Duty and Dishonor: Author's Preferred Edition

by Dale A. Dye

  “I’m off the sauce, Freddy. I can’t afford it anymore.”

  “So you’d be looking for a paying job, right?”

  “It depends. What’s up?”

  Halley shifted in his chair and rattled the ice in his beer glass. “I’m looking for solid men with bush experience, Toliver. One mission, mostly in Laos, probably no more than a week or two.”

  “Doing what?”

  “We’d by waiting for one or two men to approach the border up north. I don’t want them to make it across.”

  “Is this official or unofficial?”

  “Entirely a private enterprise.”

  “These guys you want to hit...gooks or what?”

  “Or what, Toliver. I’m offering three thousand U.S. dollars per man. If you’ve got any more questions, I don’t want you along.”

  Toliver rubbed his chin and cut a glance at Carver. He got no caution lights so he simply shrugged and snagged a cigarette from the pack on the table.

  “I need some earnest money up front.”

  “That can be arranged.” Halley looked at Carver and nodded. “Put him on the list.”

  It took them the better part of three hours to put together a team of five men from the eight who showed up for an interview. Of the three who failed to pass muster, one was a jaundiced alcoholic, one was a fire-breathing speed freak, and another was overly anxious to avoid the Thai police.

  “So what’s next, Colonel?” They were walking through the muggy afternoon heat and wincing at the taste of exhaust fumes from a snarl of Bangkok traffic.

  “Now we do the mission prep, Freddy. You handle logistics and I’ll take care of intelligence.”

  “Just SOP all the way…”

  “Yes, and we’re going to improve our Intel situation by interrogating a former enemy soldier.”

  j

  Bob Terranova nodded at something the Thai charter pilot buzzed into his headset and then scrunched around to prod Willy Pud who was asleep in the jump seat of the drafty old Beechcraft Twin Commander. When Willy struggled his way upright amid a jumble of gear packed into the rear of the passenger compartment, the USAID man pointed at a spare headset hanging from a hook over the seats.

  “Almost there. We’re about ten minutes out…last chance to change your mind.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  There really wasn’t much more to say. All the details had been hashed out prior to takeoff from Bangkok. The rudimentary airstrip somewhere ahead of the whirling props was the closest available thing to the Laotian border. The little strip across the Mekong from a spot called Pakwan in Laos was usually off-limits for civilian aircraft, but Terranova’s connections had gotten them flight clearance for a one-time landing and takeoff. According to that falsified flight plan, they were just going to deliver some irrigation equipment to an experimental farm in the area.

  “Keo is supposed to meet you at the strip, but don’t get discouraged if he doesn’t show right away. He might get hung up dodging border patrols.”

  Willy merely nodded. He’d planned for that possibility. If he spotted one of the Border Patrol units searching for smugglers or refugees, he’d figure Keo for a no-show and strike off on his own. The distance from the airstrip to the Mekong was just a few kilometers, but if he missed a ride, he’d have 75 kilometers to navigate across the narrow part of Laos to reach Vietnamese soil.

  So he needed Keo who was, according to Bob Terranova, a man with a taste for doing business with roundeyes and a spook-sponsored affinity for clandestine ops. The rugged stretch of Laos between the Thai and Vietnamese borders was turf jealously guarded by former Pathet Lao turned opium traffickers and feudal warlords.

  The Beechcraft banked into a landing pass, and Willy craned out the window to look at a long ribbon of hard-packed red dirt and gravel. A ragged windsock waved in the breeze. Otherwise there was no sign of life on the ground. He’d have to grab his gear and disappear in a hurry. A civilian aircraft landing here would surely draw an inquisitive patrol if one was in the area.

  Bob Terranova grinned beneath his aviator shades and handed over a laminated calendar advertising a skivvy-bar called Lips on Patpong Street. “Be sure and watch the number of days you’re inside. It’s easy to lose track.”

  “Copy,” Willy said stuffing the calendar into a cargo pocket of his field trousers. “We do it just as planned. Give me ten days and then start making this run every other day. If you see my signal or get a push on the air-ground freq, land and pick me up. If not…”

  “Yeah, I got it. If you don’t show, I call the States and sound the alarm. Meanwhile, I’ll try to find a way to cover the flight time on my expense reports.”

  “Just keep track of everything, Bob. If this works out, there won’t be anybody bitching at you about money.”

  Terranova extended a ham-sized hand. “Just find that bastard if he’s alive, Willy Pud, and bring him out with you.”

  They lurched forward in the seat belts as the pilot threw the props into reverse and stood on his brakes. He taxied the Beech to the far end of the runway near the edge of the encroaching jungle and stopped. Willy popped the cabin door, feeling the humid breath of the bush on his back, and began to drag his carefully packed equipment to the ground. Braced against the wash of the idling props, he shouldered the heavy rucksack, picked up a canvas equipment case, and shuffled toward the bush.

  He was just into the green gloom with the muddy Mekong in sight to the east when he heard the aircraft engines rev up to takeoff speed. And then he was on his own: Cold insert…and Charlie Mike…Continue Mission. And no sign of Keo yet.

  Struggling farther into the bush, he located a small clearing and grounded his gear. From the equipment case he pulled a Steyr AUG-77 rifle in 5.56mm with an integral 1.5X optical sight. The sleek, space-age Austrian bull-pup felt solid yet jumpy in Willy’s experienced hands. It had excellent shouldering and pointing characteristics. The rifle was a challenge to find in Bangkok even for Terranova’s network of veteran black-marketers, and it took a chunk of change before they finally delivered the AUG, four magazines, and 500 rounds of hot NATO SS109 ball ammo.

  Attached to the synthetic stock material of the weapon was a special bracket Willy designed to accept his other budget-buster, a British Pilkington KITE 4X Individual Weapon Sight. The lightweight image-intensifier gave him daylight vision under starlight conditions out to 600 meters. At just over two pounds with a couple of C-cell batteries for power and mounted forward of the weapon’s balance to counter the weight of a loaded 30-round magazine, the sight was both a tactical and practical asset. It was also a quantum improvement over the bulky, cranky old Starlight Scopes he’d used in Vietnam. Since Willy Pud figured on a lot of night work, it was also a necessity.

  His ruck was packed with a minimum of dehydrated rations supplemented by rice balls wrapped in foil. There was a medical kit built around the possibility that Salt was too ill or weak to make the break. It contained powerful stimulants and depressants, a variety of fast-acting medicines, painkillers, and spirits of ether. Willy thought to include those in case Emory suddenly decided he’d rather remain with his current hosts. Willy was fully prepared to drop all or most of his gear and carry Salt out on his back if necessary.

  On his harness were four canteens, magazine pouches, a trusty old K-Bar fighting knife he’d brought from the States, six M-33 frag grenades, battle dressings and a first-aid pouch, and a strobe light. In a utility pouch on his pack he had insect repellant, camouflage paint sticks, parachute cord, and matches, plus a few items Bob Terranova said Keo might like. His back-up weapon, carried in a cut-down holster, was a small but hard-hitting Kimber carry piece in .45 ACP.

  He opened the equipment bag hoping he wouldn’t have to carry its weight for too long and checked his heavier arsenal. There were two M-18 Claymore mines and two pounds of C-4 plastic explosive plus 250 feet of OD rope and an assortment of carabineers. He stuffed what he could into the ruck on
top of two inflatable air mattresses: a poncho liner, an extra set of tiger-stripe utilities like the set he was wearing, and some other gear he thought might come in handy. Then he hefted the ruck with a groan. He figured it for nothing short of 70 pounds, which would be an ass-kicker if he couldn’t find Keo and had to hump it all the way. There was no way to lighten a load Willy Pud needed to support two men in the bush.

  It was the prospect of carrying his own gear and most of what Salt might need that prompted him to go heavier rather than lighter. Dinh said the American was in poor physical condition, and Willy didn’t want to kill the man trying to get him out of Vietnam. He’d get no justice, no revenge for what happened to Spike, if he returned with a corpse.

  The biggest problem was that he had no room for any kind of long-range radio. All he could get and manage to fit in his gear was a small, short-range Fox Mike unit pre-set on an aviation frequency for use in contacting Terranova once he was out of the bush and back in Thailand. His back-up for that event was a few high-visibility air panels and a couple of day-night flares. Once he was over the border in Indian country, he was beyond summoning earthly help. Given the situation and mission, that’s simply the way it had to be.

  Willy Pud stared around him at the familiar green walls of the jungle. Saddle up, he told himself, and checked his watch. Nearly an hour on the ground now and if Keo wasn’t here, he probably wasn’t coming. Nothing he could do about that. With a long odds crap-shoot there just ain’t no cheap insurance.

  He donned the gear and shouldered the rucksack, shifting his shoulders and trying to settle the weight. He’d probably over-packed, he thought as he scanned the sky once again. The basic plan he’d made just as a starting point was to find the camp, then go in quick and hard using the element of surprise, make the snatch and run like hell. It wasn’t very professional, but it was a guideline that he could refine once he had a look at Camp 413 and did a decent reconnaissance.

  Checking his compass, Willy Pud faced northeast and spotted a small piece of high ground that would allow him to keep an eye on the airstrip. He’d wait there for a while and give Keo a little more time to show. Before he reached the top of that hill, Willy was praying that Keo had simply been delayed and not out of the picture completely. His back, hips, and legs were complaining loudly about too much weight and too little exercise. The first few days of humping would be brutal until his body settled into the old familiar patterns. He’d feel better then when the weight seemed to disappear, when the heat, thirst, and pain seemed irrelevant, when he was focused on the mission and nothing else.

  At the top of the hill, he dropped his gear thankfully and spread a few of the air-panels around where they’d be easy to see from the air. Then he made himself a little base camp tucked into a stand of elephant-ears on the military crest of the hill. An hour later there was still no sign of Keo, but he’d also seen no sign of Thai Army border patrols.

  He was three hours from insert and no closer to the Laotian border. It seemed like Keo was a no-show. Willy sipped water and rechecked his compass reluctantly deciding he’d have to press on by shoe-leather express. He was walking toward the top of the hill to collect his gear and retrieve the air panels when a noise froze him in place. It was familiar and unmistakable to any Vietnam combat vet. Somewhere off to the east a Huey helicopter was chopping through the muggy air. It thrummed, warbled, and whomped, beating the heavy air over the jungle into submission and sounding like a snare-drummer doing a long, rhythmic roll.

  Willy Pud shrugged into his gear and rucksack trying to spot something in the cloudless sky. The helo was approaching from the direction of the Laos border so it had to be Keo. He shaded his eyes with a hand and scanned the horizon. Then he saw it. There was a black shape jinking over the treetops that rapidly morphed into a Huey. The aircraft was old, ratty, and painted a flat black. Patches of its aluminum skin showed through chipped paint. There was someone in the door waving and pointed downward where he’d laid out the air panels.

  He was moving toward an opening atop the high ground that looked big enough to land a Huey when he heard the first shots. Keo—if it was Keo at the controls of the Huey—was taking ground fire. Willy Pud saw the red streaks lancing up out of the jungle reaching for the helicopter, but the pilot just bored straight ahead through the fire. The figure in the door was hanging out precariously and staring at the ground as the helicopter made one circle over the landing zone atop the hill and then flew off in the opposite direction. Willy Pud waved his arms and staggered into the open. He got a return wave from the figure in the door but the helo was moving away from him.

  He took a knee and glanced over his shoulder to see a Thai Army patrol bulling bush about 100 meters away below the hill. That explained the ground fire. The question was whether or not the helicopter pilot had the balls to fly through it and pick him up. Off to his right at treetop level, the Huey staggered left, bobbled for a moment with the nose pitching skyward as if it was going to back into a crash. And then the pilot corrected and kicked into a violent pedal turn heading back in his direction. Willy could see smoke coughing out of the turbine exhaust as the helicopter approached. The Thai patrol opened up again and more tracers lanced through the sky.

  Willy Pud ducked out of sight near the surface roots of a teak tree and watched what he thought was likely to be a spectacular crash. A shadow passed over the hilltop as the pilot drove the helo into a flat, fast landing approach. Whoever it was at the controls was doing a fairly admirable imitation of a veteran Air Cav pilot on a combat assault mission. Below him, the Thai soldiers were trotting toward the hill now with the point element starting to climb. They looked like a line of bird hunters aiming their M-16s into the air.

  The helicopter skidded into a landing so rough that Willy Pud saw the skids bow and bend. He caught a glimpse of the man in the left seat of the Huey wearing a huge grin beneath a set of teardrop aviator shades. Sitting beside him was another man wearing a red bandana tied around a mop of coal-black hair. He was up and running toward the helicopter when a woman jumped to the ground carrying an M-79 grenade launcher. She signaled for him to hurry and then expertly blooped a couple of high-explosive rounds into the advancing patrol.

  Staggering under his load and running as fast as he could, Willy Pud only just noticed she was young and pretty, with long black hair whipping in the rotor-wash, wearing shorts and a gaudy plaid shirt. Rounds were thudding and sparking into the fuselage as Willy reached the right side of the helicopter. The woman put two hands on his butt and shoved while the man in the right seat triggered a long burst of AK fire over his head.

  Slumped on the deck of the Huey, trapped and immobile under the weight of his gear, Willy felt the helicopter bounce a few times and then they were airborne, staggering and skidding over the treetops and headed east.

  He managed to shrug out of his gear into a seated position and looked at the girl who was apparently either a crew chief or a door gunner or both. She smiled at him showing a set of bright teeth with gold highlights from dental work. It was impossible to hear normal conversation, so he just shouted his question at her.

  “Keo,” he screamed. “Are you from Keo?”

  The woman broadened her smile and pointed toward the man at the controls. “He Keo,” she said and dropped into a squat using the M-79 as a prop. The wild gyrations of the aircraft didn’t seem to bother her at all. Willy Pud flinched as a drop of hot oil dropped on his neck. The woman noticed and looked up at the roof of the cabin where a hydraulic line was oozing fluid. The aircraft lurched and staggered, trying desperately for lift, but she didn’t seem worried. She handed Willy Pud her grenade launcher, then whipped a red-checked bandanna from around her neck. She plugged the leak with her kerchief and the aircraft settled into some semblance of straight and level flight.

  She nodded and settled back into her squat to try and hand-roll a cigarette. The wind roaring into the cargo compartment tore at the tobacco and paper. She frowned and shou
ted something unintelligible toward the men in the cockpit. Willy Pud reached into his pocket and offered her a Winston from his pack. She clapped her hands like a kid on Christmas morning and then leaned in to get a light from his Zippo. She seemed so delighted with the American smoke that Willy gave her the entire pack.

  Then he scooted to a spot where he could look out the door. He watched the familiar dragonfly shadow flitting across the treetops. He could tell from the sun and shadows that they were heading due east into Laos. He had a hundred questions screaming for answers and a fervent thank you to deliver, but all that would have to wait until they landed…presuming Keo could manage that maneuver twice in the same day.

  j

  Ngo Xa Dinh was absolutely astounded by his good fortune. Less than three months out of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam and he was well on the way to becoming a rich man. His family was shopping in Bangkok, so Dinh personally poured green tea for his visitors from the new insulated teakettle that was his wife’s pride and joy. And then he put the kettle on the table next to three stacks of Thai baht. He hadn’t counted the money his visitors were offering, but it was obviously much more than he gotten from the other two men who came to him for information about the American at Camp 413.

  He picked up a pencil and pondered the tactical map spread on the table next to the money. For the most part, these men simply wanted the same information as the others. He’d given them the same answers and now he was about to circle the same area on this map that he’d drawn on the others. It was simple, but Dinh didn’t want to make it seem so easy that the visitors might cut the price they were offering. He hesitated, frowning as he studied the map and licked the end of the pencil.

  The visitor who spoke Vietnamese, the one with the long scar on his face, cleared his throat and asked if Dinh was having trouble. “No,” he smiled, “I am just trying to be as accurate as possible.”