by Dennis Foley
Inside, he found his web gear and pulled it off the hook on the wall above his bunk. He pulled his M-16 off a nearby nail, holding it by the front sight blade, and then checked his holster for his .45. He kicked his footlocker out from under his bunk.
Just inside the lid he found several pairs of dry wool socks. He grabbed two pairs and stuffed them into his cargo pocket. He grabbed a couple of packs of cigarettes out of the locker’s top tray and headed back out.
Deming took a deep breath and poked Keith. “Commo?” he whispered, wanting to know if Private First Class Keith had confidence in his ability to speak with the Rangers near the other tunnel entrance and the vent tube as well as the other two patrols.
Keith looked up from under the drooping rim of his floppy hat and gave Deming an exaggerated nod.
“Okay. Give them the five-minute warning. Get an up from each of them.”
Keith cupped his hand around the mouthpiece of the handset and called Chastain first.
Deming looked up at the sky. The rain was coming down so hard he couldn’t keep his eyelids open long enough to even see what the cloud cover looked like. He wiped the rain from his face and then pulled back the cuff of his jungle fatigue shirt to check his watch.
Hollister returned to operations. Michaelson had found a way to get comfortable enough in two folding chairs. He had pulled his cap down over his eyes to grab a nap.
Easy slept in a seated position on the floor, his back against the commo bench. Loomis had set up a canvas cot under the commo bench, where he slept while Caulter spelled him on radio watch.
“What’s happening out there on the ground?”
Caulter twisted to make eye contact with Hollister. “The young lieutenant’s about to pull the string on all the CS. Everyone’s in position, and he’s gonna drop a pile of it down the vent tube first and then pop the other two entrances about five minutes later.”
“The other two teams?”
“Alabama and Colorado are both at one hundred percent alert and ready to snatch.”
Hollister looked around the room. “Choppers, arty, and the FAC?”
Caulter held up the log. “All notified,” he said, tapping the entries on the page.
“Okay. Let’s take a deep breath and rub a rabbit’s foot or something.” Hollister dropped his field gear on the end of the commo bench and started his methodical inspection of every item.
“Thought Cap’n Thomas was going out to pull ’em if they need to get yanked,” Caulter said.
“Three heavy teams? Too many people out there to think Thomas can handle ’em all alone. He’ll need two more arms and a blow torch out there if it goes to shit.”
“Well, sir, you better take your hip waders out on a night like this.”
“Morning.”
“Huh?”
“On a morning like this,” Hollister corrected, nodding toward the wall clock.
Deming looked around one more time. The rain still sheeted, rolling across their position in waves of hard rain, then soft steady rain. The winds had subsided a bit, and that encouraged him. Less wind would keep the CS confined. The more gas the enemy had to fight, the better the chance of disorienting them and snatching a prisoner.
Deming grabbed the straps to his own protective mask and tugged at them anxiously. He looked at his watch and then over at Keith, who sat with the handset pressed to his ear.
Keith suddenly straightened. “Roger,” he whispered into the mouthpiece.
He dropped the handset to his lap and leaned close to Deming. “Sir. They’ve popped at the breather tube.”
Deming looked at his watch again. Any second either one or both of the other two tunnel openings would fill with gas. He raised his mask, held it up for the others to see, and then put it on his face.
The rubber dragged against his gritty skin and the elastic straps pulled at his short-cropped Airborne haircut. Once he got it in place, he checked its seal against his face. He tucked his floppy hat into his pocket and looked around at the others.
Keith was helping Rat put on the unfamiliar mask. The two awkwardly slipped the mask onto his face, and Keith tugged the straps tight around the chignon on the back of the mountain man’s head.
Operations had filled with the key players for what was about to happen. Captain Tennant had made one final check of his chopper crews before coming in. Next to him in the briefing area was gunship boss Joe Raymond. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, a map in his hands. He looked up at the weather chart on the easel and then back to his map.
“What?” Tennant asked.
“I want to find a way to stay upwind as long as I can,” Raymond said.
“Don’t want to fly through the CS?”
“Don’t want to wear this fucking mask,” Raymond said, kicking at the canvas mask carrier on the floor near his boot.
Caulter walked around the room with a fresh pitcher of coffee. He poured some for Captain Thomas. “Well, sir, you look bright-eyed.”
“I knew there wouldn’t be shit happening during the night. I slept like a baby in all this rain.”
“Well, I hope you brought your poncho,” Hollister said. “I have a feeling you’re gonna get wet before the day’s over.”
Lieutenant Gannon laughed, not taking the handset from his ear.
“You got good commo with your firing batteries?” Hollister asked.
Gannon gave him a nod.
Deming pulled the mask up from his face and sampled the air. He smelled the sweet, roselike scent of the CS gas. Though he couldn’t see any gas escaping from the riverbank entrance, he knew it had filled the tunnel. He leaned toward the others and, in a stage whisper, said, “Stand by. If they’re coming out, it’ll be any second now.”
He turned to Keith. “Get a commo check from Alabama and Colorado.”
Keith nodded and keyed his mike in a coded pattern worked out with DeSantis’s radio operator. In a fraction of a second, he got a keyed reply. He did the same and got the same reply from Chastain’s radio.
Keith held up his hand and made a large O with his thumb and forefinger.
“Chastain’s got movement,” Loomis said over his shoulder.
Hollister walked over to the map and looked at the map symbol for Chastain’s Team Colorado. “Coming up the trail?”
“Yes, sir. He said moving toward him from the Sierra.”
Hollister looked around the room. “Okay, folks. The fish are swimming toward the net. Better take your places.”
The pilots left; Easy followed. Gannon gathered up his maps and balanced them on top of his web gear—sitting in a pile on a chair. “I’m ready anytime.”
Keith mumbled to Deming through the rubber mask, “Chastain’s got movement.”
Deming had barely heard Keith’s message when he noticed a small puff of CS gas drifting out of the riverbank entrance and down toward the water. Risking giving their position away, he raised his voice for the others around him to hear. “Look alive. Someone opened the hatch.”
A long stream of CS gas drifted out, mixed with the fresh air and rain, and quickly dissipated within five yards of the hole.
A figure hesitated at the entrance, coughed and gagged, then fell out of the hole and into the river.
Before Deming could say anything, there was a second splash. PFC Jimmy Ray Smith had grabbed his sling rope off his rucksack and leaped into the water and begun swimming toward the pajama-clad swimmer.
The gassed swimmer thrashed around in the water. Out of control and desperate to clear the CS gas from his eyes and throat, he kept spitting and dunking his head under the water.
Jimmy Ray didn’t even need to pursue the swimmer. He just swam to a spot downstream and let the floundering gas victim drift to him. Once the man got close enough, Jimmy Ray slipped a loop of the sling rope over his neck, tightened it, and began towing the disoriented swimmer to the Ranger side of the river.
The Rangers pulled the prisoner out of the water and into the center of their
perimeter. As fast as they got the rope off his neck and sat him down next to a tree to catch his breath, Rat identified him. It was Xuan.
Rat shook his head.
“What? What is wrong?” Deming asked.
“He cannot tell you much. He is just a worker.”
It was not the news Deming wanted to hear. He had hoped if his team flushed anyone, it would be someone of authority.
Deming reported the snatch to operations and pulled his team away from the riverbank to protect their catch. It didn’t appear to him that any more of the residents of the tunnel were going to escape from the exit on the far bank.
He knew they would soon have to begin their move to the pickup zone. There was no use in exposing the Rangers any longer if there wasn’t much chance of snatching any more prisoners.
At his team perimeter, Sergeant DeSantis reached over and tapped his radio operator. He pointed at the single figure walking up the trail toward them.
The RTO passed the message on.
Satisfied the twelve men got the word, DeSantis scooted over to Corporal Greenwood’s position and grabbed him by the shirt collar.
He pulled Greenwood close and whispered into his ear, “You ready?”
Greenwood pulled his head back, made eye contact with DeSantis, and nodded vigorously. Greenwood turned to Parsons, only an arm’s length away.
The two Rangers slipped free of their rucksacks and placed their rifles on top of their gear. Greenwood pulled off his floppy hat and stuffed it into his pocket. Parsons stuck his inside his shirt.
Without taking their eyes off the approaching figure, they crawled to the very edge of the brush that edged the trail. There, each man looked back at the Rangers on their flank to make sure they were ready for the snatch. The last thing any Ranger wanted was to be confused with the target by his comrades.
The figure got closer. They could hear his feet splash in the puddles formed in the trail over the plopping sounds of the rain hitting the vegetation around them.
Greenwood and Parsons each got into a runner’s starting stance, staying as low as they could, below the top of the brush. Parsons kicked at the grasses under his boot until he had good contact with raw earth. The new foothold was far superior to the wet grass.
DeSantis snapped his fingers and pointed at the recovery team, made up of three more Rangers. He wanted to make absolutely sure they were watching for his signal and not watching the figure. He held his arm out, steady and parallel to the ground. Telling them to get ready.
The man walked quickly, bent over in the rain, carrying an AK-47 rifle across his chest, wiping his eyes and nose with a scrap of a rag.
Greenwood and Parsons could see the man was still suffering from the effects of the tear gas. They could count on the fact that he probably couldn’t see very well and was scared.
They were also aware of the advantages and disadvantages the rain brought. They knew it would cover most of the noise they would make rushing him. But the same rain would make their footing questionable and increase the difficulty in trying to subdue the man. Anyone who had ever handled a wet or muddy prisoner knew the moisture on most Vietnamese pajamas made the fabric extremely slippery.
The lone figure came to a point directly in front of the two crouching Rangers, and Greenwood whispered one short and forceful “Go.”
The two burst from the tree line; ran, full speed, across the trail; and hit the man with the hardest body blocks they could. Greenwood hit high—in the rib cage behind his right arm. Parsons went for the backs of the man’s knees.
They had practiced the move several times at Tay Ninh. They wanted to completely separate the man from the ground and from his rifle, launching him sideways into the brush on the far side of the trail.
Disorientation and surprise were their main objectives. Once they did that, capturing him would be easy.
The man’s body reacted to the two blows from the heavier Americans. They catapulted him up and sideways. His rifle left his fingers, and he quickly found himself turning over in the air.
He landed on the far side of the trail, shoulder first. A loud whoosh of air came from him. That was followed by a whimper as the two Rangers landed on top of him—pinning him to the ground.
DeSantis snapped his fingers at the recovery party and jerked his hand toward the trail. “Go, go, go,” he said.
The three waiting Rangers dashed from the edge of the perimeter to the trail. One dropped to his knee facing up the trail, the second facing down the trail.
The third man in the recovery team kept going, sliding to a stop on his knees next to Parsons, Greenwood, and the prisoner. The third Ranger helped Parsons hold down the thrashing man while Greenwood pulled a length of parachute cord from around his neck to tie the prisoner’s hands behind his back.
Parsons removed his hand from the prisoner’s mouth and pulled the long strip of green fabric tape from the back of his trouser leg and covered the prisoner’s mouth.
The tying, wrestling, and gagging took less than fifteen seconds, and the trio pulled the man to his feet.
“Hot damn!” Caulter said. “DeSantis bagged another one.”
“Another laborer?” Hollister asked.
“No, sir. He was carryin’ an AK.”
“Everyone okay?” Hollister asked.
“Right as rain. They’re waiting for instructions. You want them to move to their pickup zone?”
Hollister turned and walked to the door. He pushed it open with his foot and looked across the compound toward the airstrip.
The rain continued to fall. The winds had let up. But the entire area was nearly an inch deep in pooled water. He could see the crews sitting inside the cargo compartments of their choppers.
He let the door swing back closed. “Jesus, I hope this rain lets up. I hate the thought of those kids trying to get out of there in this stuff.”
“Last thing you want is teams running across landing zones awash in water and ankle deep in muddy oatmeal,” Michaelson said, standing to stretch.
“I’ll go for that,” Easy said.
“Sir?” Caulter said.
Hollister looked at Michaelson.
“It’s your call, Ranger,” Michaelson said.
Hollister turned back to Caulter. “Ask ’em if they can watch the trail for fifteen more minutes.”
Caulter turned to Loomis, who picked up the mike and transmitted the question.
“I don’t want to leave them there too long or lose that prisoner. But if they get a chance to snatch another one—”
“If they haven’t seen another one in fifteen then you probably aren’t going to have any more traffic on that road,” Michaelson said.
Hollister nodded. “Okay. Fifteen it is if it’s okay with Deming. I don’t want to make any team stay there if he feels spooky about the location.”
Chastain’s team sat along their assigned trail. For his Rangers, the rain had been a more severe problem—the tall savannas. The rain had been beating down on them since just after they moved into the position. The ground was flat and didn’t drain well. It soon became soft, muddy ground that held a wash of five inches of standing water above it. What had started out as dry grasses with good concealment and adequate views of the trail soon became a marshy bog.
Every Ranger in Chastain’s team did his best to avoid moving. Each change in position only stirred up the muddy bottom and caused the Ranger to sink deeper into it.
Chastain checked his watch. It was time for him to call in a sitrep. He turned to his radio operator, only to find him crouched and pointing out of the grass toward the trail.
There, walking and half jogging, a man approached the section of trail covered by Chastain’s team.
CHAPTER 30
“BINGO!” LOOMIS YELLED.
“What?” Easy said.
“Got another one. Chastain’s folks grabbed an unarmed male running by their location.”
“Soldier or a laborer?” Hollister asked.
; Loomis finished writing down the text of the transmission. “Said he had no weapons or equipment.”
“Okay. That’s enough. Put the word out to all three teams to begin their moves to their PZs if they haven’t already. We’ll pick them up in the original order—Georgia, Alabama, and then Colorado. Unless someone makes contact.”
“Roger that,” Loomis said. He jotted down Hollister’s instructions before picking up the radio mike.
Sergeant Young entered operations. “The old man looking for me?” he asked Caulter.
“He just left to pull the teams. He wants you to collect the prisoners we picked up out in the AO and hustle them over to province headquarters for interrogation,” Caulter said.
“Count on us never seein’ ’em again,” Young said.
Caulter leaned back in his chair and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Not our problem. We were out there to find a source of intel—not to exploit it.”
“If they turn some good stuff and then send in some worthless American or Viet unit, it’ll all go to hell in a handbasket,” Young said.
“The job was to disrupt and spoil the NVA operations just across the border,” Colonel Michaelson said, having just stepped into operations.
Young turned and flushed a bit—as if he had spoken out of turn. “Oh, sorry, sir. I wasn’t really bad-mouthin’—”
“No. You’re right. A maneuver unit in that area probably won’t turn much by the time they get in there. Their move’ll be telegraphed or even expected after the snatches.”
“Don’t sound too slick to me, sir,” Young said.
“Doesn’t need to be slick to be effective.”
“Damn, I couldn’t be a leg,” Young said.
“They wouldn’t want you. Your parents are married,” Caulter kidded.
The gunships flew ahead and below the flight of slicks. At the tail end of the slick flight, Chief Adams jockeyed to avoid the prop wash of the larger Huey helicopters.
Hollister tried to get comfortable in the wet seat inside the loach.
“Sorry, sir,” Chief Adams said. “The poncho blew off in the rain. Not much chance it’s gonna dry out while you’re sitting on it.”