by J. F. Holmes
From one of the thatch roofed hooches I heard the new AFN DJ, Pat something, give the traditional morning greeting, “Good Morning, Vietnam!”
“They’re getting AFN all the way up here?”
“Probably picking up the repeater over at Khe Sanh. We haven’t found the radio yet, Major, it’s in one of the hooches we haven’t searched yet,” Master Guns replied, working a hand under his chicken vest.
One of the bodies was a half-naked kid, not more than about ten. Whatever had killed him had ripped his throat out, nearly decapitating him. The other one was…interesting. Not in a good way.
To begin with, it was still twitching. The eyes tracked me as I walked over and squatted down in front of the skull, which was about three feet from the torso.
“Master Guns! Get on the blower to Saigon. Code Grey,” I said, looking at the second body.
“Roger.”
The second body was in pieces, but the pieces were black and shiny with varnish. Although the body was still moving, there was enough to tell it had been dead a long time before someone had put it to rest by hacking it to pieces. The rusted machete sticking from the torso was a bit of a macabre touch, in my opinion.
Huynh brought Charlie over. Charlie looked from the kid to the body and started babbling.
“Major, he says that that,” Huynh pointed at the dismembered body, “is one of the dead cannibals.”
“Zombie,” I replied.
“Yes, sir. Charlie also says he watched these…zombies make the survivors pick up the whole bodies and carry them to the north.”
I sighed. I hate paperwork, and the next bit was going to require a lot of paperwork.
“Major, Saigon replies ‘Roger’ and will wait for your next communication,” Master Guns said.
I fished through the pockets on the torso and pulled out a set of dog tags, with Japanese characters on them, before rising and looking at the village around me.
“Master Guns, you know the drill—photos and samples of everything, serial numbers off of any weapons, batch numbers off the ammo, that kind of thing, pile the bodies in a hooch, and Zippo the remains,” I said, wondering how I was going to convince the colonel to let us follow the zombies north into the DMZ.
Wilson brought the radio over as a flamethrower coughed to life.
“Sir, Jackal is on the horn for you,” he said, handing me the handset.
“Jackal, Hammer. Send it.”
I hadn’t picked my call sign. The colonel did that personally.
“What’s the situation?” Colonel Conrad had never lost the drawl he’d learned growing up in the middle of nowhere, South Carolina, before his appointment to the Naval Academy. I could hear the beat of rotors behind his voice.
“Definite Code Grey, Jackal. I’m bringing back samples for analysis and disposing of the remainder per standard operating procedure.”
“Roger that, Hammer. I’ll be at your location in three hours, copy?”
“Copy, Jackal. We should be back on site in five.” It’d probably be closer to four, but it never hurt to give yourself a bit more time when moving through the jungle.
In the end, it was closer to six—Charlie decided he really didn’t want to go into a prison camp in the south, so he made a break for it, and a Marine shot him for his troubles. We humped him back out to the road, and then drove back to the combat base, where the colonel was waiting.
He’d pulled out all the bells and whistles—somewhere he’d acquired a pair of mobile command posts that fit under the CH-54 Tarhe, and the aircraft and flight crews to move them. Engineers were crawling all over both command posts, sandbagging them in place between the runway and taxiway, and the Tarhes with escort were clawing back into the air when we rolled through the gate.
“Master Guns, get with the platoon leaders and tell them to be ready to roll north again in twenty four hours,” I said, taking the bag of special samples and photos—the usual stuff, letters from home, copies of Uncle Ho’s writings, serial numbers off of weapons—Lt. Fox, third platoon leader, would turn over to the intel shop here. I turned to Lilly, who was driving the Jeep. “Let’s go.”
We drove to the flight line, where we stopped and checked the Jeep for loose objects that might fall off on the flight line, and then drove down the taxiway to the colonel’s impromptu command post.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Lee, who’d been with the colonel since Conrad was a lieutenant and Lee a PFC driver, was waiting outside one of the command posts, the butt of a thick, black cigar firmly anchored in the corner of his mouth.
He removed the cigar and examined it before speaking.
“Major. Five hours, huh? Huggins must not be keeping as close an eye on you these days.”
“Not his fault, Master Guns. Prisoner decided that being eaten by a tiger in the jungle was preferable to spending the next year in a cage.”
Master Guns tossed the cigar butt and took another cigar out of his utilities.
“Got a light, sir?”
I handed him the Zippo I carried.
“Still carrying this thing, sir?” Lee asked, looking at the 82nd Airborne patch on the lighter before lighting his cigar.
“It kept dad alive when he fought trolls in Europe,” I replied when he handed it back. “It works for me.”
“There’s some sort of blasphemy there, a Marine depending on luck from the Airborne,” Lee replied. “Colonel should be ready for you, sir.”
Lee opened the door into the command building. I ducked through the hatch, and Lee followed, closing the door behind him.
“Major, good to see you,” Colonel Conrad drawled from the far end of the CP. This pod was a briefing room—a long table and all the needs of modern briefing, including film projectors.
“Colonel. Sorry for the delay. Our source decided to run off,” I replied with a shrug.
“You called Code Grey?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, setting the sample bag down on the conference table. I pulled a smaller bag out and set it on the table, where the hand inside crawled out.
“Colonel, it’s been a while since we did field work, but I’d say that’s affirmative on it being a Code Grey,” Lee said with a chuckle.
“That the only one you found?” Conrad said, ignoring Lee.
“Yes, sir. There was a kid there; something ripped his throat out. We consigned him to the fire just to be on the safe side.”
The hand continued to crawl toward the edge of the table. Lee pinned it in place with a KA-BAR.
“No such thing as zombies, Major,” Colonel Conrad said. “Outside Haiti, anyway.”
“What would you call a reanimated Japanese soldier, then?” I asked, tossing the dog tags on the tabletop.
“Daemon-possessed and animated, Major,” came a voice from the entry hatch.
“Ah, Father Trahn. Your timing is perfect, as usual,” Conrad said.
Standing in the hatch was a small figure wearing the old Marine camouflage trousers with a black priest’s shirt and collar on top.
“Major Miller, Father Trahn, formerly of the South Vietnamese Marines,” Colonel Conrad said. “Father Trahn, Major Miller.”
“Father Trahn.”
Trahn waved a hand at the introduction, walking around the table to where the hand writhed, trying to get loose from the knife pinning it like a butterfly to the table. He pulled a prayer book out and paged through it, finally settling on a page and reading from it. The hand shivered and smoke poured from it briefly. As Trahn finished the prayer, the hand curled in final rictus, then the desiccated meat of it dissolved in a puff of dust, the bones rattling on the tabletop.
“Yes. Daemonic possession is indicated,” Father Trahn said.
“You know this how?” I asked.
“Major, Captain Trahn is in charge of a specialist unit in the ARVN,” Conrad said.
Specialist units in the ARVN ran the gamut from very good to places for wealthy scions of the better families of South Vietnam to hide from actual combat serv
ice because they were off ‘training’ in the States.
“You’ll like these guys, Major,” Master Guns Lee said. “Tho san ma.”
“Ghost Hunters?” I asked. I’m crap with languages, but there’s some things you pick up.
“Yes, sir,” Trahn replied. “Colonel Conrad suggested I form the unit as a counterpoint to yours. We can go some places that Americans cannot.”
If the colonel had suggested Trahn form the unit, he was a Number One hard charger.
“Great. Daemons. What’s the SOP on daemons, Colonel?” I asked.
“Fire destroys the host body,” Father Trahn said. “However, we need to do something about the necromancer who is raising the daemons to infest the hosts.”
“What about the daemons if the host is destroyed? Doesn’t that release them?”
“Yes, Major, with the destruction of the host, they don’t have a tie to this plane of existence. Besides, most daemons at that level are minor imps—mischief-makers at best. Once released from a human host, they don’t have the power to do more than sour milk or fish sauce here,” Trahn said with a smile.
“And if the host lives?”
“Major, the daemons we’re discussing aren’t strong enough to possess a living person. It’s why the necromancer has been using dead bodies.”
“Lee, grab that map we were working on last night and spread it on the table, would you?” Conrad said, dropping a pile of folders on the table. “Father Trahn, I think your suggestion was correct.”
“That does not make me happy, Colonel Conrad,” Trahn said.
“I’m not pleased with it, myself,” Conrad replied, moving folders to hold the edges of the map Lee unrolled across the table down.
“Grab a cup of coffee, Major, this is going to take a bit,” Conrad said, taking a seat. He did something to the map.
“Yours is the third confirmed attack on villages thought to be helping the North, Major,” Lee said, handing me a bottle of Coke. It was even cold.
“That’s why you sent me up here, right?” I asked.
“Yes. That, the four unconfirmed attacks, plus some intel filtering out from up North of unkillable cannibals attacking NVA safe zones in the DMZ,” Conrad replied.
“Yes, sir.”
“The attacks line up on the plantation, Colonel,” Father Trahn said, handing me a folder.
In the folder was a photo of a man in his fifties—greying, with round glasses.
“That, Major, is Dr. Jean Baird,” Conrad said. “We believe he is behind the recent attacks.”
“Which has what to do with MAC-V (SU-13), Colonel? You just said all the attacks have been against NVA targets or those supporting the NVA. Last time I checked, our writ doesn’t run to protecting the enemy.” I lit a cigarette.
“Normally I’d say you’re correct,” Conrad began, drinking from a coffee mug without a handle. “However, one Army patrol went missing near one of the villages in Laos, so they’re not selective about who they’re fighting.”
“So they’re enemies based on one attack?”
“They’re enemies based on not being selective in who they attack. The Laotian village that was attacked wasn’t giving aid to the NVA,” Master Guns said.
“Roger,” I replied. “Where?”
“You’re going to love this,” Conrad said, sliding the map over.
It took me a minute to read the map—the confirmed attacks were marked red, the possible attacks in blue, and the probable attacks in green. All the lines converged on one spot. Problem was, the spot was in the ‘No Go’ zone of Laos. Sure, the Air Force could bomb the ever-living crap out of the nearby Ho Chi Minh trail, but if we set one foot in the area, it was court martial time.
“How certain are you that this is the place?” I asked.
“Historical data on this type of possession shows the imps will follow orders, but they don’t understand the concept of leaving a false trail. Their lines of approach and retreat are as straight as the terrain allows,” Father Trahn said. “We can count on it being the location.”
“We?”
“Father Trahn will be accompanying you into the DMZ, Major,” Conrad said in a voice that brooked no challenge.
“Yes, sir.”
“As soon as the sun comes up, there are a pair of reconnaissance birds out of Tan Son Nhat flying north of the border and taking pictures of the entire area. They’re also shooting photos of the staging areas for the Ho Chi Minh trail, so we have to wait for the film to be developed,” Conrad said. “From that, we can develop your plan of attack.”
“What is the target, Colonel?”
“It was a rubber plantation back when the French ran things. Which was one of the reasons Dr. Baird was on our list. It belonged to his family—he lost it after the negotiations to end the war were concluded,” Trahn said.
“You seem to know more about Mr. Baird than is in the file, Father,” I said.
“He and I served in the French Indochinese Forces together, Major,” Trahn said. “However, since he was half French and I was pure Viet, there were some differences in how we were treated.”
I’d run across similar sentiments from other Vietnamese I’d run across in the last couple of years. Under the French, the French half-breeds were lower on the totem pole than the actual French, but higher than the Vietnamese.
We spent the next three hours planning the operation based on fifteen-year-old photos and ancient French Maps—we’d firm things up when the F-4s got back and their photos were developed. We’d be walking in, but we picked areas for landing zones for dust-off flights and for extraction. We also planned the mission loadout—heavy on food and ammo. I let the company sleep. They’d need the rest.
Two days later, we offloaded the trucks at the end of Route Nine. Colonel Conrad had convinced 1/1 and 3/26 to loan us the personnel to drive the trucks and pull security for the convoy on the way.
“I don’t expect to hear anything from you until you’re extracting,” Conrad said, shaking my hand.
“Ok, dad,” I replied with a grin.
“Your father would kick my ass if anything happened to you,” Conrad replied.
“True,” I answered, watching my company troop past. “I wouldn’t want to piss the old bastard off, myself.”
Third Platoon had point, followed by Second, then my massive Headquarters team, and First Platoon on drag. I waited until the last private from second went past and into the jungle before leading the members of Headquarters into the jungle.
* * * * *
Three days of marching, and all I could smell was the jungle—rot and death. Word came back down the line that LT Anderson of First Platoon could see the main buildings of the plantation, and just as the recon photos had shown, someone or something was living there.
“Master Guns, halt in place, bring in the platoon leaders for one last meeting,” I said.
Runners went out to bring in the platoon leaders. Just as they arrived, the afternoon rainstorm started.
“Lieutenant Fox, Lieutenant Anderson, Staff Sergeant Davis, we’re in position,” I said over the sound of water beating on the leaves around us. “Any questions?”
The plan was stone axe simple—First and Third Platoons would cross through the remnants of the rubber trees, while I led Second into the buildings to check for papers and to find Dr. Baird. We’d try to free any survivors, but Father Trahn had warned us not to expect any.
“What do you want us to do with any survivors, sir?” Lieutenant Fox asked as if on cue.
“Any prisoners are to be gathered here,” I pointed to an area west of the plantation where we’d be cutting a landing zone for evacuation when the mission was complete. “Remember what Father Trahn said about any ‘survivors’. Treat them as hostile until he’s had a chance to exorcise them.”
“But, sir,” Fox started.
“Lieutenant, I get that you want to rescue any civilians who have been caught up in this mess. However, our job is primarily to put an end to
the threat Dr. Baird poses. Compassion is a good thing, son. Getting Marines killed because of it isn’t.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fox was damn good at the paperwork portion of the job. I’d have a chat with his fire team leaders when the mission was over, and depending on what they had to say, make a decision about moving him out of the field and into Headquarters, where he could push paper to his heart’s content.
“Get your platoons in place, gentlemen, and I’ll see you on the other side,” I said,
I was going in with Second, not because I didn’t trust Staff Sergeant Davis to run his platoon in combat, but because I could count on him to do his job, leaving me free to run the overall battle and intelligence gathering portions of the show.
It took twenty minutes to get in place. I sat with Wilson, listening to the radio for First and Third to break squelch, indicating they were in position. One click.
“First is in place,” Master Guns said sotto voce.
“Now we wait on Third,” Wilson said.
Instead of the three clicks we were expecting, there was a burst of rifle fire from where Third was supposed to be, followed by the deeper roar of an M-60 cutting loose.
“Well, fuck. Wilson, send, ‘GO!’ Davis, take the building. Headquarters, you’re on me. Master Guns, let’s go see what the hell Fox ran into,” I spat out, rising to my feet and moving toward Fox and Third platoon.
Over the chatter of M-16s and the deeper roar of the Pig, I heard the rapid clatter of AK-47s.
“No way, sir,” Master Guns said. He’d had the same thought I’d had—we’d walked for three days through a part of Laos crawling with the NVA without seeing the NVA, only to have Third platoon blunder into them while moving into position for the final assault.
The gods of war can be capricious.
“Wilson, get Fox on the radio; tell him we’re coming in.”
“Sir, Lieutenant Fox requests you hold position. The enemy is breaking contact in our direction. He wants you to hit them on and push them back toward Third’s position.”
It was the textbook answer, and if we weren’t concerned with stopping a necromancer from converting living, breathing human beings into soulless soldiers for his own personal war, I’d have agreed in a heartbeat. The NVA didn’t give me the option of replying to Fox’s request, however—the first soldier came around a rubber tree and ran into Master Guns Huggins, knocking them both off their feet.