Men in Green Faces

by Gene Wentz; B. Abell Jurus

  Gene opened his eyes to find the squad turning again to look at him, then turning quickly away. It was a damned miracle. They’d found the bastard. He sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to quiet his insides.

  “Man, this is fucked up.” Doc was almost yelling. “We’ve only got six days left.”

  Jim moved forward to stand next to Johnny. “Guys,” he said, “we’ve done our job well. I’m proud of each and every one of you and proud to have served with you.” He shook his head. “But I can’t tell you what to do. You assholes never listen to me anyway.”

  Laughter broke the tension.

  Jim laughed with them, then sobered. “This mission is strictly voluntary. No one will think less of you if you don’t go. I want to remind you that this is classified Top Secret. Discuss it with no one. Alternates from other squads will be selected for those of you that stay behind. Information will be issued on a need-to-know basis.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I want you all to leave and think about it. You’ve got thirty minutes to let me know your decision. Gentlemen, you are dismissed.”

  Gene stood up and opened the door, but was the last out. For the first time since Willie’s death, he found himself struggling to keep from laughing aloud in triumph. They had him. The fucking colonel was theirs at last. In front of him, Doc stomped away, talking to himself.

  “No fucking way! Not this time. No, sir! No fucking way. I’m staying home. I’m gonna get drunk, dammit!”

  It was funny as hell, but the fact that Doc had resorted to using the most basic cussing was a sure sign he was really upset. The rest, Gene noticed, were quiet. There was no indication, no way to know, who’d be going and who, other than Doc, would be staying. No matter who went or who stayed, he’d be going. Capture, hell. Nguyen would pay for Willie. That promise would, by God, be kept or he wouldn’t be coming back with the squad.

  He spent the next thirty minutes deciding just how the colonel would die.

  In the hootch around him, the rest of the squad sat or lay on their racks, looking around. They were trying to see who would or would not be going by means of eye contact.

  “You guys are fucking crazy,” Doc announced.

  Brian sat up. “For what?”

  “I’m sorry,” Doc said, “but no way. No fuckin’ way.” He went to the icebox, pulled out a beer, chugged it, then threw the empty can across the aisle. “No fuckin’ way,” he repeated, and went to get another.

  Gene, getting into combat gear, heard but ignored him. He’d kept his operating equipment ready, hoping for the day to come when they’d go after Nguyen.

  The word was passed for the squad to return to the briefing room. Gene, leaving the 60, its ammo, and the explosives behind, strapped on his bowie knife. With Willie’s cross and Nguyen’s shoulder patch safe in his pocket, he headed for the briefing.

  When everybody was settled, Jim again took center floor.

  “As I stated before, no one will think any less of you if you decide to stay home. You’ve all done your time. You’ve all earned your spot in American history and kept the legend of SEAL Team alive. So those of you who are not going may leave at this time, but remember, remain silent on this operation.”

  Doc stood. “I’m sorry, guys. I’ve nothing left.” He walked out.

  Nobody else moved.

  Gene felt what he knew they all felt. They hadn’t ever gone out without Doc to take care of them. And they’d all, always, made it back safe. Maybe this time—

  “The rest of you are sure?”

  Again, nobody moved.

  “Johnny,” Jim said, “bring in the other corpsman from Tommy’s squad.”

  The briefing room door flew open and banged against the wall. In came Doc.

  “Fuck it,” he said.

  The squad stared, unbelieving.

  Gene shot to his feet. “Doc, you don’t have to do this. It’s okay. It really is.”

  “I followed you all into hell,” Doc said. “I’ll follow you out. So let’s get it on.” He stomped to his chair and sat down.

  As one, the SEALs yelled, “Hoo-Ya!”

  Tears stung Gene’s eyes. He blinked, swallowed, and drew a long, steadying breath.

  Jim grinned. “All right. Like Doc says, let’s get it on.”

  He went through the Warning Order, detailing to each of them their position, weapons, and amount of explosive they’d carry. “The objective is one hundred thirty miles north of Seafloat,” he said. “There will be no friendly forces until dawn, and they’ll be approximately half a mile due east of the target. Colonel Nguyen’s force is known to be five thousand plus.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Doc.

  For sure, thought Gene. Five thousand to seven. Now, those were odds.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Doc called out.

  Jim looked at him, eyebrows raised in question.

  “Can I change my mind?”

  The squad broke into laughter as Jim slowly shook his head.

  Jim concluded the Warning Order and told them to be ready in two hours for the PLO. They’d board the boats and leave immediately afterward—as always.

  There was little talk as they left the briefing room. The squad was getting ready, mentally, for what appeared to be their most challenging op. Gene saw only grim expressions as they passed him at the door.

  The odds had hit home. There’d be no room for errors. They’d gone up against big odds before—fifty to one was usual. With the element of surprise they’d always come home safe. But five thousand to seven . .. They had to be perfect. Even the slightest noise, the slightest reflection, smell, mistake—anything could take away the element of surprise, and there would be nobody coming home to Seafloat alive.

  Sitting on his bunk, Gene watched, studying each man, every movement, every physical emotion, faces, eyes, and voices. They all knew one another’s fears and secrets, and how far each could be pushed before striking back.

  They were doing as he had done—going through a psychological change while they prepared to go into battle. It was akin to psyching up for a big football game, but the intensity was far greater. Here, now, they had to face their fear of combat, of seeing themselves in the enemy’s position. Dead. Face blown off, half a chest gone, guts, arms, legs, sprawled on the ground.

  Nothing about it ever changed. After every dick-dragger, once safe back at base, he’d visualized himself—instead of Charlie—dead. Sitting on his bunk, he caressed the 60. Fear. Nobody could imagine real fear unless they’d come close to death. The lump in the chest—it hurt—breathing accelerated, the heart pumped harder, adrenaline pounded through every vein.

  They had to direct that adrenaline flow—not at the fear, but at the mission. It had to be directed to their senses—their eyes and ears, and to sound, touch, and smell. By the time each of them had gone through his own psyching-out period, he’d become a warrior who feared nothing. Neither life nor death mattered. Only the mission had meaning. They’d feel no pain. If they got shot, no biggie. If blood wasn’t pouring out, they didn’t think about it. They just fought, just kept going, because if they stopped, they’d surely die.

  Gene watched as Doc painted his face green and striped it with black. In combat, if they were shot up bad, bleeding heavy, and Doc couldn’t get to them, like on the Mighty Mo, they’d treat themselves, bandage the bleeders, pick up their weapons, and continue to fight. They’d never give up.

  He remembered Tommy saying that the only way to kill a SEAL was to “shoot him in the head, then shoot him in the head again, because if you don’t, and there’s the smallest spark of life in him, he’ll find a way to reach up and take you with him.”

  “You-O,” Brian said, “1 know I owe you for the Jack Daniel’s.” Gene jumped off the bunk. They had another hour left before the PLO. His equipment was ready. All he needed to do was strap the ammo belts on, secure grenades to the bowie’s belt, and sling the 60. He opened his footlocker, moved the stack of unopened letters from Karen, took out a pad of paper and a
pen, and left the hootch.

  Alone at the edge of the helo pad, he wrote home:

  My Dearest Darling, I had this feeling come over me. I’ve never felt it before. I’ll be going back out into the bush in an hour and I don’t think I will be coming home this time. I’m sorry I haven’t written for so long. There has just been a lot going on with me. My heart aches, but today the ache will be no more. I wanted to let you know that I really love you. I will till the end of time. You made me whole. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see you carrying our unborn child. Tell our child that Daddy loves the both of you, and I’ll be watching over you from heaven. I only wish I could have held our baby, and held and kissed you one last time. Remember only the good things. How we laughed, touched, loved. Raise our child to hold his head high, to love all life. Pray not for my safety. Pray for my soul. I love you. Gene. X X O O.

  He addressed the envelope, then inserted the letter and sealed it. He tucked it inside his shirt, next to his heart. The SEALs would bring his body back. They’d see the letter reached her.

  Back at the hootch, he finished mounting out his gear. Only Doc was there. The rest had gone. Silent, they walked over together. Security was doubled outside the briefing room. When they entered, the others turned to watch until they were in their chairs. Jim stood at the front.

  From the back of the room, Brian announced, “Everyone present. We are secured.” He sat down.

  Jim looked at each of them, then called Johnny over.

  Sprawled in his chair, the 60 lying on his lap, Gene listened as Johnny went over the intel—where it came from, how old it was. There was a small problem. The target area had not been cleared. The province chief had refused any U.S. op within a ten-square-mile radius of their objective.

  He must know, Gene surmised, who or what was in there, or there wouldn’t be a problem. No matter. The Vietnamese politicians often played both sides. What the chief didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. There’d be no intelligence leaking out that would get the squad hurt.

  Jim went through the PLO, his confidence in his plan and in the squad obvious. He laid out the details. He was going to run a major diversion. There would be a phony Army insertion. Twenty-one Chinook helos would land half a mile to the east, coming in with three waves of seven each.

  “We’ve arranged,” he said, “for twelve helo gunships, and two fixed-wing planes with twenty-millimeter cannons to fly cover for the Army helos. They’ll return fire as Charlie moves in to confront what won’t be there. Tomorrow. At first light.”

  He took a careful drag on his cigarette, not disturbing the lengthening ash. “If it works, every NVA will be pulled away from our hard target. Intel has it that, no matter what happens, six NVA always remain with our target. We have to be in position before first light. When the helos draw fire, the gunships will open up. We’ll wait ten minutes, then we will take out the six bodyguards and capture, if possible, Colonel Nguyen. If not, eliminate him.”

  The ash fell to the floor. Jim took a final drag, then stubbed the cigarette out.

  “We won’t have longer than ten minutes to complete the mission before Charlie realizes there are no ground troops and swarms back to protect the colonel. Our two Sea Wolves will be hovering in the west, less than five minutes away, to come in for extraction.”

  In the silent room, Jim covered every detail: frequency, call signs, emergency action, and every move each man would be making.

  Gene felt the energy the squad emitted. The very air seemed charged.

  Jim paused. “Are there any questions?”

  Doc stood.

  “Yes, Doc?”

  “Just…standing up.”

  There were grins and low chuckles from the squad. Jim checked his watch, looked up, and said, “It’s 1500 hours. Let’s go kick some ass.”

  Chairs screeched against the wooden floor.

  Gene waited until the room was empty, then walked over to Johnny, who was erasing the chalkboards and removing maps. He pulled his letter to Karen out of his shirt. “Johnny?”

  He turned. “Yeah?”

  “No questions,” Gene said. “Just mail this if anything goes wrong.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  WITH THE LETTER TO Karen safe in Johnny’s hands, Gene caught up with the squad. They were boarding the lone Medium SEAL Support Craft that had been standing by. He went aboard.

  “Jim,” said Cruz, “can we have Gene say a prayer before we pull out?”

  Gene’s stomach felt as if its bottom had fallen out. Nobody’d ever made such a request. Not these guys. Especially not You-O. He was so stunned, he couldn’t open his mouth.

  He grabbed a quick look at the rest of the squad. In full combat gear, weapons everywhere, faces painted, they could have stepped right out of a nightmare.

  “Maybe,” he said, “it would be better if each man said a silent prayer.”

  River water lapped against the side of the boat.

  Cruz shifted his weight. “We’d like you to lead us in our prayer. Some of us…don’t know how to pray.”

  He tried to swallow. Couldn’t. Many a time they’d kidded him about praying. Once, when he’d been sitting and reading his Bible, You-O’d walked over to ask if he was reading a fuck-book, then if it was a shit-kicker.

  Brian, behind Cruz, stood. “Gene, this is our last op. We think your prayers have kept us safe.”

  It didn’t matter what he believed now. It was what they believed. “Bow your heads,” he said, and for the first time ever, he saw them do it. Even the four boat support people.

  “Dear Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “we all come to You in prayer. Please guide and protect us this day. Bless our loved ones at home. Amen.” If there was a hell, he was probably going there now, feeling the way he did, and had since Willie.

  “Move out,” Jim ordered.

  He watched the boat crew cast off. They were heading to an objective that some of them might not return from. The ride would take about two and a half hours. They had to insert at dusk because the tide was going out, and if the boat wasn’t headed back before dark, it would be grounded until high tide again.

  The MSSC skimmed the water’s surface as it flew down and up rivers, and through fast, hard banks around turns. Gene sat silently, watching the other SEALs fiddle with their equipment. Every one of them was pumped to the max, he thought, ready to kill anything in their way.

  The boat coxswain turned. “You guys look like you come from hell.”

  Roland stared at him and, voice quiet, said, “Yeah. You’re right. We’ve been there before, and now we’re going back.”

  The coxswain looked away and never said another word.

  Gene ran his fingers over the 60, thankful for the breeze that came with the boat’s movement. It made the heat seem not quite so bad.

  Jim peeled the cover off his watch face to check the time. Then he looked around and checked the map.

  Gene knew he was keeping a close eye on timing and direction—same as he’d do if he were running the op. And, like the rest of them, Jim would be waiting to respond to any ambush they might run into while, at the same time, running over every detail of the op in his head.

  Gene tightened his headband, fought the urge to wipe the sweat off his face for fear of losing face paint, and scratched the itch next to his crotch through the tough fabric of his Levi’s 501s. Jim flexed his shoulders, and Gene wondered if he’d ever sewn up his Levis the time Doc cut them open. He grinned to himself, remembering, heard a sound that turned out to be Doc shifting position, and sobered.

  He didn’t need to psyche himself up. Hatred did that. All he wanted to do was get his hands on Nguyen. Prisoner, hell. Come morning, the colonel died. Fast, slow, it didn’t matter now. Only that he died. Images from the nightmare flickered through his mind. It had seemed so real.

  “Ten minutes,” Jim said very quietly. “Get ready.”

  As one, the squad got up and moved to the front of the boat.

  Gene touched the 60,
the bowie, and his ammo unconsciously. They had to get off fast and fade into the jungle. There would be no radio contact until daybreak, and no support. Once off the boat, they were isolated for the next twelve hours or so. Five thousand NVA, he thought, almost tasting the number. Five thousand to seven.

  The MSSC slowed to an idle, then swung to the starboard side.

  Silent, Jim pointed. Go!

  Within seconds they were off the boat and about twenty meters into the bush.

  Jim, arm lifted, moved his finger in a circle. They rallied to him and circled, waiting for the boat to head home, while they froze in place, looking and listening. Within a minute the MSSC was out of hearing range.

  Sundown in ten to fifteen minutes, Gene thought. Damned blood-sucking mosquitoes were coming out. He could hear them hum.

  It was dark when Jim, going to each man, whispered to him, “Keep your eyes and ears open. Moving out in five minutes.”

  In the PLO, he’d said they had a good chance of running into an enemy patrol or even a company base camp. The closer they got, the higher the chance.

  Snap!

  Jim. They were heading out.

  In file formation, the never-ending mud sucking at his feet, vines and God-knew-what brushing his face, Gene headed into the jungle. He figured they wouldn’t run into anyone until they were at least halfway to the objective. But still, they’d better be ready.

  Their pace was good. They had to cover a lot of ground early on, because the closer they got, the slower they had to go to move in, silent and close. The night sky was clear, with a three-quarter moon, and studded with stars. The moon gave them some light and made traveling easier, but it was harder to conceal themselves. He could keep Roland in sight, ahead of him, with no problem.

  An hour and a half later, Jim signaled a break, and they sat down in place. Each of them kept watch over a designated area.

  In the total silence, Gene felt the sweat running down his face and body. He wasn’t tired, just hot. He found nothing unnatural in the sounds around him, and there was no smell of the fish oil that signaled an enemy presence.