Night Work: A Novel of Vietnam (The Jim Hollister Trilogy Book 2)

by Dennis Foley

  “We’ll keep you posted. Break. Four-four. You got this?” Hollister asked.

  Decker clicked twice.

  “Okay,” Hollister said over the intercom. “We good with the choppers?”

  “Look out there by Duc Hue,” Edmonds said, raising his hand and pointing out the windscreen.

  There, at two thousand feet, were two Cobras, two slicks, and the FAC carving a wide, lazy circle over the ARVN outpost.

  “Okay, let’s get the Cobras over here to cover us, and we’ll go down and get this guy. I’m going to get out and walk over to him. If the fucker blinks—drop him.”

  “Rog. Where do you want me to put it?”

  “Land out there in the paddy where I can see him through the trees and he knows I can. Stay far enough away in case he’s got a grenade. I don’t want him to drop one in this jump seat—with me in it or not. I also want you outside the bursting radius in case I fuck up and step on something.”

  “Like a mine?” Edmonds asked, surprised at the thought.

  “Yeah,” Hollister said. “Just drop me. And come back in when I get him out of the trees. DO NOT WAIT.”

  “Okay, boss,” Edmonds said. “Stand by a sec.”

  While Edmonds cleared the plan with the other choppers on another freq, Hollister pulled back on the charging handle of his M16 and ejected the round in the chamber, releasing the charger and seating a fresh round. He flipped it onto “safe” and dropped the rifle across his lap. He unbuckled the seat belts and laid them on the floor quietly. It was a habit he had picked up that grew from a bad experience on his first tour. A REMF colonel in a chopper popped his belt and let the metal buckles clatter to the decking, spooking two soldiers in the chopper into opening fire, nearly killing some friendlies on the ground.

  He picked up the claymore bag that held his spare magazines, a couple of extra smoke grenades, and some other luxury items in case he had to spend some time on the ground.

  “We’re ready,” Edmonds said. “Hold on. We’re on the way in.”

  Hollister had a feeling the move was pretty stupid, but picking up a live prisoner was worth the risk. This guy could probably tell him much about the AO, the enemy units working there, and what they knew about the LRP teams. He swallowed hard as the chopper flared and touched down about thirty meters from the tree line that held the VC.

  As he looked toward the tree line, he could see the VC soldier still standing there, his knees bent slightly and his hands folded on top of his head. The rifle was still on the ground.

  The first step out was awkward, and Hollister tried to steel himself for the turbulence of the rotor wash.

  He hit the ground running and tried to tell himself to relax and breathe. Instead, his chest tightened up and his pulse pounded in his temples as he crossed the open rice paddy, awash in a couple of inches of water. He tried to get the danger of a mine or booby trap out of his mind since there was almost nothing he could do about it.

  The chopper lifted off behind him, and it got quieter.

  As Hollister kept moving toward the VC, the man started to move his hands down. Hollister wasn’t sure if it was a hostile move or just plain nervousness. He couldn’t take a chance. He stopped, jerked the muzzle of the rifle upward, and yelled, “Up! Up! Keep ’em up!”

  The VC began to bend at the waist, the same move he would make sitting down or going for the rifle. Hollister leveled the rifle and fired a burst of four rounds into the ground next to the VC, which straightened him up, made him jerk his hands back up on his head, and started him jabbering in Vietnamese.

  The last few steps to the VC seemed to take forever to Hollister. He quickly looked around to see if there were any other VC in the area—ready to drop him. At that moment he realized if they were there he’d never see them until they opened up on him.

  Reaching the VC, Hollister put the M16’s flash suppressor in the center of his chest and applied a little pressure. With his left hand, he reached up and grabbed the VC’s right wrist, which he brought down and around behind him. The move turned the soldier away from him.

  Hollister raised his boot and tapped the soldier behind both knees, collapsing him to the ground. As he went down, Hollister pushed his torso forward until the VC was facedown.

  He took one more look around for anything that didn’t seem right. The other VC was dead—without a doubt. His arm was gone, and a large wound in the back of his neck most certainly had severed any connection between his brain and his body.

  At that moment Hollister’s stomach revolted at the sight and smell of the VC prisoner. He had forgotten how they smelled—of wood-fire smoke and cooking grease, with a large helping of body odor. The sensation caused Hollister to gag, involuntarily. He thought for a moment he was going to vomit, but got it under control.

  His knee in the small of the VC’s back, Hollister searched him with his free hand and found a chain and small carved Buddha in a metal setting around his neck. Other than that, the soldier had only a rifle, a nearby ammo pouch, and the flimsy pajamas he wore.

  Hollister took off his web belt and tied the man’s hands behind him by slipping the belt around both elbows, VC-style, and tightening the buckle until the VC’s elbows almost touched behind his back.

  Satisfied that his prisoner was not going anywhere, Hollister took a splintered tree branch and carefully lifted the corner of the ammo pouch. While he did that, he made sure to watch the VC’s response. If he had booby-trapped the pouch, he would certainly do something to prepare himself for a blast, even if he were going to sacrifice himself for his cause.

  No expression change—no explosion.

  Chapter 19

  THE PRISONER WAS VERY frightened at the prospect of being hauled into a chopper. As they approached the C&C, he resisted, and Hollister had to force him into the aircraft.

  Edmonds wasted no time getting the C&C back into the air. When they leveled off at fifteen hundred feet, Hollister took his knee out of the prisoner’s back, and lifted him up off the deck of the cargo compartment. He maneuvered him up to the center of the bench seat, and looked around for some way to secure him better.

  “Here you go, Cap’n,” the door gunner said. He had unbuckled himself from his gunner’s well, scooted into the cargo compartment, and held up the red-canvas tie-down strap.

  It was perfect, Hollister thought. With it he and the door gunner tied the prisoner’s hands together and then slipped the seat belt between the man’s arms to lock him in place for the remainder of the extraction and the flight back to Cu Chi.

  Hollister was conscious of just how hard he was still breathing as he strapped himself into the jump seat and slipped his headset back on. He cleared and locked his rifle and placed it on the floor with his foot inside the sling to keep it from going anywhere.

  The VC’s AK47 was in perfect shape, loaded, and recently fired. Hollister cleared it and dropped the thirty-round magazine into his lap. He looked around for a place to stow the rifle and decided to slip it under the short bench seat the door gunner sat on. It would travel well there and be within sight.

  “So? You got yourself an AK?” the copilot asked.

  “Nope. It’s yours.”

  “Mine?” he asked.

  “You spotted the blood trail. You deserve it.”

  “Hot damn!” the warrant officer said. “Never had a war trophy before.”

  “I promise you, you stay with Juliet Company and you’ll be able to max out your hold baggage allowance going home.”

  “Don’t you want it, sir?” the copilot asked. “No. I’ve got a warehouse full of this shit back home,” Hollister lied. He had always felt a little uncomfortable explaining to others that he had never developed any interest in collecting enemy weapons or memorabilia. Anyway, it sounded better to say he had enough of it. Furthermore, an AK was worthless as a personal war trophy. It was an automatic weapon and couldn’t be taken home, only sold to REMFs, who knew that.

  “Damn, sir. Thanks.”

  “
Believe me,” said Hollister, “its no big thing. Stick around and you might get something better.”

  The extraction of Decker’s team went without a hitch. While it was running from the tree line to the pickup ship, the prisoner had become comfortable enough flying to watch the extraction, amazed at American technology.

  Hollister had considered putting a blindfold on the prisoner, but thought how frightening it would be just to be flying for what he was sure was the POW’s first time. The blindfold seemed to be too much. He decided to hold off until they approached the base camp at Cu Chi, where it might be more appropriate.

  Back at Cu Chi, Bui waited with Lieutenant Potter. As Intelligence officer Potter would do the initial interrogation of the prisoner to attempt to get any information of immediate tactical value to Juliet Company.

  They met the choppers and quickly whisked the POW to one of the empty barracks to question him. Meanwhile, Hollister ran to Operations to give Kurzikowski and Sangean the details of the single-body count, the capture of the POW, and the contact and pickup.

  As Hollister entered Operations, he was met with cheers and applause from the staff and three other LRPs. Capturing a prisoner didn’t happen that often. And for the Operations officer to capture one was a real rarity.

  “Okay, okay. You guys can get back to work. Next time I’ll bring you a whole platoon of VC,” Hollister said.

  The group quieted down and got back to business. Diversions were rare in Operations and quickly passed when there were teams in the field. Everyone knew if a team called in a contact, anything less than immediate response was unacceptable.

  Hollister dumped the VC ammo pouch on the field table near the door and cleared the AK47 again, then placed it across the ammo pouch. “The weapon belongs to Mister Farris.”

  “That one’ll be worth a case of bourbon if he wants to trade it. I know a guy over at the Division Ration Breakdown Point that’ll swap the booze for it right now,” Kurzikowski said.

  “You and Farris’ll have to work that out. Right now I think he’s pretty hot to keep it as a souvenir.”

  “We do this right around here, and he’ll have a deuce and a half full of them,” Kurzikowski said.

  “Hope you’re right,” Hollister responded, taking off his hat and dropping his web gear over the back of a folding chair. “What’s up with the other teams?”

  “Quiet all the way around,” Kurzikowski said.

  Jerking his thumb toward the unseen prisoner, Hohlster said, “I hope we get some information out of this guy. He might be able to tell us just what the hell they were up to and why they fired on Decker’s team. They had to know they’d get their dicks pounded into the dirt.”

  A cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a short walk to the abandoned barracks and Hollister was able to sit in on the interrogation.

  “What’s the deal?” Hollister asked Potter.

  “Bui’s been able to find out that the guy is new to South Vietnam. He was trained in Cambodia, after being drafted into the job from some village in the north.”

  “Ask him why they fired on the Americans. Didn’t they know we’d find them out there in that terrain and run them down?”

  Bui heard Hollister’s request and began browbeating the POW with a rapid-fire rate of questions. Hollister couldn’t tell for sure what he was asking, but his antics and exaggerated facial expressions told him a lot. Bui seemed to be embarrassing the prisoner over his stupidity.

  The prisoner mumbled something. He was looking down dejectedly.

  Bui turned to Hollister, surprise on his face. “He say he before been told that Americans almost all dead from Tet attacks, and he mus’ clean up, ah … ah … strangers.”

  “Stragglers?”

  “Yessir, stragglers.” Bui made the correction.

  “When did he leave Cambodia, and how did he find the team?”

  Bui went after the prisoner again, thrusting his face into the prisoner’s face. Bui looked angry and threatening.

  “Whoa!” Hollister said, stopping Bui.

  Bui looked up, puzzled.

  “Let’s try not to rattle him. He’ll clam up, and we’ll never get anything out of him.” Hollister stepped over to the prisoner and took the blindfold off.

  The prisoner timidly looked around the empty barracks, letting his eyes adjust to the light. Hollister pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and stuck it between the soldier’s lips. The VC took a drag, and nodded once to Hollister as a sign of thanks.

  “Get him some water,” Hollister said. “He’s got to be dry.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Bui stepped out to the “water buffalo,” the trailer that stood in the middle of the compound. When he returned, the soldier had calmed down a little, apparently aware that he was not going to be tortured or shot.

  “Ask him about the team. How did he know where they were?”

  Bui fired the question at the POW. Hollister was standing behind the soldier and he silently signaled Bui to tone it down.

  Bui tried a second time, in a little more moderate tone of voice, and the soldier responded.

  Hollister looked to Bui for the translation.

  “He say they don’t know. He say they hear helicopt’ early—dark. They go. They see trees to hide.”

  “Why did they fire on Decker’s team?”

  “No see Decker. They think good place to hide.”

  “You mean they reconned by fire? They were guessing?”

  “Yes. Guess,” Bui said.

  “Shit!” Hollister said, throwing his hands up, frustrated.

  “What?” Bui asked.

  “If Decker hadn’t returned fire, they might never have received any more fire.”

  “How you get prisoner?”

  “Decker could have adjusted artillery or gunship fire on them.”

  Bui shrugged. “He talk like tell truth, but maybe he lie. Maybe just stupid, but can lie.”

  “What do you think?” asked Hollister.

  Bui shrugged again. “I think he stupid, but also tell truth.”

  “How’d it go?” Sangean asked Hollister over lunch.

  “We didn’t need to compromise the team. They returned fire, and that developed the situation. If Decker had just used artillery, he might have avoided more fire.”

  “You really believe that?” Sangean asked.

  “I wasn’t there. There could be a lot more to it than that. My guess is that Decker really thought his root was in a wringer. He doesn’t seem like the flappable kind to me,” Hollister said.

  “Well, I debriefed the team, and he said he never was sure they had him located, but the fire was too close to let it continue.”

  “I guess we know what that means,” Hollister said.

  Lieutenant Potter, sitting with them, looked up, puzzled. “What?”

  “Means I’m picking locations for teams that might as well have a sign on them saying TEAM HERE!”

  “All the blame isn’t yours. We’re just going to have to work harder at parking teams in spots that don’t look like they would hold a team.”

  “I want to go out and do some more nosing around this afternoon. We can’t keep putting teams in the obvious tufts of green out there,” Hollister said.

  “Okay. Say, did Bui get anything out of him about where they were going or what their mission was?”

  Potter answered. “He found out they were heading to a rendezvous somewhere west of Saigon. He said he wasn’t told exactly where for just this reason—case he got captured.”

  “Hmmm … Doesn’t tell us much,” Sangean said, stretching for the salt shaker, which was just out of reach.

  “How big was the element?” Hollister asked, shoving the pepper shaker toward Sangean.

  “Bui said that he admitted being with four other soldiers who were told to infiltrate from the Ba Thu Corridor to Saigon,” Potter said.

  Hollister reached into the side pocket of his trousers and pulled out his map case. With one hand he flipped it open and
laid it on the table, next to his lunch.

  “What?” Sangean asked, watching Hollister scan his map.

  “There’s no way that they can make it from Cambodia to Saigon in one night. They’ve got to be holding up somewhere.”

  “You’ll never figure that out. They are probably holding up in dozens of places the VC and the sympathizers in the area have prepared for them.”

  “So, I say we look for where they’ve been and then track forward.” Hollister wiped the corner of his mouth with one of the stiff GI napkins Sergeant Kendrick had scrounged.

  “I’m not following you,” Sangean said.

  “Forget that look-see this afternoon. We have two teams going in north of Duc Hue tomorrow before first light.”

  “Right

  “What do you say we drop them off and then try flying north to south through the reeds and look for some tracks of anyone who slipped across the border tonight.”

  Sangean and Potter smiled—the light going on.

  “You’re right. The grasses and reeds won’t be up yet, and the trails will be easy to find,” Sangean said.

  “Sounds like the plan to me,” Hollister said. “I’d like to take the guns and an FO with me.”

  “Let’s try it.”

  “Hot dog!” Potter shouted. “Now we’re talking. I can come along?” he asked, hopefully.

  “Sure can.”

  “So you think you need an MI type out there with you?” Sangean asked.

  “Nope. I just don’t want to be out there before the roosters squawk knowing that he’s back here in his fart-sack still stacking Zs,” Hollister said.

  Sangean and Hollister laughed at the expression on Potter’s face. The poor guy looked stricken—but only for a moment. Then he grinned and said something about wanting to go out on a team sometime, maybe carrying one of the radios.

  The next morning started with several problems. There was an engine problem in one of the slicks, then a weather hold over the LZ due to low-hanging clouds meeting a ground mist. Then the artillery battery that was tasked to support both teams going in got tied up with a fire mission in support of an RF/PF outpost and couldn’t be relied on to be on standby while the team went in.