Lieutenant Bourne maintained a steady course toward Co Roc all morning. He traveled slower than the day before, stopping often to listen to the jungle. The sun was tilting toward the west when Paul reached the western base of the prominent terrain feature. The mountain had a sheer cliff face on its eastern side, but the western slope was a gradual incline covered with open rocky patches and fields of elephant grass. Paul slowed his pace, the extra pull of the slope against his legs telling him that he was getting very tired. Paul moved through the eight-foot-high grass and low shrubs, carefully, in a half-circle to the southernmost edge of the mountain that touched the river. He spotted a small strip of welcome shade between the cliff front and the shallow river, and edged around the rocks, watching out for snakes as he angled toward the natural crevice.
“You must really be getting old. Lieutenant.”
Paul’s breath caught in his throat. He turned quickly, bringing his CAR-15 up, and came full face with Sergeant Mills, who was perched up on a rock next to the cliff.
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“How in the hell . . . ?” Paul had been caught cold. The rest of his team appeared in the shadows when his eyes adjusted to the lower light. All of them were wearing impish grins.
“Remember Pra-Teup?” Mills maintained his grin. “He moves as well at night as he does in the daylight.” Mills beckoned for Paul to join him in the shadows. “Shit! I thought that I was a hot recon man. These three guys gave me lessons traveling through the jungle at night that I’m still wondering about.”
The Meo tribesmen beamed over the American’s compliment.
Mauk spoke, “You are a very good also . . . Much better than NVA soldiers.”
“We had better stop talking so much or the whole world will know where we’re at.” The voices of his men seemed unnaturally loud to Paul after the soli-tude of the jungle, yet everyone had been whispering.
“No sweat, Lieutenant. We’ve checked the area pretty good.” Mills pointed up the cliff wall. “The NVA have a lookout position about three clicks away. The rest of the area is clean.”
Paul stood up from the squatting position he had taken in the shade. “We had better start moving toward Lang Vei . . . it’s not far from here and we can cross the river in the shadow from the mountain.”
“You must go alone,” Mauk pointed in the direction of the Special Forces A-Camp. “We are going north to join up with our people.” The Meo tribesman was speaking for the three of them. LeBlonde had used Paul’s mission as a ruse to insert a special agent team.
“I hope we will meet again.” Paul shook hands with each of the men. His eyes reflected the fellowship he felt for the mountain tribesmen.
The two parties disappeared along the river edge, going in opposite directions. Paul paused after a few meters next to a natural ford across the knee-deep river. The shadow from the mountain wasn’t dark enough for the crossing, so the two recon men took up hiding positions in the rocks until nightfall.
The cool river water reached a little past Paul’s knees. They had waited seven hours to make the five-minute river crossing. Paul crawled through the thick underbrush lining the Vietnamese side of the river, followed by Mills.
Mills crawled up next to Paul and cupped his hand next to the lieutenant’s ear. “Hear them?”
Paul listened, and heard the dogs baying about fifteen hundred meters away. Paul knew that the jungle was famous for distorting sound and fooling the listener.
“Let’s move,” Paul bent over low to the ground so that he could see the outline of the trees and thickets in the moonlight. A hundred meters from the riverbank Paul stepped out into a large field of elephant grass as high as his shoulders. He paused and waited for Mills to catch up.
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“What luck,” Paul whispered in his sergeant’s ear. Hand signals didn’t work at night, so whispering was necessary. Mills shot an azimuth with his wrist compass and pointed the direction in which they needed to travel to reach the American camp.
The elephant grass covered the rolling hills for eight thousand meters, making travel easy for the two men. Paul picked up a shallow gully and followed it until he reached the end. Twenty meters to his front was the French-built Highway Nine, shimmering in the bright moonlight. Paul moved parallel with the east-west road, headed east toward the A-Camp and safety. He slowed his pace even though he wanted to go faster, because they were still dressed as NVA soldiers and he didn’t want to run into a night ambush from the camp. Three hours later they spotted the night lights of the A-Camp. Paul knelt in the grass and pointed to a ridge running two hundred meters from the front gate. He decided that he would risk crawling close to the safety of the American position. He wanted to be in close enough to be protected from the camp’s periodic harassment fire from their 4.2-inch mortars, but far enough out so that they wouldn’t be detected by the perimeter guards. Paul knew the next couple of hours would be spent crawling on his stomach, but it was the only way they could approach the A-Camp dressed as enemy soldiers and not be shot on sight. First light brought movement around the sandbag bunkers that surrounded the camp as the guards changed for breakfast. The sun was almost directly over their heads when Paul tapped Mills’s leg with his boot to alert him and then stood up, leaving his CAR-15 lying in the grass.
“Cheiu-hoi! Cheiu-hoi!” Paul yelled the NVA surrender at the top of his lungs and stood waiting. The main gate flew open ten minutes later and two tall Americans followed by five well-armed Vietnamese walked cautiously toward Paul. The group paused a few feet outside the gate fearing an NVA ambush.
One of the Vietnamese called out to Paul.
“I’m an American soldier!” Paul could see the shock on the Americans’ faces.
The two Special Forces soldiers called for him to advance at the same time.
The effect almost made Paul laugh. “I have one more American with me! He’s lying in the grass and will get up now!” Mills stood slowly with his hands held above his head. The two recon men walked to the dirt road that led into the camp, then headed toward the waiting group.
“Damn! They are Americans!”
“I’m Lieutenant Paul Bourne and this is Sergeant Mills.” Paul kept his hands held high as he spoke, waiting for the rifles to be lowered by the camp guards.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch! They’re Americans dressed as gooks!” The shorter of the two Americans stepped forward holding out his hand. “Get your hands down . . . shit.”
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The Vietnamese, who didn’t fully understand what was going on, kept their weapons pointed at the two recon men.
“I’m Captain Blackmore and this is my XO, Lieutenant Jeb Hall.” The captain turned toward the open gate. “Let’s get the hell out of the sun and have a cold can of beer.”
“Sounds good to me, but first, let us go back and get our gear. We didn’t want to approach your camp carrying weapons.”
“That was one of your better ideas . . . The guards would have opened fire as soon as they saw you.” Blackmore stopped walking. “Where did you leave it?”
“Back there next to the road.”
Small-arms fire cracked over Paul’s head. The group dropped to the ground and crawled back through the gate toward the safety of the fighting bunkers. The camp’s .50-caliber heavy machine gun answered the NVA rifle fire with its deep-sounding thuds. Paul was glad that they had made their move when they had or the enemy patrol would have gotten too close and they would have been trapped in a crossfire from the camp and the NVA. The range of the .50-caliber forced the NVA to evacuate their positions and run for cover, chased by exploding mortar shells from the camp defenses.
Paul relaxed in the cool room and sipped from his cold beer. Mills had drank three Shasta strawberry sodas bef
ore Paul downed his first beer.
“Where are you all coming from?” The team captain had played the proper host, but was now ready for some answers. “Those NVA were tracking you, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” Paul pulled the tab on his second beer and then handed the captain a small card with a coded message written on it. “Sir, would you have your radioman send this message for me?”
“Sure . . .” The captain paused and turned back around to face Paul in his chair, “but stick around. I want some questions answered.”
“Believe me, captain, we’re not planning on going anywhere soon!” Mills crossed his legs and took a drink from his soda as the captain left the room.
“Mills, you did a super job out there.” Paul had rested his head against the back of his chair and sat with his eyes closed. He could almost feel the tension leaving his body.
“Bullshit! I didn’t do a damn thing except run. I’ll tell you, Lieutenant .
. . I thought your shit was going to be spread all over that clearing back there when ze ol’ Frenchie appeared with his pack. I could have warned you but a couple of minutes after you had left the clearing with the Frenchman, his people took off back into the jungle. That’s how we got out of there so fast. We went north and then headed straight east until we hit Co Roc.”
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“That bastard commie was working as a battalion commander for the NVA—” Paul stopped talking as the captain returned to the room.
“They’re sending a fucking Lear jet to pick you up!” “This is unbelievable!”
The team commander shook his head from side to side. “We have to leave now if we’re going to make it in time.”
Paul kept his beer and followed the captain out of the front door of the teamhouse to the waiting jeep that had his rucksack and CAR-15 on the back seat next to Mills’s gear. One of the other team members had driven out to where they had left it and picked it up for them. The captain drove them to the waiting helicopter and stopped. Paul could see the jealous look on the man’s face as they shook hands.
“Thanks for your hospitality and for getting our stuff for us . . . I owe you one.”
The captain nodded his head in acknowledgement and tried smiling.
The Lear jet touched down on the Marine runway twenty minutes after Paul and Mills had arrived in the Special Forces jeep at the Khe Shan encamp-ment. The Marines watching the men in the jeep were confused at what looked like NVA soldiers shaking hands with the familiar Green Berets. A Marine full colonel pulled up in his jeep and tried waving down the jet as it was taking off. Captain Blackmore stopped him. Paul could see the bewildered expression on the colonel’s face through the porthole in the airplane as they raced past the parked jeeps during takeoff. LeBlonde stopped next to Paul’s seat after they had gained cruising altitude.
“I guess I don’t have to offer you any booze.” He glanced at the beer Paul was holding in his hand. “We’ll talk when we get back to CCN Headquarters.
Enjoy your trip.” LeBlonde patted Paul’s shoulder and left for his seat near the rear of the plane.
They entered the isolation building from the black step van that had transported them from the airfield. Paul led the way into the strange-looking yet familiar surroundings. It had only been a few days since they had left the rooms he was walking through, yet Paul felt the time span had been much greater. The fresh air-conditioned rooms reminded Paul how rotten he smelled.
“I sure could use a shower and some clean clothes.” Paul glanced over at LeBlonde.
“Sure, but first I need some preliminary information from you, and then we’ll leave you alone so that you can get the dye off and cleaned up.” LeBlonde turned on the tape recorder that was on the table in the room. “Lieutenant Bourne, you’re first. Begin with the helicopter’s touchdown on the landing zone and tell us everything . . . terrain features . . . colors . . . sounds . . . everything 59
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that you can remember,” LeBlonde looked over at Sergeant Mills. “Feel free to interrupt anytime you feel that you can add more detail.” The agent motioned for Paul to start talking. Paul talked for two hours, stopping only for LeBlonde to change tapes on the recorder. Paul finished and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. He was tired and wanted a hot shower.
“Let me see those papers you mentioned that you found on the Frenchman.” LeBlonde tried to control the excitement he was feeling but his voice gave him away.
Paul reached down into the tie pocket of his rucksack and handed LeBlonde the wallet and small bundle of papers. LeBlonde checked the wallet first. He thumbed through the photographs and stopped at an NVA identification card.
“Jean-Paul LaTruseau . . . Colonel LaTruseau!” LeBlonde waved the wallet at Paul. “Damn!” Do you know who this character is?”
“Was.” Paul corrected the agent and shrugged his shoulders.
LeBlonde moved closer to Paul’s chair and placed his hand on the lieutenant’s arm to hold his attention. “Are you sure, I mean really sure, that you killed him?”
“Yes. The bullet went through his head and I put three more into his heart just to make sure. I didn’t want him telling any of his friends which way I went.” Paul frowned. “Why? Would you have rather me brought him back here?”
“Ha!” LeBlonde slapped his leg. “If you could have done that!”
Paul’s eyes flashed at the agent’s comment as if he were being insulted.
“Oh . . . nothing against you. Lieutenant . . .” LeBlonde smiled. “The NVA would have sacrificed two divisions of troops to have taken him back if you had captured him alive.”
“What makes him so damn valuable?” Mills raised his eyebrows and looked at Paul.
“LaTruseau was the one who betrayed the French garrison at Dien Bien Phu during the Indo-China War. Since then he has been working as a double agent and has been causing a great deal of trouble. Hell—one of his capers was to infiltrate the MACV Headquarters in Saigon.”
“Did he?”
“Not only did he, but he walked out of the building with a copy of the monthly operations plan for the whole of South Vietnam! Talk about some very embarrassed general officers!” LeBlonde tapped the wallet against his leg and pushed his lower lip out in deep thought. “We’ve been trying to have him assassinated for years, and we’ve lost quite a few very good men in the process.” LeBlonde threw his head back and grinned. “And damn if you don’t just walk in there and put a bullet through his head!”
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Paul smiled, showing his teeth around a devilish grin. “Do I get a happy face, teacher?”
“You’re damn right you get a happy face—and maybe a gold star next to it!’” LeBlonde jumped to his feet. “All right! Both of you get cleaned up. I have to make a few quick telephone calls.” LeBlonde left the room waving the wallet and mumbling to himself, “Shit! This is better than invading Hanoi!”
The two men raced each other undressing and ran for the showers, leaving their filthy clothes next to the chairs they had been sitting in. Paul turned on the shower and stuck his foot under the water to test how hot it was.
LeBlonde stuck his head in the shower room entrance. “Lieutenant Bourne, don’t forget to draw a map showing where you hid those gold coins.”
The agent winked and pulled his head back out of the doorway before Paul could answer.
Paul stepped under the welcome shower smiling. LeBlonde didn’t miss a trick.
Mills yelled over to Paul over the shower noise. “Hey, Lieutenant, let’s pick up a couple of whores and a few bottles of whiskey and get some beach time down by the ocean.”
“Sounds good to me!” Paul yelled back over the steel divider to his team mate.
The night had passed too quickly, and Paul felt an
unwanted pressure in his stomach when the Lear jet took off and pulled up to gain altitude. He was still drunk. He had stayed up all night next to the ocean drinking and listening to the waves lap against the sand. It had been a very good night spent with the girl the CCN people had slipped in past the guards for him. Mills had taken up a position with his woman about fifty meters away, and the two of them hadn’t seen each other all night.
The familiar battered camp jeep was waiting next to the Duc Co runway when they touched down. A feeling of coming home ironically passed through Paul’s mind. He smiled to himself, thinking how little it took to please him.
Mills hopped over the back of the jeep and took a seat next to his gear.
Paul slid in on the passenger seat next to the driver.
“Well, Sergeant James, how are things on the home front?” Paul asked to the camp’s new communications sergeant, who had driven out to pick them up.
“Not worth a shit, sir!” The sergeant kept his eyes on the red laterite road winding through the center of the camp.
“What’s going on?” Mills leaned forward on his seat.
“Captain Tong and Pellam are at it again, Tong’s drunk or stoned . . . one or the other.” The jeep pulled to a jerky stop in front of the teamhouse and 61
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waited for the Vietnamese soldier to allow them to pass. Paul noticed immediately that there weren’t any of the familiar Montagnard guards, only Vietnamese, in the camp. Paul picked up his gear and CAR-15 and walked slowly toward the screen door. Captain Pellam, followed by Tong, stepped out of the teamhouse.
“Damn it, Tong! I’m sick of your bullshit!” Pellam was yelling at the Vietnamese commander, only inches from the man’s face.
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