“Damn! This stuff is thick!” Booker’s voice floated up through the tangle of clicking bamboo poles to where Paul stood with his shotgun resting on his hip. “Are you guys ready up there?”
“Ready!” Mills answered from his side of the ravine.
Paul kept close track of Sergeant Booker’s slow progress by watching the tips of the bamboo sway as the sergeant pushed his way through the mass of interwoven stalks.
Two birds spooked fifteen meters in front of the human dog.
“Mine!” Mills fired as he yelled.
Pow! Pow!
The birds stopped their forward flight and crashed down in the waist-high elephant grass.
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“A double!” Sergeant Mills ran toward the spot where the birds had disappeared in the grass.
Lieutenant Bourne slowly lowered his shotgun from the ready position against his shoulder. He hadn’t fired for fear of hitting Mills. Paul dropped down on his calves and watched while the team medic retrieved his brace of birds. The lieutenant’s eyes automatically scanned the tops of the bamboo and along the edges of the ravine, mostly from professional instinct. Paul’s eyes stopped roving and locked on an object about twenty meters farther down the ravine and fifteen meters to the right of Sergeant Booker.
“Hey, Lieutenant! I’m coming up out of this shit for a break on your side!”
Booker started moving again toward Paul’s side of the ravine, but was having difficulty traveling in a straight line and wandered toward the object Paul had been staring at.
A black shape rose slowly a foot above the tops of the bamboo. Slowly the shape started to expand and sway gently from side to side. Sergeant Mills stood up from his kneeling position and held the two birds high up in the air so that Paul could see them, but the lieutenant’s attention was riveted on the swaying object. Booker abruptly changed directions, and when the black object turned to face the moving threat now heading directly toward it, Paul could see the cream-colored underbelly of the giant king cobra glistening in the morning light.
Cobra!” Paul raised his shotgun to his shoulder and yelled the warning down to Booker. “He’s right in front of you! Stop moving!”
The cobra started swaying slowly, flicking out its tongue, trying to sense the distance of the warm-blooded invader in its territory.
Pow! Pow! Pow!
Buckshot whizzed through the air inches above Paul’s head. Sergeant Booker was shooting wildly in the bamboo. Paul dropped down into a crouch and placed the front sight bead on the center of the cobra’s expanded hood.
Three more shots cracked in the morning air. The snake thrashed against the bamboo, causing the stalks to click together in a musical melody. Sergeant Booker broke through the bamboo tangle on the edge of the ravine as if the strong bamboo poles had been magically transformed into soft Kentucky bluegrass. Sweat covered the sergeant’s face and functioned as glue for the tiny pieces of yellow and green bamboo leaves clinging to his cheeks and neck like small leeches.
“Damn! I almost pissed my pants!” Booker’s eyes glanced down to check his crotch just in case he had. “Where’s that damn thing at?”
“Over there.” Paul pointed with the barrel of his shotgun. “It’s dying.”
“How in the hell did you see it from here?” Booker’s head kept turning as he checked the area around them.
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“It hooded at least a foot above the bamboo tops. I couldn’t miss seeing it.”
“A foot? Do you realize how long that bastard has to be in order to raise up that high?” Booker gasped. “A cobra can only raise one-third of its body off the ground!”
“What are you shooting at over there!” Sergeant Mills held his two birds above his head so that Booker could see them.
“Killed a cobra!” Booker waved at Mills to join them. “Come on around to this side!”
It took Sergeant Mills five minutes to walk around to where Paul and Booker stood watching the bamboo stalks moving below them in the ravine.
“I’m going down there and get that snake. I want to put its head in formaldehyde.” Mills dropped his brace of birds down next to Booker’s boots.
“You can go after that sucker by yourself!” Booker sat down in the grass.
“I’ll help.” Paul slipped down the side of the ravine behind Mills, who was following Booker’s trail through the thicket. The two soldiers moved with extreme caution when they neared the place they thought the snake was located.
“Those damn things travel in pairs!” Booker had transferred himself over to the hood of the jeep, and was calling to them through cupped hands.
Lieutenant Bourne paused for a second when he recalled reading somewhere in an animal encyclopedia something about cobras mating for life.
He pushed the bamboo aside in front of him using the barrel of the shotgun. He had moved about ten meters through the thick growth when he saw part of a black coil interwoven in the base of the bamboo, about a foot off the ground. Paul pointed the shotgun and fired. The shape twitched from the impact of the pellets, but displayed no motor movement. Paul carefully reached down, ready to jump backward if the deadly creature showed any signs of life, and wrapped his fingers over the still-warm body of the reptile.
“Found it!” Paul released his hold on the cobra. “Come over here and help, but be careful until we find its head.”
Sergeant Mills crashed through the clicking stalks until he neared Paul.
The head of the snake soon appeared at the medic’s feet, hidden in a knot of coils.
“I found its head!”
“Good! Let’s work from your end” The nearness of Paul’s voice startled the medic.
Paul and Mills worked for over twenty minutes unwinding the snake’s tangled and twisted body from the stalks of young bamboo.
Sergeant Booker reluctantly left the false safety the hood of the jeep provided and went over to the edge of the ravine to help Paul and Sergeant Mills.
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“This damn thing is slippery as snail slime! Ugghhh!” Booker gingerly took a hold of the shiny black reptile and tugged.
Sergeant Mills scrambled up the side of the gorge and helped Booker heave the snake up on the bank. Paul followed close behind the medic.
“The dew really makes the skin shine.” Mills ran his hand along the coils.
“That is one beautiful and deadly bastard!” Paul rested the butt of his shotgun against his right hip and scanned the area around them just in case there was a mate nearby.
“Let’s get it in the back of the jeep and take it to my clinic in camp. I want to measure it and get the head preserved before it starts to decay.” Mills glanced up from the snake at Paul. “By the way, Lieutenant, that was some damn fine shooting.”
“Thanks.” Paul hopped in the jeep, avoiding any further praise.
“I owe you one, Lieutenant. You saved my ass back there.” Booker looked over at Paul out of the corner of his eye with a great deal more respect than he had shown before they had left for the hunt.
“Let’s get out of here.” Mills placed his shotgun across his knees. He sat in the back of the jeep with the snake piled up between his legs. “Watch out for its mate.” He smiled as he looked at Booker, who wasn’t going to recover from this hunt for quite a while.
The Montagnards jogged behind the jeep, jabbering in their local dialect to each other and pointing at the traditional enemy of the mountain people.
The small Montagnard warriors refused to ride in the jeep with the snake, fearing that the spirit of the reptile would possess them.
Sergeant Booker guided the vehicle around the worst ruts in the perimeter road, but still managed to bounce the snake and passengers around in the jeep.
In front of t
he teamhouse, Mills unloaded his brace of birds first, hanging them over a steel post that supported the pile of sandbags by the door. Paul and Mills pulled the cobra out of the back of the jeep.
The beautiful snake was coated in a red layer of dust the instant it touched the ground.
Sergeant Mills used one of his steel medical tapes to measure the snake. The king cobra stretched out at nineteen feet, seven and a half inches. A full grown man could lose his fist in the snake’s mouth. A group of Montagnard children were drawn up to their natural foe with wide-open eyes. At least one child from the village every year would end up as a victim to a cobra bite.
“I bet quite a few stray camp rats have lost their lives to that creature!”
Captain Pellam joined the group that was standing around the cobra. “He’s probably been hanging around Duc Co since it was built.”
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“Tell me about it!” Booker’s fear of the snake was temporarily placed aside.
“He almost had my ass for breakfast, but thanks to the lieutenant, the snake is dead instead of me.”
Pellam glanced over at his new XO and nodded his head in approval.
“Maybe we can roast the snake for supper.” Mills joked as he tied the snake’s head to an engineer post and prepared to remove the skin. “We can invite those artillery officers down the road to come for supper.”
The other team members laughed while the captain thought for a second and then spoke. “I just might do that, Mills . . . They would shit!”
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3
Sergeant Mills had cured and nailed the king cobra skin to the wall behind the teamhouse bar. The effect made the skin look even longer than its nearly twenty feet. The rest of the bar’s decor was very masculine, with Montagnard hand-forged knifes and crossbows hanging from the rafters.
Lieutenant Bourne sat in one of the bamboo chairs near the screened window cleaning his CAR-15 submachine gun. The bright sunlight filtered through the rattan-covered window, making a checkered pattern on the floor at Paul’s feet. Sergeant Mills entered the room through the kitchen entrance, wearing a sweat-soaked drive-on rag around his forehead to keep the sweat from running into his eyes. The camouflaged tiger-stripe jacket he wore was completely saturated with his body sweat.
“Days like today make you wish for the monsoon rains.” Mills opened the small white Japanese-built refrigerator and removed a cold can of beer from the stacked shelf. He pulled the tab and kicked the door shut at the same time. “Want one, sir?”
“No thanks . . .” Paul pushed in the locking pin with his thumb and tested to see if the breech was closed firmly on his CAR-15. “I have to go over to the Montagnard village and see the chief.”
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“Let me finish this beer and I’ll go with you. The headman’s youngest wife has a severe case of intestinal worms and she’s seven months pregnant with her first child.”
Bourne finished rubbing in the fine coat of oil on his weapon, using the palm of his hand. He picked his thirty-round magazine off the floor and checked the edges for any wear, and after finding none pushed the clip into the weapon’s receptacle and then wiggled it to ensure that it had locked firmly in place. Paul stood up and slung the submachine gun upside down over his shoulder, hooking the front site blade behind his pistol holster.
“Ready?”
“Yes, sir. I just have to stop in my room for a minute and grab my shotgun and medical kitbag.”
The two men stepped out into the hot sun and instantly felt the heat against the back of their jackets. The distinct sound of a helicopter rotor blade could be heard coming from the east side of camp. Both men automatically turned their heads and looked in the clear sky for the aircraft.
“Sounds like the captain is returning from the B-Team early today.”
Sergeant Mills squinted his eyes to protect them from the bright glare as he scanned the sky above the treetops for the chopper.
“I’ll go get the jeep and we can meet him on the runway. The Ol’ man told me last night that we might be having some special company when he returned.” Paul jogged over to the sandbag enclosure and slipped behind the wheel of the jeep.
He stopped in front of the teamhouse just long enough for Mills to throw his medical kit onto the rear seat and hop in next to him. They arrived on the airstrip just as a silver helicopter appeared low over the treetops at the far end of the long runway. The aircraft drew closer and Paul could read the large letters that had been painted on the removable doors: Air America.
“Looks as if the captain has hitched a ride with a civilian contractor, sir.”
The blades of the helicopter were turning slowly when Paul pulled the jeep up next to it—after he had waited a couple of minutes for the traditional red dust cloud to take its place back on the runway. Captain Pellam exited the left door, which was nearest to the jeep. A tall thin man wearing a lightweight two-piece suit, penny loafers, and mirrored sunglasses stepped around the front of the parked aircraft. Paul noticed a slight, almost undetectable bulge under the man’s left armpit. He had a very good tailor. The man walked straight to the jeep and extended his hand to shake with Paul.
“LeBlonde.” His voice sounded as if his vocal cords had been sandpapered.
“Lieutenant Bourne . . . and this is our team medic . . . Sergeant Mills.”
Paul shook the older man’s hand and nodded at the sergeant.
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LeBlonde changed his hard gaze back to the helicopter and watched two men unload a heavy-looking aluminum box. The men strained from the weight of the cargo they were moving and bent forward trying to gain lever-age, causing the Swedish K submachine guns strung over their shoulders to slip forward and hit the metal box.
LeBlonde returned his attention back to Sergeant Mills. “I know quite a bit about you.” LeBlonde adjusted his sunglasses. “You graduated first in your Special Forces medical class and your brother died last year from an overdose of heroin.” The last sentence was tacked onto the first, catching Mills off guard.
“I didn’t catch what you said that you did for a living . . . Mister LeBlonde.”
The tone of Mills’s voice reflected the anger he was containing and stated that he didn’t want the conversation to continue concerning his family.
“Mister LeBlonde will tell you both what’s going on here later, when we get up to the teamhouse. Right now, let’s get our asses out of this damn heat!”
Captain Pellam looked more nervous than hot.
“They’ll find out soon enough . . .” LeBlonde lowered his glasses and looked down his nose at Sergeant Mills. “I’m a field agent for the Central Intelligence Agency . . . the CIA.”
Bourne and Mills had already figured out on their own that he was an agency man the second they had laid eyes on him and his buddies struggling with the aluminum box. What they hadn’t figured out was what they wanted with them and the Duc Co Special Forces Camp.
“Oh really?” Sergeant Mills clicked his tongue and opened his eyes wide, similar to those of a child looking through a candy store window.
“Your bodyguards can ride in the back of the jeep if there’s enough room.”
Captain Pellam slid over to the far side of the narrow rear seat leaving room for only one of the men who had arrived with the senior agent, so one of the bodyguards took a seat on the hood of the jeep. The man kept changing positions as the heat penetrated through the seat of his thin civilian pants.
LeBlonde smiled and looked at Paul. “We know that you’ve just spent some time near Malibu, California, and you have a good friend back there who’s growing marijuana back in Topanga Canyon.”
Paul interru
pted the agent’s speech. “Look . . . I’m sure you people know a lot about what I’ve done and haven’t done . . . it’s really obvious that you make it your business sticking your fuckin’ noses where they don’t belong! I don’t appreciate you flapping your gums here in front of everybody what I consider rather private information!” Paul’s eyes flashed silver, reflecting the anger that had rapidly built up behind them.
“Just a damn minute, Lieutenant!” Captain Pellam spoke. “Mister LeBlonde has a military rating equivalent to a Brigadier General! Show some respect!”
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“Then he should act like one.” Paul placed his attention on his driving and ignored LeBlonde the rest of the drive to the teamhouse. The brakes created the only sound when they stopped in front of the high sandbag wall surrounding the makeshift showers.
Captain Pellam was the first one to jump from the vehicle and led the way for LeBlonde’s entourage. “Sergeant Mills . . . help the men put away their gear and then join us in the bar.” Pellam spoke over his shoulder as he disappeared down the breeze-cooled corridor that split the teamhouse. Paul brought up the rear of the group, watching LeBlonde closely as he entered through the doorway. There was no doubt the intelligence agent was a professional and probably one of the best that the CIA had to offer.
The group that had gathered around the kitchen table was hand-picked: Captain Pellam, Sergeant Mills, Lieutenant Bourne, and LeBlonde—all had taken seats along the back wall with the agent’s bodyguards taking up positions at the entrances to the room. Paul took a sip from his cold Shasta orange. Of all the different kinds of canned soda peddled in Vietnam, Shasta orange was the only one that tasted good when it was warm.
“We only have time to go over this one time, so please pay close attention
. . .” LeBlonde took up a comfortable position leaning against the homemade china cabinet that dominated the kitchen area and separated the bar from the eating section. He reached up to his face and removed his sunglasses.
Eagles Cry Blood Page 5