorn's brother - you know - the kidnapped reporter.'

  Hitchcock went cold. 'Shit.'

  64

  After several hours jammed into the boat designed for the Asian physique, Chaske's bulky frame ached.

  Ahead of him, the team wriggled like grubs in a rotten log.

  Chaske still didn't recognize any features of the landscape. He closed his eyes and raked his memory, trying to recall any detail from previous missions that would help orientate him.

  His memory peeled through a high-speed replay of all the missions he had conducted in Laos.

  He opened his eyes. Above the trees he could see a steep range. Slowly, murky recollections returned. Shards of memories began to reassemble. Then he realized that the stream they were on would empty out into a much larger river valley - a river that the NVA used as a major supply route - the river they had flown up in the Cayuse. He felt a burst of fear and excitement, but ahead something caught his attention. Chaske could see a manmade structure.

  The Chinese whisper came back down the boat: 'Bridge.'

  As the distance closed, he could see that the bridge was constructed of tree trunks, lashed together with thick rope. It looked capable of taking trucks. Underneath was a space for sampans to pass.

  Chaske felt a buzz. We're right on the Ho Trail, he thought. Good.

  Golota turned and threw him a hostile glare. Chaske knew what Golota was thinking; pushing into the heart of the enemy's territory would scare the hell out of Golota, but it was exactly what Chaske's plan called for. It was the only way.

  Then Chaske's blood stopped in his veins.

  A faint sound grew into the distinctive rattle of an outboard motor. An approaching sampan came out from under the log bridge. An armed soldier stood on its bow; another squatted at its stern, controlling the tiller. Between the two men, green crates filled the sampan's deck; the yellow stenciled lettering, American.

  The bowman held an AK-47 and was staring straight at them. The bowman cocked his weapon and said something to the tiller-man. The engine note dipped and the boat slowed.

  Chaske's muscles tensed. It would only be a matter of seconds before the two sampans passed. The waterway was only twenty feet wide at this point.

  Hackles bristled up Chaske's back.

  The team sat rigid.

  Chaske flicked off his MP-5's safety, and brought it into his lap. Chaske watched the enemy bowman's eyes; they were alert and suspicious.

  Chaske's mind switched to combat mode. He observed small details: the scratching sound of Golota's fingernails, raking the skin of his neck; the drone of mosquitoes; the fetid smell of the water; and the pulsing heat of the jungle.

  Feet separated the craft. They would pass with only inches between them.

  These are no fisherwomen, Chaske thought. Will they ID us?

  Again, the team hunched beneath their funnel hats.

  Cam called out in Vietnamese and the bowman's face relaxed. He smiled and called back. Chaske picked up the word for hot. Cam spoke again and the bowman nodded.

  The boats came alongside.

  Chaske's sampan rocked as it entered the enemy boat's wake and he feared it would tip.

  Then Blue's hat fell off.

  In the second it took Blue to get the hat back on, Chaske saw the shock of red hair that it hid.

  The bowman's eyes widened and he swung his Kalashnikov toward Blue.

  Gunfire split the silence.

  From the bow, Golota gave each of the Viet Cong two bullets in the chest. The bowman fell forward into the shallow water. The tiller-man slumped and the cargo laden sampan veered right, and then rode up on the bank behind them.

  Chaske took his finger off the trigger; somehow Golota had beaten him to the draw. 'Paddle.' Chaske said, driving his paddle into the water. 'Go. Go.'

  The sampan gained sped and passed under the bridge.

  Chaske's blood was pumping. Did they hear the shots? Golota's PPS sub-machinegun was much louder than an MP-5. Even so, Chaske knew it wouldn't be long before another sampan found the crewless vessel.

  The waterway veered left. Chaske directed the team to the right bank; a flat of grayish mud, backed by thick bamboo. The boat run aground and tipped onto its side. They rolled out and dragged the sampan into the bamboo. Chaske's feet were numb and his legs cramped spasmodically.

  Now though, he had a rough idea of his location. He hoped he could find what he was looking for. He hoped his plan would work. Their lives depended on it - and then there was this massive attack of Amai's to report. Chaske could tell Amai was genuine. He could see how much she loved his brother. He could see how much she wanted to stop the Viet Cong offensive.

  Behind him a whistle blew.

  * * *

  Triet had heard the four gunshots; they were not an AK-47's.

  After linking up with an NVA platoon, Triet now had seventy men and five dogs at his disposal. He felt confident that they would soon kill Amai and Danny - and who ever was helping them. Tet's secret would soon be safe. Then he could relax.

  The search-dogs whined and strained against their leads, dragging their NVA handlers in the direction of the gunshots.

  Thanh said: 'The dogs will pick up their scent.'

  'Why would they risk coming so close to the Trung son road?' Triet said; it didn't feel right.

  Thanh yelled to the soldiers to surround the escapees.

  Triet pinched his chin. 'Perhaps they thought that they could hijack a truck?' He shook his head. It didn't make sense. But at least they hadn't yet called a helicopter; none had been seen in the area.

  Thanh said: 'The dog team will have them within the hour.'

  'They had better.'

  65

  Hitchcock called Mancini into his office for the four o'clock brief.

  'What's current, Corporal? Anything worth knowing?'

  'A few things have come through, Sir.'

  'Spit it out.'

  Mancini consulted some notes. 'Pilots and spy-planes are reporting the build up of a large force near the Marine Base at Khe Sanh . . . Da Nang are keeping a close eye on it. Khe Sanh are
gearing up for an attack.'

  'We knew that's where they would strike.' Hitchcock said. 'Everything's been pointing to it.' He nodded smugly. 'Anything in our AO?'

  'Captain Nash's remains are goin' back stateside Friday. Those who knew him are getting together for a beer.'

  'When's the service?'

  'Not tomorrow but next day.'

  'Anything concerning the enemy that I need to know, Corporal?'

  Mancini flicked through his papers. 'Yes Sir. Ho Chi Minh broadcast an odd poem over Hanoi radio.'

  'Fabulous. Read it aloud.'

  Mancini postured like a poet. '"This spring far outshines the previous springs

  Of triumphs throughout the land come happy tidings

  Let north and south emulate each other in fighting the US aggressors

  Forward

  Total Victory will be ours."'

  Hitchcock snarled. 'What the fuck do I care about a goddamn poem?'

  66

  Chaske led the team through mangroves and dense bamboo, his mouth dry with anxiety. How much longer, he thought, before this Triet catches up?

  Again he searched his memory, trying to recall the reconnaissance imagery for this area. He had studied recon photos of this sector in minute detail. He had led teams in this area, on top-secret recon missions. Both Blue and Golota had been on those missions, but obviously had not yet figured out what he was up to.

  The steep, jungle-covered range to his front, Chaske guessed, was roughly west. If correct, he figured that he was nearing a major intersection of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Intersections existed everywhere across the trail network, but he had a specific intersection in mind. He was sure that what he was looking for could be found there.

  He broke through the bamboo onto a well formed dirt-road, overhung by jungle. Truck tyres had carved ruts into the wet clay. The team stopped beside him. Chaske looked up the road; fifty yards ahead the road bent left.

  'You're fucking insane, Thorn.' Golota said; his voice gravelly and strained. 'We're in the worst place we could be. You know as well as I do this is Ho Chi Minh's Highway 61.'

  Chaske nodded. 'Now we follow it north.'

  Golota's eyes rolled like a spooked horse's. 'Are you tryin' to get us killed?'

  'You need to trust me, John. There is no other way outta here.'

  Golota scratched welts into his forearms and looked up and down the road. 'This ain't right. It's not fucking right.'

  Chaske feared Golota would unravel. Chaske took the lead. 'Let's go. Keep left. If anything comes, bail into the J.'

  Chaske hoped that only trucks would be using this road, and that he would hear them before he saw them. He led them at a jog to the corner.

  Golota said: 'I hear somethin'.'

  They all stopped.

  Golota stood like a spooked cat. He said: 'Fucking truck,' and charged into the scrub on the left side of the road.

  Ten seconds later Chaske heard mechanical sounds up ahead, and he followed Golota.

  Chaske strained his eyes. The clay road snaked into another corner, overhung by growth and obscured by heat blur. Through the blur came a convoy of long nosed trucks, their aging diesel engines revving hard as they lurched through the ruts.

  Vibrations traveled through the ground. The trucks rolled past, filling the undergrowth with diesel fumes.

  Then they were gone.

  Golota was licking his fingers.

  Chaske went back onto the road and walked to the next bend.

  He felt a rush of adrenalin. The main road coming towards him branched in two directions, like an upside-down Y.

  He was sure that this was the intersection he was looking for.

  He took the team into the scrub on his right, and then studied the junction. It looked clear.

  'What the fuck are we doing?' Golota hissed. 'This is insane.'

  Chaske ignored him; he was focused; intensely scanning the verges of each road.

  Then he saw it.

  He focused on a small, twig like plant growing in the clay. He studied it hard, and thought: No. Too big.

  Chaske stood. 'Blue, with me. Rest of you, stay here.'

  Chaske led Blue across the roadway to the crook of the intersection. Chaske felt vulnerable. His ears strained for the slightest manmade sound. He crouched, and studied the roadway in detail, once again paying particular attention to its edges.

  Almost immediately he saw it - another twigish plant, growing in the clay.

  But there was something about this twig - he had seen it before - many times in-fact. It was the antenna of an air-dropped-acoustic-seismic-intrusion-detector, designed and manufactured to look like a plant. It was not something the Vietnamese would ever notice, but Chaske knew exactly what to look for, and he knew that this intersection, along with several others, had been subject to a precision sensor drop by a P-2 Neptune aircraft only months ago. Advising on project 'Igloo-White', Chaske had seen the ultra-secret maps, showing the sensor strings that covered this section of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The NVA had no idea that their every movement was being recorded at a massive, top-secret installation at Thailand's Nakhon Phanom Airbase.

  Chaske tapped Blue's shoulder and then pointed to the antennae.

  Blue grinned. 'You're a bloody genius, mate. I never thought of that.'

  They ran in a crouch to the buried ACOUSID. Chaske knelt beside the twig antenna, grasped its base, and attempted to pull the thirty-seven pound, bomb-shaped device from the ground as if it were a weed. The sensor was stuck fast.

  'Give me a hand, Blue.'

  Blue grabbed the antenna and they pulled together. Bit-by-bit, the ACOUSID came toward the surface. Then it came free.

  Blue was puffing. 'What'd we do with it?'

  'Get it to cover.'

  Chaske hefted it onto his shoulder and carried it into the vegetation in front of them. No sooner had he entered the greenery, another truck convoy rolled through the intersection.

  Chaske examined the three foot long device. It looked like a bomb, but instead of explosives, it was packed with high-tech electronic circuitry. His first CIA field missions in South East Asia had effectively been proof-of-concept testing for the technology. This device though, was a big step up from the small spike sensors that team Voodoo had tested.

  Chaske put his mouth close to the sensor and began talking quietly to it.

  'Christ, mate,' Blue said. 'It's no time to sing it a lullaby.'

  'The sensor's seismic and acoustic,' Chaske said. 'It'll already be beaming the details of our actions to an aircraft 30,000ft above us. Someone wiz-kid at Nakhon Phanom will be trying to figure out what's going on with it.'

  'Not so sure you're right,' Blue said pointing to the dented microphone cover. 'Must've hit a rock as it plugged.'

  A familiar whistle carried on the air, followed by the barking of dogs.

  'We gotta hurry,' Chaske said.

  'Don't you wanna wait for your friends?' They've got puppies.'

  Chaske scratched in the leaf decay and found two small rocks. 'How's your Morse-code?'

  'Good,' Blue said.

  'Get as close as you can to the sensor and tap out this message.'

  67

  Ground Infiltration Surveillance Center

  Nakhon Phanom Royal Thai AFB, Thailand

  17°23'20"N 104°38'39"E

  Trembling, Lieutenant Ryan Patrick put the secure comm-link receiver back into its black, bakelite cradle.

  He felt both raw nerves and excitement.

  Despite the cool, dry environment of the climate controlled 'Project Building', a light sweat plastered his thinning red hair to his forehead. A BATCAT flight coming off station over Laos with engine trouble, had just reported some highly unusual sensor activity, deep in enemy territory.

  Patrick scurried to his Combat-Information-Consol, located mid-way along a row of boxy computer stations. He dropped into his swivel chair, put his headphones on, wiped the fog from his glasses, and spun toward the circular scope
. He leaned in; his eyes following a thin, green worm as it crawled across a numbered grid. The data was consistent with that of a regular convoy of lorries; something he seen a-thousand times before, and as it turned out, the string's fourth convoy of the day. Then something strange happened.

  'Son-of-a-gun.' He picked the red telephone receiver, while keeping his eyes on the screen.

  'CIMCO. What is it?'

  'Sir. You need to see this.'

  Patrick heard the Colonel's door slam, and then heavy footsteps bearing down on him. He looked up. Son-of-a-gun.

  Colonel Anderson's uniform jacket was stretched around his heavy shoulders, threatening to burst its seams at any second. His thick neck held a meaty, buzz-cut head, and his expression threatened physical assault.

  The Colonel put a heavy arm on Patrick's shoulder. 'What is it, son?'

  Patrick's stomach fluttered. 'Check it out, Sir. I'll replay the spike.'

  As before, the green snail's-trail progressed across the scope. 'Normal activity,' Patrick said. 'Truck convoy.'

  'Whereabouts are we?'

  'Laos, Sir. Remote. Look here.' Patrick felt the Colonel's immense presence behind him as he spoke. 'This sensor, Alfa Whiskey five eight five's picked up the convoy in sync with the rest of the string - but then it does this.' The anomaly occurred and he tapped the screen.

  The Colonel took a knee beside his chair. 'Someone's tampering with it, Lieutenant.'

  'Yes, Sir. We got the call from BATCAT. They advise it's an acoustic string providing quality auditory data, but this sensor's only giving limited feedback.'

  'Let's check it out, son.'

  'Okay.' Patrick's body tingled. He led the Colonel to the end of the column of computers and opened the door to a darkened room, which hummed with the sound of electronic equipment. He flicked the light switch and room glowed red. Patrick went to the audio rack, plugged in a set of headphones, and handed them to the big Colonel. Donning his own headset, Patrick surveyed the array of nine-track-reel-to-reel tape drives, and identified the correct unit. He rewound the tape, and said: 'Standby, Sir.'