After ten minutes, Jim, going from man to man, whispered, “Picking up pace. Close up.”
They’d been keeping six to ten feet apart, but now they’d close to three or four feet. He pulled Willie’s cross out of his pocket, looked first at it, then up through the trees to the stars. Then he looped the chain around his neck and tucked the cross inside, where his sweat-soaked shirt would keep it stuck to his skin. If the SEALs wore dog tags, he couldn’t have worn the cross. Couldn’t take chances with metal next to metal.
Jim signaled move out.
In a slow run, they darted in and out of the shadows of trees and bushes. Fast, silent, deadly.
To Gene, who was just behind Roland, Jim, and Brian, it looked as if they were passing through the jungle on a current of night wind. Just slightly glimpsed, the three dark forms appeared and disappeared without sound.
They were making good time, covering a lot of ground, but mud was clinging to his boots, adding weight to every step. After a long time, his muscles began to ache. Sweat poured, and his eyes stung.
Another hour passed before Jim called a break.
Gene’s clothes were as wet as if it had rained. He sat, a little winded, heart beating more rapidly. Nearby the squad rested, shadows within shadows, but all at full alert, every sense working at its fullest, every sound analyzed within a split second to determine whether they’d been detected. Ready to kill.
Sitting, Gene studied the night as memories flashed—the R&R Center, explosions, claymores going off in the chase that followed, running for their lives. They’d been lucky to reach safety. Especially with so many enemy yelling, screaming, shooting, trying to stop them. And after the claymores, the sounds of the enemy’s dying—the cries. Yet they had kept coming. Yeah, they’d been lucky that night. And God knew none of them would ever forget the sight of that eerie fort. But this time they wouldn’t have the darkness to hide in. This time it would be bright morning, and they faced over five times the enemy force.
He let his breath out slowly, almost a sigh. If anything went wrong, if the helos were late, they’d never see the sun set.
Jim snapped his fingers, and they were moving again.
The mind’s funny-awesome, Gene thought. Takes everything in, analyzes the sounds—movement, insects, reptiles, birds. They had to spot the enemy before the NVA spotted them, and not make contact if the mission was to be completed. If they got into a firefight, the element of surprise would be lost, and no one—no one—would get close enough again for a long time. It had taken over six weeks and thousands of man-hours to locate Nguyen.
He dodged a branch and heard water running nearby. It was a creek. Small. Too small for sampans.
SpecWar Headquarters Saigon had given top priority to this mission. Gene wasn’t the only one who wanted the colonel, but he was the one who’d get him. Finally he felt at ease with himself. It wouldn’t be long until he could make things right, and keep his promise to Willie.
He sent a mental message ahead to Nguyen: We’re coming for you.
He snapped back. The patrol was slowing down—back to their normal speed. He needed a break. The 60 had grown heavy, and a good four inches of mud had built up on his boots again. His leg muscles were trembling, trying to adjust to the slower pace. He snapped his fingers, halted the patrol, and sent the break sign, first to the men in front, then to the men at the rear.
Jim came down to see who had called the break and to make sure someone hadn’t been hurt.
When he approached, Gene signaled that he’d stopped the patrol.
“You okay?” Jim whispered after moving in close.
“Just tired. Need five minutes.”
Jim nodded okay and returned to his position just in front of Roland.
Looking back, Gene saw Cruz leaning against a tree, catching his wind and scanning the brush and trees around him for movement.
Relax, he told himself. Slow, deep breaths. In your nose, out your mouth. Relax.
At the sound of Jim’s finger snap, the squad moved out again.
They must have passed the halfway point by now, Gene thought, tilting his head to avoid a vine. Small patrols would be combing the area, split up into company size and spread around the colonel’s perimeter. He was headquarters for all of the NVA’s operations in the Delta region.
The squad moved progressively slower as they closed on the colonel’s location.
Gene could feel his energy level rise, the adrenaline coursing through his body. They had to be ready in case they were hit, to cut loose with everything they had and then run like hell. Outright book! One slight metallic click, a cough, or the least human sound could bring Nguyen’s battalion crashing down on them.
Ahead of him, Jim’s fist went up. The patrol halted, and Gene watched Jim go forward to where Brian should be, at point.
Minutes passed. Two…three…And Jim returned. Hand signals came back. Visual contact had been made. Detour northwest. As indicated in the PLO, they’d keep the base camp to their right as they circled it. Jim had believed enemy patrols would be farther into the bush, and not just inside their own perimeter. The fastest and safest way for the squad would be to travel between the NVA patrols and Nguyen’s base camp.
Silently the SEALs, dark shadowy forms, moved left.
Now Gene could see the glow from the campfires, dim radiations through the tangled and dense jungle. He could hear them talking, but was too far away to distinguish individual words.
Jim signaled to Brian, fifty meters deeper.
Just a little too close, Gene thought.
Crack!
Branch broke. He froze. Came from just in front of him. Had anybody heard? Sweat rolled down his face and stung in his eyes. He wet his lips and tasted salt. Quiet. Not a sound.
They moved out, heading northeast, the camp now to their right rear. What they wanted now was more distance between them and Nguyen’s headquarters.
Listening to the sounds of the camp as they left, Gene took mental notes on its possible size, its location, how far away the squad would be come morning, and which way the NVA would come from to confront the planned diversion. The camp, he estimated, was some five hundred meters behind the squad now.
Again, Jim’s raised fist stopped them dead in their tracks.
Roland passed the signal back to him. Enemy patrol. The squad tracked them by their distance and direction.
Gene passed the signal to Cruz, behind him. Then, as Brian, Jim, and Roland had, he slowly turned his body to face left, and lifted the 60. You-O would signal Alex, who would signal Doc at rear security.
Gene strained to see. He could hear them now, but still couldn’t see. No, wait…there! Shit! First sported up front, some twenty to thirty meters away, they were now at about fifteen meters. Silhouettes. Had on helmets. NVA. Not Viet Cong. AK-47s. Moving back toward camp. They must be coming off patrol.
Don’t move, he commanded his body.
Now, at ten meters, the enemy was weaving separately through the area. Their weapons appeared to be at the ready. None of them talking, none smoking.
Don’t move, he commanded himself. Don’t breathe. Think black. Become the jungle. He willed himself into invisibility, willed the patrol to pass.
Crack!
He chilled, every hair standing, then realized that this time the sound, though again from in front of the squad, came from farther away.
The NVA patrol stopped short, looked left, and headed that way, toward the sound’s location. Once they were out of sight, the SEALs moved on.
Flexing his shoulders under the weight of the bandoliers of ammo, Gene let out a long, slow breath. A little too close for comfort. The objective couldn’t be much farther. They didn’t have but a few hours left to get there and get set. They’d busted their asses just to get as far as they had.
Roland, a shadowy, dark form, seemed to drift out of the dark place ahead and into another one. Gene followed him.
Damn. So close, yet so far until dawn. Keep moving, h
e told himself. Nguyen’s out there…The phrase ran through his mind continually. The closer they got, the more his hatred built, the more frequent the images of Willie in the body bag.
Jim stopped the patrol.
Looking hard, Gene could just make out the small flickers of dying campfires in the distance. He shivered. This was it. They’d made it.
Moving very slowly, the squad started out again, aware of every detail of their surroundings. It grew easy to see the small lean-tos sheltering the sleeping enemy. They were dark forms against the glow of burning embers. But it was the majority of men, hidden in the shadows behind bushes or just sacked out on the ground, who concerned him. If any of the squad stumbled on one of the sleepers, it would be over in the blink of an eye. The SEALs would die, like the soldiers at that eerie fort on the way to th? NVA’s R&R Center. Strange how that fort kept coming to mind. Spooky.
They were northwest of the area, keeping it on their right, just as they had with the base camp earlier. It was slow going and time ticked away. Seeing the fires ahead left no doubt in Gene’s mind that they were at the target area. The intel for the op had been extremely accurate, thank Christ. Now, if the location of the colonel’s hootch and the communications hootch was equally accurate…Time was getting critical.
They were still heading northwest. The targets were northeast of their location, and the camp area was too large to detour around. They’d have to move through it, as planned in case that scenario arose.
Seconds later, the squad changed direction. They were going straight through.
Moving with great caution so as not to disturb the sleeping enemy, the squad ghosted through the center of the camp. All weapons were trained on the sprawled men lying on the ground under the lean-tos.
The 60’s weight, and the nine hundred belted rounds, cut into Gene’s shoulders. No time to think about what-ifs—it was too late. He had to think light, like a feather drifting on a cool summer’s night. He moved smoothly and silently, weaving ever so carefully through.
Ahead, twelve hootches dotted a six-hundred-square-meter clearing. They skirted around its edge, using the shadows and dark jungle foliage.
Fifty minutes more, and the shit would hit the fan. Not far now, Gene thought, his attention focused on two hootches set apart, about twenty meters from the north side of the clearing’s edge. They needed to get around to them, without any enemy waking. It was a real quiet area. With their patrols out on the far perimeter, and the base camp at least three-quarters of a mile away, the enemy must feel damned safe here. There weren’t even any roving guards. He moved into another shadow.
It was too perfect. Maybe knowing he had the province chief on the take, and that the chief would keep out all military action, the colonel had let his guard down. Gene breathed carefully, controlling even that, as he set each foot down.
But maybe information on their op had leaked out, and they were moving deeper and deeper into a death trap. He cut off the thought.
Almost directly behind the two hootches, the squad slowed down, then stopped to look and listen for movement. Any movement at all.
Gene caught Jim’s signal to disappear and become one with the earth. As one, the squad eased their bodies into the heavy brush and were gone from sight.
All they could do now, Gene thought, was wait. Wait to see if the diversion would work. Would Nguyen stay behind? Would the helos be on time? If they were late by five minutes, it would be day, and they’d surely be detected. They had nowhere to run, and limited ammo. If it hit the fan, they’d never see tomorrow, but they’d take as many NVA with them as they could. Even Doc.
He stared at the two hootches. The man he hated so much lay peacefully sleeping inside one of them. He concentrated, sending a silent message that he was there, and wondered if the colonel could hear him talking in his dreams. Today, Nguyen would meet his maker.
From his position, Gene could make out the rest of the squad. Except for Roland, they were all facing the hootches. Roland faced to their rear and guarded their backs.
Minutes ticked past. Only a few remained until the choppers were due. He listened intently and finally heard the very faint hum, not of insects, but of rotor blades. Lots of them.
Be still, Gene warned himself. Be still. The helos were coming closer and closer. And louder. He heard movement around the hootches and talking. Then thirty to forty NVA ran for cover in the jungle’s edge. There was movement behind the squad’s position. If they weren’t well concealed, he thought, they had seconds to live.
The helos came in from the south and aimed for the landing zone, flying high so they’d be seen. As the first wave of seven peeled down, Gene thrilled with pride. Gunships broke formation and circled the landing choppers. Perfect to the second. At the same instant, dawn broke on the horizon.
Orders were being given, and enemy troops surrounded them. Five thousand to seven…
The gunships opened up. It sounded like World War III had erupted half a mile away. The NVA hit it, running toward the landing zone. Man, Gene thought, look at them all. It was still too dark to make out more than forms running to the east, but there were a lot of them. Making a helluva noise yelling. The choppers were drawing heavy fire.
He focused on the hootches, where armed men were standing, and hoped the squad stayed undetected for the next ten minutes. One man ran toward another, who was standing alone, off to the side of the first hootch. The standing man yelled at the runner when he stopped, slapped his face, and pointed toward the landing zone. The runner took off.
And Gene suddenly realized the solitary man had to be Nguyen. It’s you, he thought. It’s you! He sized the enemy up. Nguyen was taller than most Vietnamese—five ten or five eleven, maybe 170 pounds. His muscles were the long, hard, ropy kind, his movements smooth and fast. As a former Vietnamese SEAL, he was no doubt a black belt in tae kwon do. He’d smacked that guy like a striking snake. Just wham!
Head tipped downward so the whites of his eyes didn’t show, Gene studied Nguyen and felt the slow burn of his hatred fueling the desire for Nguyen’s neck in his hands. No matter what training the murderous bastard had, he could take him, if he ever got his hands on him.
The OV-10s opened up with their 20mm cannons and all hell broke loose half a mile away.
It was deafening with the heavy automatic weapons, explosions, the gunfire, and yelling to the left, but there was no movement around them.
Click…click.
At the finger snaps, he turned his head to see Jim’s signal.
Slowly, slowly, he left the concealing jungle, hoping no NVA were behind them while they crept out. Every man in the squad knew what his next steps would be as they all moved in on the objective. He smiled to himself. Their hard target. His. And he thought, Colonel, you’re mine. They were going to pull it off.
Jim signaled Roland to make contact with their Sea Wolves. Without hesitation, Roland switched his radio on, and at the same time Jim waved the squad forward. They had less than ten minutes to make the hit and get out.
Brian and Jim ran toward the hootch on the left, leaving Roland to cover the rear and make the contact with the Wolves for the squad’s pickup and extraction. Doc, You-O, and Alex were to take out the communications hootch, while Gene had orders to deliver heavy fire at any resistance from either hootch.
As they sprinted the thirty meters to the backs of the hootches, four of the six guards were visible, as was Brian’s target, the colonel, still standing apart from the others.
Amazingly, their attention drawn toward the sounds of gunfire, none of the enemy saw or heard the SEALs coming. Gene hadn’t believed they’d be able to cover the thirty meters without having to open up. They had. Without signals, as if they’d rehearsed it, the squad stepped out simultaneously from behind the hootches and opened up on the bodyguards.
Nguyen ran, and Brian took off in pursuit.
“Fuck!”
Gene spun, saw Doc on the ground, and cut loose on the communications hootch, r
ipping it to shreds with the 60.
Doc got to his feet.
“You okay?” Gene called.
“Yeah.”
“Set security,” Jim yelled. “Roland, get the Wolves in here. Now! We need them. Now!”
Brian shouted, “I’ve got him! He tried to duck into a tunnel.”
The squad set security in a circle, fifteen meters away from Jim, in the center. Brian was yelling at Nguyen to move, trying to drag the colonel to Jim’s location.
“Gene,” Jim yelled, “help Brian. Roland, get over here with the radio. Where are the Wolves?”
“On their way.”
“How far out?”
“Five minutes,” Gene heard, running to assist Brian. But when he came face-to-face with Nguyen, he shook with a sudden fury. Once they’d made their move on the hootches, he’d momentarily forgotten about killing the colonel, caught up in the execution of tactics. Now he went cold.
Brian was struggling to handcuff the colonel. Without thought, Gene hit Nguyen harder than he’d ever hit anything or anyone. The blow lifted Nguyen off the ground and rocked him back three feet.
With the colonel lying dazed on the ground, Gene stood over him, shifted the 60, and reached for his bowie.
“Gene, don’t!”
He twisted away from Brian’s grip on his arm and looked him in the eyes. “Stand off.”
“Jim,” Brian yelled, “get over here!”
The bowie hissed from its sheath. Gene knelt over Nguyen, grabbed a handful of his hair, and lifted his head to expose his throat. A single sweep of his blade, and Nguyen’s head would be severed from his neck.
He stared into the colonel’s dark eyes. “You sonofabitch.”
Nguyen hissed at him. “Dau-mau-mee!”
Gene brought the blade down and stopped it, barely breaking the skin at the side of Nguyen’s neck. He held it there.
“Gene!” Jim yelled.
“Wolves,” Roland shouted, “four minutes out.”
A gentle slice across the neck with the bowie would cut the carotid artery. Bloody death in less than a minute. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
Men in Green Faces Page 28