by Mike Jenne
Henson zipped open his M5 medical bag and pulled out a pair of scissors. He snipped through the blood-soaked pressure dressings and cut the sleeve from Bao Trung’s shirt to expose his shoulder. Using a slender metal rod and tweezers, he probed the fresh wound. Listening with a stethoscope, he squeezed Bao Trung’s brown deltoid muscle.
“How does it look?” asked Glades.
“Not good, baby,” replied Henson, shaking his head. “I’m hearing a grating noise. Your bullet impacted bone and probably damaged some nerve tissue as well.” Bao Trung winced sharply and grunted as the medic pried the wound open with a pair of stainless steel retractors. “What a grisly damned mess this is. See all that purple goop in there, Nestor? The stuff that looks kind of like chewed-up hamburger?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s devitalized tissue. It’s dead, shredded by the bullet’s shock wave. I can clean him up a bit and excise some of this, but if he doesn’t make it to a surgeon soon, he’s going to lose this arm, especially if infection sets into the bone. It’s just about as likely that he’ll die from shock, even though I have his blood loss under control for the moment.” Henson packed the wound with bulk sterile cotton before applying a fresh dressing.
“So your diagnosis is?” asked Glades.
“Nestor, I’ll tend to him as best as I can, but it’s likely he’ll die no matter what I do. It’s almost dead certain he’ll die if we try to haul his ass to our pick-up site. That’s not to mention the wear and tear that our guys will sustain if you insist on carrying him out.”
“So this gook’s going to die?” whispered Finn sarcastically. “Good riddance, so long as we yank some good intel out of him before he kicks the bucket.”
“At ease, Finn,” scolded Glades, mashing a mosquito on his neck.
As Henson checked the prisoner for other injuries, he nudged Glades and pointed out previous wounds in the officer’s abdomen and calf. “This guy’s been around,” he noted. “Those wounds are at least six months old.”
After Henson did what he could do, Hieu lifted up Bao Trung and flopped his upper body against a rucksack. Scowling and softly gnashing his teeth, Hieu spooned moist clumps of rice and rehydrated shrimp into Bao Trung’s mouth. The North Vietnamese officer ravenously wolfed down every bite as if it was his last meal. Perhaps he suspected that it was.
When the plastic bag was empty, Glades said, “Chow time is over. Dai Uy, he’s all yours.”
While Quan quietly interrogated the prisoner, Glades pondered yet another dilemma. Soon, Dinh would shinny up a tree to string an antenna and then tune up his radio, in preparation to send a status update to Da Nang. Glades would script the message, encrypt it using WW II vintage “one-time” cipher pads, and then give it to Dinh to transmit.
The process should all be straight forward, but Glades was leery about how much he should report. He didn’t know the source of the leak, and if he reported his current location and plans, someone might immediately feed the information to the NVA. Glades suspected that the culprit was likely Major Lahn, and that he surely would be in the operations center with Coleman, helping to update the tactical situation map.
Obviously, the NVA wanted the pilot in the worst way. Glades decided that he would submit his report after Quan finished his chat with Bao Trung, but he would not provide his correct location unless the team fell into significantly dire straits. It was just too risky to do otherwise, since he wasn’t sure who he could trust.
Glades was not one to abandon a mission, regardless of how the odds were stacked. Despite their compromise, he was optimistic that they could still salvage the rescue if the pilot had not yet been captured. It would be dark again in a few hours, so they could operate in their favored element. They could return to the area where the pilot was hiding, perhaps aided by more detailed intelligence, and grab him. There were still loose ends to tie. He had to decide what to do with the prisoner, since they obviously couldn’t carry him along if he continued the mission. Of course, with what Henson described, that unpleasant situation could very well resolve itself before the sun went down.
There was yet another loose end that bothered Glades. In his years of playing at this high stakes cat-and-mouse game, he had not developed a single sixth sense, but had cultivated several. He knew when he was being pursued, even in situations where there wasn’t an enemy hot at his heels. But now, as he reclined on this spongy ground, he just didn’t feel that nagging sensation that they were being chased. Certainly, he was relieved, but in a strange way, it troubled him that the NVA must know that the team was here, in their land, and yet there was no sign that they were aggressively on the hunt.
Quan tapped Glades on the shoulder, and indicated that Bao Trung was forthcoming with some useful information. The lieutenant claimed that he was assigned to a recently formed infantry regiment stationed nearby. Yesterday, they had been yanked from the rifle ranges, loaded onto trucks, and sent to search for two American pilots who had parachuted from a jet.
Bao Trung stated that he didn’t know if the evading pilots had been captured, but when and if they were, they would surely be taken to a nearby camp, at least on a temporary basis. He stated that the camp held no other American US prisoners, but was a reeducation facility primarily for South Vietnamese pilots and commandos. Communicating through Quan, he related some other details, most of which were essentially inconsequential.
“Good job, Dai Uy,” commented Glades. “But tell him that I have a specific question for him.” He spread out the captured map on the soggy moss and pointed at the link-up site marked in pencil. “Ask him where he acquired this information.”
“Damn it,” muttered Finn softly. “They knew exactly where we were. We are so screwed.”
Bao Trung swallowed deeply and then whispered something in Quan’s ear.
“He swears he doesn’t know,” stated Quan. “He claims that his regimental commander gave him those coordinates, and told him that the American pilot would be located there.”
“So he has absolutely no idea where this information came from?” asked Glades.
A brief whispered exchange passed between Quan and Bao Trung. The prisoner’s face was frantic; he shook his head repeatedly.
“He still claims that he doesn’t know,” said Quan. “I think he’s hiding something. I can pull it out of him, if you’ll allow me.”
“No,” reiterated Glades. “He may be hiding something, but I think he’s probably telling the truth about the spot on the map.”
Writhing, Bao Trung groaned, clutched his shoulder and whispered something to Quan.
“He claims that he’s suffering a great deal of pain,” explained Quan.
“I don’t doubt it,” said Glades. “Matt, tag him with some morphine, but don’t overdo it.”
As Henson prepared a syrette of morphine, Dinh removed his earphones and held them so that Dai Uy Quan could listen. Consulting the list of NVA code words, Quan pronounced, “Bad news. Enemy trackers have located your pilot. They’ve surrounded him and are moving in other forces to block his escape if he attempts to run.”
“Where?” asked Glades, checking his AK-47.
Dihn scribbled down some coordinates and handed them to Quan. The Vietnamese captain referred to the code word list and pointed at location on the NVA map. “Here,” he said. “That’s about five kilometers from us.”
Glades studied the map, tugged his rucksack onto his broad shoulders, and slid his feet into the dark water. “Up,” he ordered, without hesitation. “We’re moving.”
“What will we do with him?” asked Henson, still holding the unused foil syrette of morphine.
Finn unsnapped a leather shoulder holster and drew a High Standard .22 caliber pistol fitted with a silencer. “I’ll fix this mess for you, Nestor. Someone has to do what has to be done. We’ll dispose of this business here and now.”
Glades swiveled to face Finn and tugged the pistol from his hand. “No, Ulf. He’s our prisoner. Like it or not, we’ve taken
him under our protection, so we’re going to safeguard him. Period. Now, get ready to move.”
Finn holstered the pistol, shrugged into his rucksack, and stepped into the water. “I think this is a bad idea, Nestor, especially if you’re still planning to go after the pilot.”
Flanked by the SMS sergeants, Quan frowned and said, “If you don’t have the stomach for this, Glades, walk away. We’ll take care of it and catch up.”
Recalling what Henson had said, Glades could not help but think they were right. The North Vietnamese officer was in a bad state and probably would die before the sun fell from the sky. It was futile to think that he might live, just as it was equally pointless to believe that they might successfully rescue the pilot even as the NVA were closing on him.
Glades thought of the picture Bao Trung carried. He had conditioned Deirdre to expect an empty casket at his funeral, but he didn’t think that Bao Trung’s young wife deserved a similar fate. “If we leave him here, he won’t be found. We’ll take him to the edge of the swamp.”
“But, Nestor…” whispered Finn.
“We’re not leaving him here,” hissed Glades, not wavering in the least. “Hand him to me. I’ll tote him.”
Henson jammed the syrette’s needle into Bao Trung’s thigh. After injecting the potent narcotic, he put on his rucksack, slipped into the water beside the others, and hoisted the diminutive NVA officer onto his broad shoulders. “Nestor, you can spell me when I get tired,” he said softly, picking up his weapon from the hummock. “In the meantime, you can lead us the hell out of here.”
12:59 p.m.
Slightly more than three miles distant, crouched in an almost impenetrable bamboo grove, Carson was not yet aware of his tenuous situation. He watched the second hand sweep the face of his Breitling chronograph. At exactly the top of the hour, he switched on his survival radio, pressed it to his ear, and listened for two minutes. He heard nothing but silence.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself. He switched off the radio and stowed it in his torso harness. He had heard the nearby firefight this morning and surmised that his rescuers had been compromised. A pair of Navy attack jets had flown over exactly at noon to tell him to stay put, continue monitoring the radio on the hour, and to wait for further instructions. If nothing else, he had picked an excellent place to lie up. It had taken him most of the day to wriggle into the middle of this dense thicket. It was all but bulletproof, and he imagined that he could linger here indefinitely if need be.
Of course, there were a few drawbacks, he reflected as he scratched a maze of welts on his arms. The green bamboo was covered with a dust-like fuzz that was more aggravating than any itching powder. Besides that, it had been several hours since he had drained the last can of drinking water packed in his kit. He recalled that there was some technique to draw water from old bamboo but couldn’t remember exactly what it entailed. He was sure that it involved hacking or cutting, and as parched as he was, he couldn’t risk drawing his survival knife and making a racket. He looked up into the sky through the lush foliage, saw a passing cloud, and desperately wished for rain.
His temples throbbed with a headache. To pass the time, Carson lightly fanned himself as he watched a column of black ants scour the carcass of an enormous horned beetle. Sprawled on the hard black ground, he was drowsy, on the verge of sleep, when he was startled by the ominous sound of an NVA officer or a sergeant shouting instructions. He heard bamboo stalks cracking and falling as the machete-wielding NVA troops tentatively explored the thick stand.
Almost thirty minutes passed as the NVA soldiers painstakingly worked their way into the core of the bamboo. Making ready to run, Carson drew his pistol. His heart pounded as he clutched the Browning High Power in trembling sweaty hands.
Finally, he glimpsed someone through a narrow gap between green bamboo stalks. It was a teenaged soldier wearing a brand new uniform, tightly gripping a machete in one hand and a bayonet-fitted SKS carbine in the other hand. The sweat-drenched kid stopped momentarily, took off his pith helmet, and wiped his brow.
After over twenty-four hours on the run, Carson was weary and dehydrated, but not at all ready to give up. Listening to excited voices in all directions, he was certain that the stand of bamboo was encircled by enemy soldiers. He looked down at his pistol and remembered that its large magazine held thirteen 9mm rounds. Surely there were more than thirteen enemy soldiers lurking in wait, and although he might kill an unfortunate few, he speculated that it was just as likely he would accomplish nothing but to enrage the rest.
He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. He thought of Ourecky, and wondered if his cerebral friend could dredge up a mathematical formula or engineering solution that would deliver him from this predicament. More so than anything else, he was relieved that Ourecky had not followed him here.
And now, as he considered the odds of whether he might survive this day or even the next minute, Carson wondered what good might come from killing a few kids in a last-ditch show of resistance. Suddenly, the adolescent NVA soldier pushed aside a dead bamboo stalk; as he and Carson locked eyes, he dropped the machete and his mouth flew open in a howling shriek. Like Western gunfighters locked in a quick-draw confrontation, the kid raised his carbine and Carson raised his pistol.
1:12 p.m.
Glades signaled for the wading men to halt. Noting that the stagnant water was hitting him about mid-calf, he consulted his map; in less than half a klick—five hundred meters—they should be walking on dry land again. He turned to look at the faces of the other men. The only sounds were mosquitoes buzzing and a pair of noisy birds squawking nearby.
The stillness was shattered by several staccato bursts of gunfire to the northwest. “That’s pretty damned close,” whispered Henson. “Maybe two klicks away at most.”
Frightened by the noise, several small deer scurried past the men toward the safety of the swamp. They bounded effortlessly, scarcely even making a splash. They paused momentarily, communicated amongst themselves in faint whistles, and then continued on.
The men cautiously knelt down to listen, but the shooting was over as rapidly as it had begun. An anxious expression passed over Dinh’s face. He quietly clicked his tongue, held up his hand, and then pointed at his earphones with the other hand. He apparently had overheard something on the NVA’s radio net. He listened intently for a minute and then shook his head. He studied the list of captured NVA code words and then spoke quietly to Quan.
“The enemy just killed your pilot,” relayed Quan, speaking quietly. “I’m very sorry.”
“Is he sure?” demanded Glades. His stomach sank.
“He is,” replied Quan solemnly.
Glades shook his head. Struggling against the weight of his rucksack and the unsure footing, he climbed to his feet. He signaled for the men to follow him, and led them out of the water. About thirty minutes later, he located a place for them to temporarily halt on the fringes of the swamp. If the pilot was dead, their prospects weren’t likely to improve any time soon. The NVA surely knew that the rescue team was still operating in their backyard, so they would likely shift their resources to kill or capture Glades and his men.
Henson slipped Bao Trung’s inert body from his shoulders and lowered him carefully to the dry ground. Relieved to be free of his burden, he took in a deep breath and exhaled quietly. Glades sat on the ground next to him, looked at the captive, and asked, “How is he?”
“Still breathing,” replied Henson. “I’m really surprised. He must be like one of those Timex watches you see on TV: takes a licking and keeps on ticking.”
Dinh continued to listen to the NVA’s tactical frequencies while Finn monitored another radio. He leaned towards Glades, held out a handset and said, “Gull Wing just came up. They said they have critical traffic in two minutes. For your ears only.”
Glades nodded, took the handset, and listened. After listening to the brief message, he passed the handset back to Finn and waved for the others to draw in clo
se. After they clustered tightly around him, he softly announced, “Gull Wing confirmed that the pilot is dead.”
He paused sufficiently to allow Quan to translate for Dinh and Hieu, and then added, “We’ve been ordered to execute the extraction plan. We’ll hunker here until nightfall, and then we’ll head south to the coast to the link-up site. Once we’re there, we’ll call for pick-up by boat.”
He continued. “The bad guys know we’re here, so we need to be ready for a fight. We have a couple of hours until nightfall. I want everyone to take turns lightening their load. From here on, we’ll only carry the bare essentials to fight our way out of here. We’ll cache the rest back in the swamp. Finn, you and Henson will go first while the rest of us pull security.”
As Quan spoke to the SMS sergeants in Vietnamese, Glades opened his rucksack and extracted the waterproof bag that contained the uniform, flag, bartering kit and other gear they would have given the pilot. Crestfallen, he tossed the bag to Finn. “Here. We obviously don’t need that stuff anymore. Sink it.”
Finn hefted the bag and replied, “Nestor, there’s gold in here, remember? The bartering kit? You’re not going to leave that loot behind, are you?”
Checking over his AK-47, Glades leaned toward Finn and replied, “If you expect to survive today, you need to focus on hauling your stupid ass to the pick-up site. As for the gold, I don’t see us dickering our way out of any firefights. If you’re going to weigh yourself down, carry stuff that’s going to kill people and shed the rest.”
“How about him?” asked Henson, looking towards Bao Trung. The Vietnamese lieutenant’s glassy eyes were now open, but he was groggy from the loss of blood and clearly numb from the morphine. “Are you still planning to haul him out?”
Shaking his head, Glades pointed at the map. “No. There’s a foot trail about four hundred meters south of here. At nightfall, we’ll drop him there so he’ll be found by his own people.”
“Nestor, you know damned well he’s going to talk to his people when he’s found,” replied Henson. “Then we’re screwed.”