by J. B. Hadley
Those following forged ahead more confidently than their leader, reassured that when the shit hit the fan their point man would be the first to go—they would have a chance to duck, shoot, or run.
The fifth man approached Campbell. The colonel’s long, lean body suddenly extended up out of the undergrowth like the deadly strike of a pit viper. Campbell swung the machete as he came, and the bright steel curved in an arc and whacked into the soldier’s skull with the sound of an ax sinking into a log. The only other sound was the rattle of the man’s equipment as he fell.
Swift, silent, and lethal, the other Green Berets nailed their victims seconds after the colonel disposed of his. Except one man. Campbell looked back at the sound of the struggle. The North Vietnamese soldier had fended off the blow of the machete with his AK47 rifle. When the American tried to raise the machete blade for a second blow, he found it embedded in the wood stock of the rifle. As they struggled, the North Viet fell backward, with the American on top of him. The Green Beret released his hold on the machete, gripped the AK47 at either end, and forced it down across the throat of his opponent.
The North Viet tried desperately to push the rifle up but could not. As the weapon pressed firmly down, constricting the man’s windpipe, he clawed wildly at his attacker’s eyes. He only succeeded in scratching his face before his own death throes canceled out his counterattack. His eyes protruded and his tongue stuck out as his body convulsed, and he made an inhuman croak in an unsuccessful attempt to suck in air.
Campbell stood over the dying man and said to the Green Beret killing him, “You call this a professional job?”
The Green Beret glanced up without releasing pressure on the rifle. “No, sir. Sorry about that.” And returned to finishing him off.
They left the five bodies half-concealed by the undergrowth and pushed on again in the direction from which the machine gun had fired at the chopper. As before, the five-man scouting party preceded the main group. Progress was slow—however, no one criticized that, since one oversight or mistake made in a moment of eagerness or bravado could cost the lives of all twenty Special Forces operatives there on the ground. The only reason all these men were alive and fit to walk around was that they weighed all the chances before they took them, and paused for a second look before jumping in.
Campbell’s strategy was simple yet effective and familiar to all the men. They had to locate the main body of North Vietnamese troops, engage them from a distance, and call in the gunships to soften them up with rocket and machine-gun fire. Then the Special Forces would overrun their position, wipe out as many as they could, and head back to the clearing fast to be evacuated. When such hit-and-run tactics worked, they were devastating to the enemy. When something went wrong, it was usually a big disaster for the attacking force.
The Viet Cong would have faded into the forest and would not have stayed to fight it out. But the North Vietnamese army regulars had more men, better weapons, and a different style of fighting than the Cong. Campbell knew they would never have sent a scouting party against him if they had intended to run. They meant to fight. He listened. Nothing. Both sides were maintaining a radio silence. They had disposed of the five enemy soldiers without a shot being fired to warn the main body of North Vietnamese. They now had some room to move in.
“We’ll keep moving in a straight line,” he whispered to the sergeant. “If they spot us and we don’t see them, they’ll probably cut around behind us to take possession of the clearing so we can’t be lifted out by air. With the clearing as a landmark, the airstrikes will be easy.”
The sergeant said nothing. He knew that if the North Viets were all that predictable, the colonel wouldn’t be bothering to explain things to him. An officer, even one like Mad Mike, never bothered to justify his actions if he thought everything was going to be easy.
They moved on slowly through the forest, every man watching the man in front of him, glancing back at the one behind, peering into the green depths at something that might have moved, avoiding a small mound of leaves that might conceal an antipersonnel mine … A gunship passed overhead and was gone—they could hear it circle in the distance. Their footfalls in the dead leaves were strangely loud, and all about him Campbell felt the huge, alien, hostile world of Asia in the heat, the leaves, the unknown …
The man at point raised a hand for those behind him to stop. Then he suddenly wheeled about and ran wildly back through the trees! The other scouts zigzagged through the growth right after him. There could be no doubt they had been seen and were getting their asses out of there as fast as possible. The sergeant called up the men behind him so that the long line of men now formed into a knot of solid resistance.
Right behind the escaping men came a horde of NVAs in full charge, bayonets fixed to their AK47s. Their officer had obviously spotted only a few of the Americans and had wanted to take them out silently so as not to warn the others. Campbell waited till the last of the five forward men got back to them and opened up on the NVAs who were now no more than thirty yards away. Other Green Berets opened up with their automatic rifles and grease guns, and the first few rows of North Vietnamese were almost sawed in half by the Special Forces fire power.
“Hell! There’s got to be sixty, seventy of ’em!” the sergeant howled as the NVAs kept coming in a solid wave, many of them firing now from their AK47s, but still intent on skewering the Americans with their bayonets.
Campbell pushed a fresh magazine into his M16 and sprayed it into the chests of the oncoming troops. Men fell, but the rest came jumping over them, eyes wild, their bayonets like a mouth of shark’s teeth. Campbell changed magazines again as they were almost within touching distance of him. He pulled on the trigger. Nothing happened. His M16 had jammed. He dropped the rifle and hauled out his machete.
He swung it two-handed in a circle over his head, gave a loud yell, and came at the NVAs.
When Campbell came to, he picked himself off the ground and looked about him.
Tina was looking up from her magazine at him, blowing cigarette smoke out her nostrils.
“You fell out of bed,” she said. “Which dream was it this time?”
“Bayonet charge,” he answered.
She smiled sympathetically. “Get yourself a beer and sit down with me.”
He took a bottle of Dos Equis from the refrigerator, bit the metal cap off with his teeth, and swallowed half the contents. He put the bottle on the table.
“Guess I woke you earlier on, kicking and shoving?” he asked.
“You got it, Colonel.”
“Sorry.”
He kissed her on the cheek and ran his palms over her bare shoulders, looking down at her breasts beneath the fabric of her loose-fitting nightdress. She put down the magazine she had been reading, clasped his wrists, and guided his hands down over the smooth, warm orbs whose nipples hardened to his touch.
He kissed her for a while and then reached down to lift her effortlessly and carry her to the bed. He exorcised the demons from his mind in the pleasure and beauty of her body.
Chapter 5
“A long distance call, sir,” the manservant told William Vanderhoven. “It’s Mr. Boggs, from Switzerland.”
The manservant placed a telephone on the side table beside the old billionaire, lifted the receiver, pressed the lighted extension button, and said, “Mr. Vanderhoven will speak to you now.”
He wiped the ear- and mouthpieces with a white linen cloth before handing his boss the receiver.
“Boggs, where the hell are you?”
“In Bern, sir. That certain party has refused all direct contact. All communications have to be through the Swiss.”
“I remember. I’m not senile yet, Boggs.”
“No, sir. Of course not.”
“Well?”
“Not good news, sir.”
“Stop shilly-shallying! Give me the details, man!”
“Certainly, sir.” Boggs paused before doing so. “The particular party I’ve been re
ferring to refuses to cooperate on two grounds. The first is the attitude of the subject—”
“Boggs, talk straight! You mean Eric?”
“I’m worried about security over the phone lines, sir.”
“To hell with security. What’s wrong with Eric’s attitude?”
“They say he is unrepentant for his crimes against Marxism and he did something else against Leninism—I couldn’t quite follow the ideology involved. When you listen to all the intellectual crimes with which he is accused, it’s hard to realize he’s only a thirteen-year-old.”
“That’s their style, Boggs. What’s the second ground for their refusal?”
“Eh—eh, you, sir.”
“Me!”
“They claim your companies made napalm and other war-related substances which were used against them by the U.S. Armed Forces.”
“So?”
“Before they are willing to consider Eric’s release, they insist that you make a public apology to them for this and make financial reparations to the present communist government.”
Boggs waited and heard only a sputtering noise. He added quickly, “I’ll tell the intermediary, sir, that you will not tolerate such impertinence.”
“Be sure you do, Boggs.”
Boggs felt relieved by the cold, grating tone in Vanderhoven’s voice, which told him the old man had regained control of himself. “Might I make a suggestion, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
“I think it’s a waste of time trying to deal with these Vietnamese communists, sir, especially here. Perhaps I would do better than before if I return to Washington, though I have my doubts.”
“That’s a waste of time, Boggs.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I think, too. Which is why I checked into a possible backup—an alternative, so to speak—”
“Get to the point, Boggs.”
“Yes, sir. I meant sending in a group of your own, sir, if you get my meaning.”
“What the hell are you talking about, man?”
“I’ve left an envelope marked ‘alternative’ on the top shelf of the wall safe, sir. You will find all the details there.”
“Come back to New York without delay, Boggs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mike Campbell peered out of the plane window as the aircraft veered around the end of Manhattan. The twin towers of the World Trade Center were off by themselves a little away from the rest of the Wall Street skyscrapers. A foggy haze hung over the middle of the island, just above the midtown group of tall buildings—the Empire State Building and the Chrysler were still the most individual and recognizable among all their younger neighbors.
The elderly woman in the window seat commented wistfully, “It all looks so orderly and peaceful from up here.”
“That’s the view from heaven, ma’am.”
She sighed. “I think you may be right. There’s times when I think the Good Lord just can’t be aware of what’s going on.”
Since Campbell had already heard of her daughter’s second failed marriage and her son’s lack of attention to her, he didn’t need a dissertation from her on street crime. He got one anyway. Her energy and indignation, all the way from Phoenix to New York on an early morning flight, amazed him. For some reason Campbell could never fathom, people unloaded their worries on him in planes, in buses, on park benches—even at the trailer park, where they daily expected him to run amok and make coyote food of them all, individuals would come up to him from time to time and unfurl some sad tale without an ending.
The plane flew north in a line directly above Fifth Avenue and then swung east over where the Harlem and the East Rivers separated Manhattan, the Bronx, and Long Island. They touched down at La Guardia Airport on Long Island Sound. Mr. Vanderhoven’s limousine was waiting.
Campbell was ushered into the study of the huge Fifth Avenue apartment.
“Colonel Campbell,” William Vanderhoven said by way of greeting, and shook his hand.
“I’m retired,” Campbell said. “People don’t call me by my rank anymore, except by way of a joke.”
“I see. What is it they call you now—yes, I remember. Mad Mike. Do they call you that to your face?”
“No.”
“But you are popularly known as that by your … associates?”
“I suppose so.” Mike grinned, completely unfazed by the hard time the old man was giving him. “I just can’t think what I’ve ever done to earn a name like that.”
“Let us say you wouldn’t be here today if you didn’t have your name and reputation. Mad Mike. Indeed. I like that. Know what they call me? The Old Bastard. My name is William—but no one has ever called me Wild Bill or Crazy Willie. Just the Old Bastard. Mad Mike is much better than that, don’t you think?”
Mike laughed at the old man’s poker-faced brand of humor. He could easily imagine this man’s employees putting a lot of feeling into it when they called him the Old Bastard.
Then Vanderhoven tried to sound him out on his views on Namibia.
“If I was into making bets on political stability for business ventures, I’d be sitting in a glass-walled office somewhere,” Mike told him. “I’m a soldier. I deal with the present. A soldier can’t heal the past or foresee the future. He’s like a repair man. He tries to fix something that’s not working right. What the other people do with it the next day is something he doesn’t control so long as he remains a soldier and stays out of politics. And out of business.”
The crusty old billionaire obviously didn’t like to be told what Mike was and was not going to discuss. His mouth tightened and his manner became cold. Mike watched this drama with detached amusement. He could imagine how this sudden change of mood in the old man would cause one of his employees to quake after saying something that displeased him. Mike never gave a shit for generals when he was in the armed forces, and right now he didn’t need money so bad that he had to give a damn about the moods of a wealthy old carpetbagger who wouldn’t even be talking to him if he didn’t need to hire him for some dirty work. The Old Bastard sure as hell wasn’t hiring him to play polo or race a yacht to the Bahamas. Mike was determined to betray no curiosity about what Vanderhoven had in mind and had received no clue yet as to what his mission might be. His five-thousand-dollar consultant’s fee, whether he took the job or not, was enough to persuade him to take a short trip to New York, all expenses paid.
“I understand that you have pursued a military career of sorts since you left the Special Forces.”
“I’ve been a mercenary, soldier of fortune, call it what you will.”
“Where?”
“Africa, the Middle East, Central America—I’d prefer not to get too specific.”
“I understand,” Vanderhoven said. “How long were you in the Special Forces in Vietnam?”
“Four years. Not all in Vietnam, of course. There were forays into Laos and Cambodia.”
“I’m sure you don’t want to be too specific about that, either. Have you been back in Southeast Asia since the war ended?”
“No.”
“Care to go back?” the old man asked casually.
Mike hesitated. “I imagined you had something in Africa for me …”
“You are avoiding my question.”
Campbell shrugged. “I’d have to give it serious consideration.”
“Good. I’m pleased to hear that. Because I don’t want any gung-ho amateurs or reckless heroes in my affairs. What I tell you now I expect you to keep confidential even if you are not interested. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Vanderhoven began to speak in a dry neutral voice. “I have a grandson in Vietnam …” He told Mike the whole story in as few words as possible and without emotion until he summed up his narrative by saying, “These totalitarians demand that we both apologize. Vanderhovens apologize! I hadn’t realized I’d treated the boy unjustly—I’d never considered him a real Vanderhoven—until Katie Nelson described his attitudes to me and then my assist
ant Boggs confirmed the fact that the boy is standing up alone—at the age of thirteen—to these … these inhuman communist robots. I want him out, Campbell! I want you to go in there and bring him out! I don’t care how you do it, and I don’t care how much money it costs. Understand? Bring him out, and I’ll leave him every penny I possess.”
The force and passion in the octogenarian’s voice took Campbell by surprise. He said, “People you suddenly develop an affection for after not noticing for years may not live up to your great expectations.”
“I am used to people falling short of my expectations, Campbell,” Vanderhoven said in a flat, ironic voice.
“You’re certain that this boy Eric wants to come? That it will be a rescue, not a kidnapping?”
“I’m absolutely certain.”
Mike shifted in his chair. “If money’s no object, I can bring a team into Vietnam for you and bring the boy out again. The part I’m not happy about is making contact with him. A unit of heavily armed Westerners can’t wander about looking for an American youth. There’s no tourist trade, so we can’t wander about with cameras and Bermuda shorts, either.”
“Katie Nelson is more than willing to return to Vietnam. I understand the communists were very pleased with her American TV program and will let her back in anytime she pleases.”
Campbell shook his head. “The media will blow the whole thing. They’ll put us on the seven o’clock news while we’re still behind enemy lines and announce to the world exactly what we’re doing and where we’re going. Forget her.”
“She knows the boy, Campbell. And she can move inside Vietnam with much more freedom than you can. You can’t do without her help. Plus she demands the exclusive TV news rights to your escape story in exchange for her cooperation.”