Mafia III

by Marsheila Rockwell

  Then he walked back into the kitchen without another word.

  Ellis stared after him. He’d pissed off the old man plenty of times, but he never wanted his father to think he didn’t respect him. Disappointing him was almost worse than making him angry.

  “You’ll have your chance,” he said softly, though he had no idea how he was going to make that happen, or if he even should. But that was a worry for another time. He turned and looked at Giorgi. “What did you have in mind?”

  27

  * * *

  The only thing that would help was revenge.

  Father James had always taught that vengeance belonged to the Lord, but Sammy Robinson hadn’t seen it that way. “His vengeance takes too long,” Sammy would say. “Time He gets around to it, the guy might not even remember what it was he’d done wrong. I say take your revenge now, while it’s fresh, and let the Lord have His turn later on.”

  Colonel Phan ran that Pathet Lao camp, and he was the reason the Pentagon brass had wanted it attacked. If Lincoln could take out Phan, the whole thing would collapse. The rest of the men would probably go back north, where they belonged, and leave this end of the Plain of Jars to the Hmong.

  Even if they didn’t, it would be worth it. Killing Phan would avenge his men. It wouldn’t bring them back, but it would enable Lincoln to live with their loss.

  Maybe he wasn’t officer material. Not cut out to lead an army. But if there was one thing Lincoln Clay was good at, it was killing people.

  He would kill the warlord, and he would do it soon. While it was fresh.

  • • •

  Sho tried to talk him out of it. “It is too dangerous,” she pleaded. “Lincoln, I love you. I cannot lose you. You will be killed!”

  “What about the other men who were killed?” he asked. “Don’t their women feel the same way about them?”

  “I do not love them,” she said. “I do not care about them, only you. If you die, too, how would that help them?”

  He couldn’t answer that one. There was no answer. His death would do nothing to make theirs more worthwhile.

  But Phan’s would. Without their leader, what would the Pathet soldiers do? Lincoln didn’t think they had the unit integrity to hold together. They were followers. Killing Phan would not only be sweet revenge, it would bring about the outcome he had been hoping for in the first place.

  “I have to do this, Sho,” he said. “It’s why I’m here.

  She threw her arms around him and buried her face against his chest, sobbing. “You will not come back.”

  “I will,” he assured her. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good at this kind of thing.”

  Lincoln hoped he would come back, anyway. If he didn’t, then killing Phan might not count for much after all. The men of Vang Khom weren’t much of a fighting force yet with his help, but without him they were even less useful. He needed more time to work with them, to train them. And he needed to bring in men from other villages to forge a large enough unit to do the enemy real harm. That wouldn’t happen until he could point to some successes with what he had.

  The success of this mission required two elements—Colonel Phan’s death and his own survival.

  He wondered if he could pull it off.

  • • •

  Every day, the afternoons grew hotter and more humid, sapping Lincoln’s energy. He kept working with the men—those who had survived and who still wanted anything to do with him—and his relationship with Sho deepened. But his focus was on his next self-assigned mission, and he spent hour after hour planning it out. The rainy season was coming, and cloudy nights would mean dark skies. Rain would also discourage the Pathet Lao soldiers from being outside, which would make it easier to reach Phan’s quarters. He would wait until the first week of the monsoon—any longer and the soldiers would be accustomed to it, would know they had to make their rounds regardless, but during that first week, he hoped, they would resist.

  Besides, Corbett was coming in a few days, and although Donovan had given him free rein to take action, Lincoln wanted an American to know where he was going and what he planned to do there.

  On the morning Corbett flew in, Lincoln took him for a walk while the villagers unloaded the supplies he had brought and loaded up the poppies they had cultivated since his last visit. Lincoln didn’t know where he had them processed, or really what was involved. He didn’t ask, either—the less he knew about the heroin trade, the happier he was. Sammy would be pissed that he was even this involved. But a man had to have something going on, and Lincoln had decided to keep 10 percent of what the village made for himself. He didn’t plan to go home from the war without something to show for it.

  Usually, Corbett did most of the talking. He liked telling Lincoln stories of his Korean War days and offered combat and survival tips he’d learned over the years, which Lincoln enjoyed hearing. This time, however, Lincoln had an agenda in mind, and he got right to it.

  “That plan to attack the Pathet base was a disaster,” he said as they strolled into the village. “I told him they weren’t ready, and I was right. I lost fourteen men.”

  “I heard,” Corbett replied. “Sorry, man. I was hoping you were just underestimating their preparedness. I should’ve known better.”

  “It’s cool,” Lincoln said. “You weren’t the one who ordered us in there; you were just passing on orders.”

  “I know, man, but I hate to see anyone fighting for our side die. There’s already been too much of that, and it’s not going to end any time soon.”

  “Well, my next trip down there won’t wind up with any Hmong casualties.”

  Corbett raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

  “I’m going in solo. On a moonless night, in the first week of the rains. I’m going to take out Colonel Phan.”

  “That’s a suicide mission,” Corbett said, stopping in his tracks. “You can’t do that.”

  “I can, and I will. I’ve got it all figured out. I just wanted to make sure someone knew where I was going and when. Just in case.”

  “Brother, Donovan’s going to be pissed.”

  “He’ll understand.”

  “He might understand. Don’t mean he won’t be pissed.”

  “When the unit falls apart without their leader, he’ll come around.”

  “We’ll see,” Corbett said. “Why don’t you let me say something to him first? He could order a bombing run, take the camp out that way.”

  “Why hasn’t that already been done?” Lincoln asked. “Because we’re still trying to pretend we’re not in Laos? Anyway, they’d just rebuild, right? Human life doesn’t mean shit to them—there are always more soldiers to throw at the problem. They need to be scared off. They need to know that it’s never going to work, that no matter who’s stationed there, or how many people, they’ll never be allowed to control the Plain. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Corbett said. He stood there, seemingly thinking over Lincoln’s words. After a few moments, Lincoln realized he was looking at something. When he followed Corbett’s gaze, he saw what it was.

  “That’s Mai,” Lincoln said. “Sho’s best friend. You want to meet her?”

  “She’s a beauty,” Corbett said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the young lady. Lincoln understood why. She was, in his opinion, second only to Sho in looks among the villagers, a beautiful woman with a model’s face and a pinup girl’s physique. She was sitting in the shade of a hut, grinding flour, and her hands and the tip of her nose were dusted with it.

  “She is,” Lincoln agreed. “She’s no seven-foot-tall blonde, but she’s single. I can introduce you if you want.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Mai hadn’t lost anyone in the attack on the camp, and because she was close to Sho, Lincoln had spent a lot of time with her. She knew some English, which would make it even easier, though Corbett’s mastery of Hmong was pretty advanced. “Come on,” he said.

  As they approached, Mai
put down the pestle she had been using and rose to her feet. “Hello, Clay,” she said.

  “Mai, I’d like you to meet Brad Corbett. Brad, this is Mai.”

  “I know who you are,” Mai said. “You are the pilot.”

  “That’s right,” Corbett said. He offered his hand, and she dusted flour off hers and took it. “It’s great to meet you.”

  “I’m gonna go check on Sho,” Lincoln said. “I’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted.”

  “Works for me,” Corbett said. Mai was silent, which Lincoln took to be tacit approval of the idea.

  Back in his longhouse, he told Sho what had happened.

  “Corbett?” she asked, bursting into laughter. “With Mai?”

  “I don’t know if she’ll go for it. He saw her and it was like he was in a trance.”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “Not as pretty as you,” Lincoln said. “But yes, she is.”

  “More pretty than me,” Sho said. “She’s more Hmong.”

  Lincoln shook his head. “No. Nobody in the village is prettier than you. Nobody I’ve ever seen.”

  “Even in America?”

  “Even there. There’s nobody like you. And being more Hmong doesn’t matter. My mother was black, but nobody really knows what my father was.”

  “Like me,” she said.

  “Like you. We are what we are, and that’s cool with me.”

  “Sometimes it is lonely here,” Sho said. “Everyone else has big families, but not me.”

  Lincoln took her in his arms. “You have me.”

  Suddenly sad, she dropped her gaze to the floor. “I wish you would never go away, Lincoln.”

  He knew what she meant. He had always told her that his time in Vang Khom was limited, that one day he would be rotated back to the world. He didn’t intend to spend the rest of his life on a Laotian mountaintop. Some American soldiers would, he expected, take Vietnamese women home to marry, but he doubted that he could do the same, given the secret nature of his assignment here.

  So his romance with Sho was always going to be short-term. He had made sure she knew that going in, and she had agreed to it. Now she was having regrets about it. So was he. But it couldn’t be helped, so he pretended to misunderstand her concern.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll only be gone for a few hours. Overnight. I promise I’ll come back to you, Sho. I will.”

  “That not what I—”

  He cut her off. “Shh. Let’s not talk about it, okay? Let’s go see how Mai and Corbett are gettin’ along.”

  She shook her head and lowered herself to her knees. “I have a better idea,” she said. “Let’s give them more time together . . .”

  28

  * * *

  The rains came two days after Corbett’s visit.

  The first one was light. Refreshing, because it broke the humidity and freshened the air. Children played in it, laughing and splashing in newly formed pools. But the next day’s rain was a heavier downpour, drenching everything, turning dirt paths into muddy bogs. Most of the villagers stayed inside, fighting leaky roofs and trying to stay out of it. The temperature plummeted, lightning split the skies, and the thunder seemed to rock the very foundations of the mountain itself.

  Lincoln decided he would go the next night, unless the weather took a sudden turn.

  By midafternoon on the third day, it was obvious that conditions were only getting worse. A ferocious wind blew through the village, tearing at bamboo walls and threatening to dislodge roofs. Ominous clouds piled on top of one another, forming thunderheads that looked tens of thousands of feet high. Major storms, including hurricanes, were regular visitors to New Bordeaux, and Lincoln had survived plenty, but this one looked sinister even to him. The rain started to patter against his walls and roof before he had even left.

  All the better for his plan. He’d already loaded his pack with the things he thought he would need and set aside the equipment he wanted to take. Getting down the mountain would take longer than usual under these conditions, so he kissed Sho good-bye, ignoring her tears and her pleas for him to stay, and set off into the storm.

  The route was treacherous. Trails that were easily passable in the dry season had turned to slippery muck. Water roared down the slopes, forcing Lincoln to struggle against powerful currents in formerly dry creek beds. Visibility was down to feet, not miles. Within minutes of leaving the longhouse, he was soaked to the skin, which made walking more difficult.

  Several times he thought about turning around, going back to Sho’s loving arms and a warm fire. To keep himself focused, he pictured the dead men of Vang Khom and pushed himself onward.

  Night fell before he reached the jars, though the day had turned so dark it hardly seemed to matter. Lincoln was curious about the jars—had the past three days filled them to their brims? The sheer tonnage of falling water seemed adequate to the task. But he had someplace to be, and the dark was his ally; he had to get there in time to make use of it.

  The jungle between the jars and the camp seemed louder than usual. Rain drummed against the canopy overhead, and every drop seemed to hit a thousand leaves as it trickled through and fell to the earth. The usual animal sounds were missing; either they had all taken cover, or they were just drowned out by the downpour.

  He left the game trail before he reached the tree line, not trusting that the Pathet hadn’t finally booby-trapped his path. From here, he would cut through the forest. The way would be harder and slower, but the storm’s racket would dwarf any noise he might make.

  Finally, scratched and bleeding in addition to being soaked and chafed, he arrived at the edge of the clearing. He had come in near the southwest corner, where there was no watchtower. It was also, conveniently enough, closest to the building where he believed the colonel dwelled. The journey had been long and difficult, but the truly hard work was about to begin.

  Lincoln set his pack down on a fallen tree and retrieved a container from inside it. Corbett had given it to him, and it contained grease used on his plane. He set it aside and found a small paper bag—soaked through, now—that held a dozen steel S hooks. Those he set into the eyelets in his web belt. He had carried an AR-30 down from the village, along with plenty of ammo, but had not had to use it. He would leave it here—it would only get in his way. He would take two grenades, and he would take a suppressed Elling 9mm pistol. If having overwhelming firepower became an issue, he was dead anyway. He was counting on stealth, not lead, to get him in and out. He would adopt the techniques of North Vietnamese sapper attacks, which often became suicide missions, and use them against the Laotian allies of the NVA.

  He peeled off his wet clothes, dipped his fingers into the grease, and spread it over his legs, torso, and arms. His dark brown skin would hide him, but the grease would help, and it would also keep him warm. Then, leaving on only his underwear and the knife at his ankle, he strapped the belt around his waist, with the holster, grenades, a single ammo pouch, and the S hooks attached.

  Hoping the cleared area had not been mined since the earlier attack, he started across it. He doubted it—the attack had been repelled so easily, the Pathet Lao were probably convinced that their defenses were adequate. And the only real damage had been from mortar rounds and RPGs, which land mines wouldn’t protect against.

  Between the darkness and the rain, his skin color and the grease, he felt almost invisible as he approached the fence. He could see a handful of cigarettes glowing, but only in protected areas; under the roofs of the towers and close to the barracks buildings. He didn’t think many soldiers, if any, were at the machine gun emplacements or patrolling the wire.

  The fences were as he remembered them; chain link outer, concertina wire along the ground, then ten strands of barbed wire. He could cut through with wire cutters, but that would leave him exposed, and the clicks might give him away. Instead, he would use the mud and the grease to his advantage.

  Reaching the first fence, Lincoln went down to
his knees, then to his belly. The ground was soft enough here that he was able to scoop it away with his hands, making a space under the chain link. It would be a tight fit, but he thought he could do it. He pushed himself under, arms first, then turned his head and skidded through the cold mud on his left cheek. When it came to his shoulders, he had to burrow deeper, like an animal, but the grease helped him slide through. Once his shoulders were clear, the rest was easy; he had only to swim forward, using his arms to propel himself, until he scooted all the way through.

  So far so good. The concertina wire would present problems of its own, but he had a plan for that, too. Approaching the first coil, he took the wire in between the razored barbs and lifted it to a coil above. Then he slipped an S hook from his belt—he had lost a couple going under the chain link, he realized, but he still had plenty—and hooked the two lengths together. He moved down and did the same a little more than a foot from the first, and it gave him the clearance he needed to slide beneath.

  On the second row, he miscalculated slightly and felt the razor wire bite into his shoulder. It stung, but he knew the grease and mud would fill the wound and keep it from bleeding too much. He repeated the S hook trick on the third and last row, giving himself a little more space. When he had to beat a hasty retreat, knowing where the openings were would give him an advantage over the Pathet.

  Finally, he was at the barbed wire. The strands were taut, but he was able to lift the first one to the height of the second and clip them together with the S hooks, then lift the second almost to the third and clip those. It didn’t give him full clearance, but with the soupy mud beneath, it should be enough. A few more cuts were a small price to pay.

  Another swim through the muck and he was inside the line. So far, no alarm had been raised. He couldn’t see a soul from here and didn’t think anyone could see him. Even if a light fell on him, all they would see was a pair of eyes floating through the night.

  He stopped long enough to check the pistol, ensuring that its barrel hadn’t become packed with mud. It was cleaner than he expected, so he shoved it back into the holster.