The others got up to leave. Hunter looked at JT and asked: “Well, boss, what do you want me to do?”
JT’s usually cheery face sank. Suddenly, he looked like someone who was in charge of a very precarious position.
“You can go save Crunch,” he replied grimly.
Hunter knew it was too good to be true.
He knew that between the viciousness of the MiG attack and the monstrous typhoon, it was a miracle that any of the Galaxys of the First American Expeditionary Force made it.
But as JT told it, a total of six were now accounted for: Bozo, Nozo, NJ104, Football One, Two and Three. Plus, they’d heard a reliable report that the Cobra Brother’s Big Snake had crashed on the island of Hainan in the Gulf of Tonkin, where all aboard were safe, but being held for ransom by the radical Eastern religious cult which controlled the island. Jones was currently negotiating via long range radio for their release.
But that left two C-5s unaccounted for: Crunch’s Crunchtime and the JAWs plane.
JT reported that no one had heard anything from JAWs. When last seen, they were being swarmed over with MiGs, their wings and fuselage aflame. The sad conclusion was that they probably went into the sea. Hunter felt a dull ache in his stomach every time he thought of Captain Cook and the guys from Jack Base being dead.
The fate of Crunch’s plane was another matter.
Two days after JT and the other C-5s landed at Da Nang city, they’d received a report from a New Zealand mechanized division that was just barely holding on at Cam Ranh Bay, 300 miles to the south. The New Zealanders had processed a local militia’s report that a large plane had been seen falling into the marshes 250 miles south of them. This put the rumored crash site deep down in the Mekong Delta area, more than a 100 miles south of what was now known as New Saigon.
Could one of the C-5s have flown more than 500 miles away from the main pack after the MiG attack? It was unlikely. Yet Crunch’s plane was carrying extra fuel on board in huge rubber bladders. Plus, the local militiamen, whose reliability the New Zealanders vouched for, reported the huge airplane was painted gray and red with scrolling on the wings and tailplane—a near perfect description of Crunchtime. They also claimed that there may be some survivors, at least they heard from the natives in the area that some Westerners had approached them for food and a radio. When the local militia passed through the area two weeks later, they reported the wreck was still there, but there was no sign of anyone around it.
The Mekong Delta was not a good place for an airplane crash. Bordered by the South China Sea on the east, the Gulf of Siam in the west, and what used to be Cambodia to the north, the area itself was just about total marshland and paddy area—rough going for airplane survivors. At one time, the Delta fed a lot of Southeast Asia with its rice crop; this was why the French came to Vietnam in the first place back in the nineteenth century. More than eight million people lived in the Delta during the last Vietnam war, but it was sparsely populated these days.
The only road servicing the Delta was old Route 4, a long, winding, serpentine highway which itself seemed lost in the almost-forgotten, marshy wilderness. In addition to the hundreds of miles of natural waterways—rivers, streams and lake—the Vietnamese had hand-dug more than 4,000 kilometers of canals in the area. Wherever these canals met in a major convergence there was usually a good-sized town, but these were all largely abandoned.
Oddly, the current enemy only seemed mildly concerned with the Delta these days. Viet Minx presence in the area was only rated as moderate, with several reenforced forts on the mouth of Son My Thou River, and a small port facility, twenty miles to the south at a place called Son Tay. Armed ferries and tugs regularly plied the South China Sea between Haiphong and Son Tay, sometimes accompanied by helicopter gunships as escort.
Inside the Delta itself, the Minx were using small mine-sweeping type boats which featured heavy machine guns, rocket launchers and extensive flamethrowing equipment. Similar flame-throwing vessels used by the Americans in the first war were nicknamed “Zippos.”
If anyone survived an airplane crash in the Delta it was probably just a matter of time before an enemy Zippo found them—or at least, it would seem that way.
But according to the local militia, and somewhat verified by the New Zealanders, something very different was happening down in the Mekong Delta these days.
After washing up and stepping into fresh clothes, Hunter, Ben, Frost, and JT feasted on a dinner of chicken stew, mashed peppers and the local gut-busting him-ham liquor.
JT played the perfect host. There was no end to the food and booze. He even arranged to have a half dozen local “hostesses” on hand, to “help with the arrangements.” But most of the night was spent discussing the current situation in Vietnam. Basically it came down to this: In a strange way, the sudden arrival of the C-5s had postponed what seemed to be an imminent takeover of the southern part of the country. The key word was “postponed.” For the Viet Minx forces had been simply delayed in their war of commerce and conquest, and if anything, the extra three weeks or so would give them addition time to bolster their armies and even add to them. This was especially true in the midlands where no less than 18 divisions of Minx were waiting, and around the New Saigon area, where an equally formidable force of fifteen reenforced divisions were said to be hiding. It didn’t take a military genius to figure out that these forces—almost a half million men in arms—would not, could not, wait forever. If JT’s estimate of three weeks before the attack on Da Nang was on target, then action in the rest of the country would most likely erupt at that time too.
The dinner debate lasted well into early morning, with dozens of strategies and wild ideas discussed. But on one point everyone agreed: if the Minx had their way, there would be no more democratic Vietnam inside of a month, no matter how many C-5s managed to show up.
When the day dawned, Ben and Frost reported to Da Nang’s airport. The Legionnaires were transported to the city’s hospital where they received a heroes’ welcome. Geraci and his men began removing the vast array of weaponry from the carcass of Bozo 2, and trucking it in pieces to Da Nang to be set up along the far edge of the airport. And JT went back to running the paid-army that a man named Yink built.
As for Hunter, he was gone an hour before the sun came up.
Chapter Thirty-two
IT HAD BEEN YEARS since Hunter had flown a helicopter.
But here he was, at the controls of an ancient Huey, carving a sloppy wake through the superheated tropical air above steamy South Vietnam.
Below him was the deceptively beautiful countryside. He saw a few examples of war sites left over from the last go-round—abandoned fire bases, deserted air strips, even the wreckage of aircraft, including two C-130s. The jungle had reclaimed everything else, he guessed.
Everything but the ghosts.
He’d refueled twice already, once at Quang Nai, which was now under control of First Italian Expeditionary Corps, and again at Cam Ranh Bay, where he spoke with the top commanders of the New Zealand contingent. They knew nothing more about the supposed crash in the Delta. The monsoons were absolutely flooding the area, as they were all of Southeast Asia, and reports of any kind were few and far between.
So Hunter was now heading for a place called Suk Deek. Located about 110 clicks south of New Saigon, it was on the northeastern edge of the Mekong Delta. It was the last outpost of the New Zealanders, a place so small it could handle one chopper landing site, and one boat dock facility and that was it. From here, two New Zealander scouts would escort him even further in the Delta, to the area where the big plane crash—as well as a number of other, unexplainable events—had supposedly occurred recently.
He reached Suk Deek just before sundown. It was even smaller than advertised, a black dot in a sea of brown water and green jungle. Located at the junction of two large canals, it consisted of two stucco-style buildings, a tiny dock, a metal net for the chopper pad and an antique 120mm howitzer.
The two New Zealander “Z-men” were waiting for him when he put down. They introduced themselves as Timmy and Terry, both sergeants, both friendly to a fault. They were at the end of a one-week sortie to the small base, and were looking forward to going back up to Cam Ranh. It wasn’t that doing time at Suk Deek was dangerous or even boring for the New Zealanders. Indeed the Minx hardly ever came anywhere near the place—or at least they didn’t anymore. The reason for this was not entirely clear.
The blokes laid out a MRE feast for Hunter, and then offered him a bunk to collapse on. He took to it appreciatively; they would leave early in the morning, and even he had to sleep every once and a while.
Lying back on the metal frame cot, staring out at the stars, listening to the water in the canal rush by, Hunter’s thoughts drifted back to where they always seemed to go in his rare, idle moments: to his love, the beautiful Dominique.
He had no idea when he would see her again—he’d given up trying to forecast such things long ago. Instead, he simply took the small American flag from his breast pocket, unwrapped it to reveal the dog-eared picture of her, and stared at it for five long minutes.
Then, her haunting image seared into his mind for the next few hours, he fell asleep and dreamt of harvesting hay.
The next morning dawned hot and rainy; it reminded Hunter of the hellish weather he’d experienced at the Khe Sanh.
They set out after a quick cup of coffee, heading down river in the Z-men’s small but heavily armed twenty-five-foot patrol boat.
Timmy and Terry couldn’t have been more at ease. Their guns were loaded, and they were ready for any eventuality, but they knew none was coming. And they promised Hunter that when they reached their first destination, he would know why they were so sure there were no Minx in the area.
They traveled the wide canals for about an hour before they reached the place called Lok Song Ly. It was large for a town this deep in the Delta, and heavily fortified too—Hunter counted at least a dozen artillery pieces in the immediate area, and twice that number of machine-gun posts. The place was even flying the multicolored flag of the Viet Minx.
But there was nobody around.
No one but the dead.
They tied up at the small movable dock and cautiously approached the village. Timmy and Terry had their Uzis up and ready, Hunter had his M-16 on Full Auto. But they would not need them. The last battle to ever be fought at Lok Song Li had taken place two weeks before.
There were skeletons everywhere. For the most part they were devoid of clothing. They had been picked clean of dried flesh, and left to bleach in the hot sun. Hunter counted at least two hundred of them, many of those were scattered amongst the huts and dikes of the place. He’d seen battlefields before, but never one like this. Each of the skeletons had either been decapitated, disemboweled, or had one or two limbs chopped off. Those whose heads were still attached to their bodies had had their skulls crushed. Judging by the amount of dried blood powder surrounding these skeletons, it was easy for Hunter to determine much of the head-crushing had taken place while the victims were still alive.
“You’re looking at a reenforced company of Minx, mate,” Terry told him, surveying the grisly scene. “There’s another half company out in those paddies beyond. All of them dispatched in the same, rather industrious manner.”
Hunter could only shake his head. “Who the hell did this?”
The Z-men both shrugged back on cue. “That’s just it, mate,” Terry said. “We don’t know.”
They followed the river further south, leaving the bleached horror of Lok Song Ly behind.
Hunter couldn’t get the vision of the skeletons out of his mind. No matter how despicable the Minx were—and stories of their atrocities were legion—they had obviously run into something worse. It was, he supposed, a case of just desserts. But getting one’s head crushed while still alive was a gruesome way for anyone to go.
It was almost noon before they reached their next destination, a place called Bang Mi. It was an anomaly for the Delta, a high set of cliffs of rock outcrop and vines, rising out of the flat watery plain.
The small village was nestled against the northern edge of the small mountain, purposely hidden in the shadows which provided relief from the searing heat and the monsoon rains.
This ideal location was not being utilized at the moment though. Like the ghastly scene at Lok Song Li, the village was deserted.
They went ashore, and Hunter felt the same chilling feeling on the back of his neck—it was ice cold, despite the broiling sun.
Terry and Timmy led him past several well-kept, yet abandoned huts, to a larger, more military-style corrugated-tin building. This had a sign written in Vietnamese which identified the building as a subdistrict headquarters for the Delta-South Command of the Viet Minx First Revolutionary Army.
Timmy expertly kicked open the building’s door. Laying beyond was another disturbing scene. At first they looked like nothing more than a pile of leaves, scattered on the dirt floor, maybe numbering 200 or so. But Hunter didn’t need a second look to tell him what the small leathery items were.
“Tongues …” he said. “That’s a bad way to go.”
Terry turned to him. “Who said anything about ‘going’ anywhere, mate?”
Hunter stared at him—then the real horror of the place began to sink in. The owners of the tongues were still alive, or presumably lived long enough to leave the building. Hunter grimaced at the thought of having one’s tongue cut out while still alive.
“Cuts down on the chatter in the barracks, doesn’t it?” he said.
Both of the New Zealanders laughed heartily. “Puts the dumper on the old appetite, too, don’t it?” Terry howled.
They left the building, returned to the boat and started out to the south again. Suddenly the whole river seemed to become a very chilling place, like the set of a bad horror movie. Hunter half-expected to see dozens of hacked-up bodies come floating downstream at any moment. The Z-Men were right—something very strange was going on down here. And it had his powerful inner psyche crackling.
Who was the baddest motherfucker in the jungle? Hunter wondered. The Viet Minx, or the monster that was hunting them?
Hunter shook off an uncharacteristic chill. He wasn’t too sure he wanted to know the answer.
They stopped at three more Minx outposts in the next six hours.
All of them were abandoned, all of them containing some evidence that an unspeakable horror had passed by recently.
One place, known as Cung Leek had a cemetery that contained nothing but dried human brains; more than 100 in all. In the nearby village of Sum Cung they found thirteen baskets filled with severed human digits—thumbs, fingers and toes. Once again, all indications were that the butchery had taken place while the victims were still alive.
Then at the bend in the river near a place called No Dinh they found a ditch where wild boars, birds and insects had been feeding. It contained the severed genitals of at least 150 men. Once more, they found evidence—a blood-stained butcher block, several broken hatchets—which indicated the atrocity had been performed while the men were still alive.
Thoroughly nauseated by this time, they skipped their evening meal and pressed on into the night, towards their ultimate destination: a place called Nieu Go. It was in this area that the large plane was reported to have gone down. Hunter had spent much time studying a topographical map of the place. Like the strange outcroppings at Bang Mi, Nieu Go seemed out of place in the flat marshy Delta.
It was an island really, spoon-shaped and built up with craggy brown rocks, stony beaches and a thick collar of jungle. Near its middle was a small rocky hill, elevation about 250 feet, which, according to the map, had a flattened top made by “unnatural means.”
Hunter asked the Z-men what they thought “unnatural” meant. Timmy theorized the hill had its top razed by a large bomb blast, maybe a weapon gone astray during the last big war. Terry relayed the local myth that the place had bee
n flattened thousands of years ago, by some obscure death spirit in some equally obscure Eastern religion.
Either way, it was easy for Hunter to see that neither man wanted to be near the place for too long.
They arrived just before midnight.
If the Delta was a strange place in the daytime, it was especially eerie at night. Sound traveled very well across the wet plains and rivers, and the starkness of the terrain seemed to amplify every weird noise from the jungles and beyond.
Twice, Terry and Timmy scrambled for their weapons, certain that something was either coming up the river towards them or swooping down on the boat from the dark, moonless sky. Hunter had stayed cool both times—his inner senses warned him of such things way in advance, certainly long enough for him to spring into action. But just seeing the two veteran Z-men rattled that way was enough to cause a shudder or two.
Hunter had checked his M-16 four times by the time the small boat pushed up on the dark beach at Nieu Go. Terry and Timmy were making sure their Uzis were on full load, too. They quietly yanked the boat into some tall reeds and then made for a line of mangroves just up from the beach. Although the place seemed totally devoid of life, Hunter’s sixth sense was going off like a fire alarm.
“We better approach this very carefully,” he kept reminding the New Zealanders, “There’s something here that might not like us.”
The two sergeants gave no argument.
They made it to the mangroves, pressing on through their thick roots, and made the swamp beyond. Off in the distance, Hunter detected a series of mechanical sounds—a thumping, like machinery working. He also heard voices.
They stopped at the edge of the swamp and hunkered down near a fallen tree. Hunter was buzzing with all kinds of warnings now. Beyond them was a very dark tract of jungle, probably a quarter mile wide, which led to an open field that ended at the base of the flattened hill. It was an infantryman’s nightmare: if they don’t get you in the jungle, they’ll get you on the open field.
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