M.I.A. Hunter

by Mertz, Stephen

  Stone was already swinging his CAR-15 back into action on the port side when a bullet took their pilot in the throat. He staggered, falling to his knees, the scream that rose inside him strangled on an internal gush of blood that filled his ruptured throat and burning lungs.

  Stone's first awareness of their peril came when the sampan began to veer hard to starboard, swinging freely out to meet the Viet patrol boat on a suicidal collision course. He whipped around, and was in time to see the dying helmsman topple to the deck, his spastic fingers seeking purchase on the bullet-splintered planking, as if trying to drag himself back and into the world of the living by sheer willpower.

  The guy was out of it, and Stone dismissed him from his thoughts at once, aware that there was nothing he or anyone could do to help him now. Survival was the top priority, and they would not survive an instant if their ship made contact with the sleek patrol boat.

  Stone was moving out, intent on taking the controls himself, but little Lan Vang beat him to it, hurdling the dead man's carcass in time to seize the wheel before the collision occurred. Leaning hard into the work, he pulled them back on course with mere feet to spare, the starboard weapons blazing out directly into hostile faces now. Loughlin might have leaped across the intervening span of water to fight the enemy hand-to-hand.

  Stone freed a thermite grenade from his web belt, yanked the pin, and let the grenade fly, the safety spoon departing as the steel egg left his hand. At less than twenty yards, he saw it bounce across the other vessel's deck and spin once before it vanished down the open hatch to disappear below-decks.

  An instant later, hell on earth enveloped that patrol boat, brilliant fire erupting from the open hatchway, spilling out like molten lava all across the deck. Thermite coals were burning through the deck and hull in half a hundred places, turning the patrol boat into a drifting, smoking sieve.

  A flaming scarecrow scrambled up and through the main door of the pilothouse, both arms fanning the air and leaving little trails of sparks behind, a thin voice keening in agony. He reached the rail and tumbled over, and for an instant Stone could see him as he sank beneath the surface, flames extinguished now, but with the coals of thermite still aglow and eating into him, devouring his flesh.

  Aboard the hostile craft, the guns were silent now, and incoming rounds were limited to the vessel on their starboard side. As Stone prepared to face the danger from that quarter next, he spied Hog Wiley, crouched beside the Brit, both men with frag grenades in hand and cocked to throw.

  The double punch was timed and executed to perfection, both grenades landing on their target, one each in the bow and stem. They detonated in a syncopated one-two smash that rocked the enemy patrol boat, hurling tattered bodies overboard like so much extra ballast. The chatterguns were silent over there, and no more incoming rounds were striking the sampan's deck or wheelhouse. Cautiously, an inch at a time, Stone began to conditionally relax.

  The fight was never really over until the body count was made, and they were in the dark on that score, never having had the time to take stock of the odds against them.

  On their left, one boat was burning to the waterline, and there could be no question now of anyone on board remaining alive: Off to the right, the second boat was drifting, her stern riding low in the water as if some of the grenade shrapnel might have started a leak somewhere and let the river in. As with the first ship, no signs of life remained on deck, but it would pay to play it safe, and take no chances.

  Thrashing sounds below them in the darkened water roused the soldiers and brought them to the starboard gunwale on the double. They finally spotted him—a single gunner thrown overboard by the dual explosions of the frag grenades, now paddling dog-style, trying desperately to keep his gouged and bloodied head above the surface.

  Stone shook his head, marveling again at how a people who depended on the rivers for their livelihood could get along without ever learning how to swim. It was amazing—and it also made the obvious solution to his problem that much easier.

  "I'll take him," Stone said flatly. The carbine was at his shoulder, and he was sighting down the barrel, already tightening into the squeeze, when the thrashing soldier screamed and disappeared beneath the surface.

  A moment later he was back, and thrashing with redoubled fury now, both hands beating at the surface as if he wished not Only to remain afloat, but to rise from the water and become airborne. Underneath the surface, his legs—or something else—were churning the dark water into roiling foam.

  And Mark Stone knew the answer even as the soldier slipped away, his last scream swallowed by the river. Stone had seen the crocodiles along their course of travel, felt them waiting, watching, and he knew the river had a way of taking care of flotsam, edible or otherwise.

  "Mother Nature's garbage disposal," Hog remarked at his elbow. There was the suggestion of a tremor, something like disgust in his voice, and he spat into the flowing current.

  In the dappled moonlight, the smoke was rising slowly from their river battlefield. The enemy was vanquished for the moment, but the brief engagement had been expensive for Stone and company, as well. Their pilot was among the dead, and there was every possibility that other boats would be responding swiftly to the sounds of combat, racing even now toward confrontation with the little troop of invaders.

  Clearly, there was not a moment to be lost. Stone turned his full attention to Lan Vang, eyes narrowed and voice solemn as he spoke.

  "Can you take us on without him?" A toss of the head was enough to indicate their late pilot.

  Lan Vang thought about it for a moment, and finally nodded.

  "I have some experience with sampans," he replied. "And it is not now far. By sunrise we should reach the place you seek."

  By sunrise. Unless they ran into some more patrols. Unless their boat was taking water even now from damage as yet unknown.

  A thousand things could keep them from their rendezvous, or slow them down enough to make the mission fruitless. Stone took stock of all the possibilities at once, and nodded back at the Laotian.

  "Let's do it," he said simply.

  Another moment, while the body of their pilot was disarmed and stripped of all identifying garments, then consigned to the river and the crocodiles. It was the best that they could do for him, and none of them would be expecting any better if their numbers came around on the big wheel of fortune next time out.

  You could feel for a man and share the sadness of his passing without letting yourself fall apart and lapse into some kind of disabling sentimentality. Lan Vang never blinked as the body of his countryman slid past beside their sampan, disappearing in a sudden swirl of ripples, one foot dragging along the surface for a moment before the croc secured a tooth-hold and took him all the way under.

  It was the law of the jungle: the fit and cunning would survive; the rest would die and feed the cycle, keep it going in perpetuity. As for Mark Stone, he didn't think of himself as some kind of perpetual-motion fighting machine, and he damned sure never saw himself in terms of immortality—but he was determined to do this job to survive this time.

  This was all he had. It was the present, past, and bloody future all rolled into one, and Stone had bought his ticket to the end of the line.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Their Journey up the river had become a waking nightmare, every man among them tense, expectant, clinging to his weapon, white-knuckled, while he eyed the night and looked for hostile shadows. Every sound warned of potential danger, and the sense of their exposure, of their naked vulnerability, was redoubled for Stone and his companions in the wake of their firefight with the Viet patrol boats.

  Time was short, no doubt about it. Even if the dying enemy had lacked the time to radio for help, patrols would be expected to check in at frequent intervals. And when they missed—perhaps not at the first check, or even at the second, but sooner or later—other troops would be dispatched to find them. They would come in greater numbers, bearing arms, and if St
one's little troop was still upon the water when they came...

  Stone did not want to contemplate the consequences. There were risks enough ahead for all of them, without borrowing imaginary trouble in advance. They would meet the next wave, if and when it came, as they had met the first. With everything they had.

  The hours seemed to drag interminably, and there was pinkish color in the eastern sky before they finally reached their landing point without another incident. Stone felt the sampan slowing. Startled out of an uneasy slumber, he glanced all around him quickly, making sure that they had not run into further trouble as he dozed.

  The jungle must be getting to him, working the old magic on him once again. In 'Nam, he had been able to doze off anywhere, anytime, catching a few seconds of respite here and there, when he could, between the killings. Now, after their brief reentry to the killing zone, he felt the same old patterns coming back, more as if by instinct than from training and long hours of practice.

  At the helm, Lan Vang was guiding them in toward the spongy bank, and in the gray of early morning, Stone could make out the figure of a man waiting for them where the forest met the shore. He was much like their guide in appearance; he wore the same fading fatigues, and carried an automatic rifle over his shoulder in the same fashion, muzzle down, against invasion by the morning dew.

  Lan Vang called out to the newcomer, his voice carrying across the expanse of water like a shout, although he barely seemed to whisper. On the bank, his opposite number waved them in, a brief hand signal indicating that their landing zone was cold, devoid of enemies at present.

  Stone was ready when the sampan nudged against the mossy bank, and an agile spring carried him over the gunwale into knee-deep water, splashing swiftly toward the shore. Hog and Loughlin were close behind him, all three carrying their weapons at the ready.

  The newcomer scrambled aboard for a hurried conversation with their guide before Lan Vang himself disembarked. Another moment, and the Free Laotian fighter was pushing the sampan off and into deeper water, with the new man still aboard and at the helm.

  "He will dispose of it downriver," Lan Yang explained to all of them, his voice flat, matter-of-fact. "The boat is of no use to us with bullet scars. Too easy for patrols to spot us."

  "Right." And from Hog Wiley's tone, the others knew that he was none too happy with the thought of being stranded in the middle of the jungle, miles from any village, without means of taking to the river as a form of transportation.

  "So, we walk," Stone said, and almost before the words had left his lips, Lan Yang was past them, into the rain forest, setting their course at what amounted to a jogging double-time.

  Falling in behind their guide, Stone knew he did not have to stress their need for haste. Already the Vietnamese patrol boats might have been discovered, taken under tow, and new patrols on land and water might be fanning out to find the killers. They were running out of time, and the moments they wasted standing on the riverside and jawing could be better used in putting miles behind them, drawing nearer to their target area.

  The forced march quickly found its pace, became almost a marathon as they fell into single file. Lan Yang preceding Stone, with Loughlin next and Hog Wiley bringing up the rear. Forest giants dwarfed them on all sides, trees rising up out of the spongy ground to sweep against the sky and blot it out, lianas trailing earthward like long green whiskers. The air was hot, stifling, with humidity approaching ninety percent. Intermittent rain would fall, but it would never ease the heat, merely plastering their damp fatigues against their skin, making it that much easier for flies and mosquitoes to find their fleshy targets. If the forest hid them from the broiling sun, it also kept them trapped inside the pressure cooker, steaming slowly as they plodded over ground that sucked and clung around their boots, making every step cost twice the effort that it would on normal ground. Within a hundred yards the muscles in their legs were crying out for rest, but rest was not an option for the manhunters. Time was of the essence, and they could not waste a moment—not to eat or rest, or to void their bowels—if they had any hope of reaching the strike zone on schedule, of pulling off their mission under the self-imposed deadline.

  Everything was riding on their timing now, and they were already running behind, due to their clash with the patrol boats on the river. They would have to make up that time, or run the risk of having made the trek for nothing.

  Once again the sights and sounds and smells were closing in around Mark Stone, transporting him into another time and place. It was so much like 'Nam" and why not? Laos and Vietnam had once been the same country—Indochina finally divided by the politicians rather than by nature. Artificial boundaries might now lie between the countries and their warring tribes, but trees and plants and animals could read no maps; they put down roots at will, wherever the climate would support them, and there they flourished in a riotous panorama of life and death, birth and decay.

  The jungle carries with it certain odors that a man, having once sampled them, can never quite forget: the smell of stagnant water, breeding pestilence; the scent of undergrowth as it begins to molder, turning into natural fertilizer for the larger growths; and yes, the smell of death, an all-pervasive miasma that hangs across the forest like a pall, almost visible.

  Stone caught the scent, but he was not intimidated by it. He had contributed to it himself, the night before. He had helped to feed the cycle, and he would be feeding it some more, one way or another, before his mission reached an end.

  The denizens of the jungle were giving them a wide berth as they traveled, though the soldiers took extreme care to move quietly through the underbrush. Living things in tune with the routine of the rain forest could sense their presence and smell them out without crackling twigs and clanking hardware to alert them. They would know, and pass the silent word along, alerting others that life must pause, delay its cycle, while the mutual enemy was near.

  Another enemy was waiting somewhere up ahead, and Stone was concentrating on the human animal as he kept pace with their guide. There had been no intelligence as to the size of the guard force they would find around the prison camp, what kind of backup those Viets might have from the local Pathet Lao guerrillas—in short, none of the data that could finally prove vital to their mission.

  An hour from the river, Lan Vang froze suddenly, dropping to a crouch some yards ahead of Stone, who instantly froze in his tracks, his finger on the trigger of his CAR-15.

  He heard it even before Lan Yang had a chance to telegraph the warning back along the line in silent hand signals. There were footsteps up ahead, and men were closing on them from an oblique direction, crashing through the undergrowth and making little effort to conceal their passage as they came.

  Stone crouched down, and knew the others at his back were now alert and ready without looking at them. They were pros, and they would take care of themselves. Ahead of him, Lan Vang was worming his way backward, an inch at a time, taking special care now not to make any sound whatsoever as he retreated.

  The sounds of the enemy were close now, and Stone imagined that he could reach out and part the ferns in front of him to touch them if he wished. Their voices, never bothering to whisper, were loud enough to make him flinch. He knew that if his own men had made this much noise, they would be dead meat by now.

  These crashing footsteps and the booming voices in the forest were those of his enemies. They moved with confidence because the land was theirs, an old, familiar friend, and they could not conceive of enemies invading it. From their dialect he knew that they were Pathet Lao, the country's own equivalent of the Viet Cong, glorious victors in the brutal "war of liberation" that had left their land enslaved by the Vietnamese. Veterans of a war that spanned the generations, these were soldiers born to killing, but softened now by a kind of uneasy peace. They believed themselves untouchable on this side of the river, and they took no pains to hide their passing from the eyes and ears of the forest.

  Stone could have killed the
m, set up an ambush across the game trail they were following and cut them down before they had a chance to break formation—but he let them pass. They were his enemies, but at the moment they were not his targets. He was here on a rescue mission rather than a search-and-destroy.

  Later, while they were withdrawing, there might be a chance to strike a blow against them. For the moment it was wise to let them pass along their noisy way and wait till their sounds had faded into distant silence.

  Lan Vang was finally satisfied, and rising from his crouch, he proceeded on along the trail as if there had been no interruption.

  The terrain that they traversed was constantly changing, only the jungle cover remaining constant as they put miles between themselves and the river that was their lifeline, their path of escape in case of mortal danger. Now they might scale a cliff, and moments later find themselves descending an embankment on their backsides. Once they had to ford a hip-deep river, each of them aware that gunners on the other bank could pin them down and cut them all to ribbons with a single concentrated burst of fire, leaving them to feed the eels and crocodiles downstream. And yet they made it, never daring to relax as they overcame each new obstacle. They held together, following their Free Laotian guide deeper into the clinging, choking forest of his homeland, moving on into a confrontation with the enemy they had come to face, the allies they had come to rescue.

  It was afternoon before Lan Vang stopped dead in front of Stone and raised his hand to call a halt. They were atop a knoll, still wooded, but with gaps between the trees which were devoid of choking undergrowth, affording them a field of fire if they should be attacked. It was high ground, the jungle sloping off on either side, and Stone immediately knew their guide had found the base campsite that he was searching for.

  "We stop here, wait for night," he told them as he sat down cross-legged on the grass.