Duty and Dishonor: Author's Preferred Edition

by Dale A. Dye

  Dang took his time sipping tea and trying to hide his dismay. He had no word or warning about something like this, and it was more than a little unusual. What was even more unusual and a little frightening was mention of a PAVN Special Operations unit. Dang knew their reputation, hard men trained by Soviet Spetsnaz advisers. They were ruthless in the extreme and not the kind of unit that generally had anything to do with reeducation camps.

  “I see…and the purpose of your visit, Comrade?”

  “As of now, the security of this camp is my responsibility. In all matters relating to operations, you will consult with me.”

  “Captain, the role of this facility is to reeducate and reform citizens who have engaged in criminal activities, or those who have been declared enemies of the State. We have them under control, I assure you. In the past three years we have had no escapes, no disorders, and no need for anything more than the militia detachment assigned to us.”

  Captain Loan was not impressed. He gulped his teacup empty, dropped his AK on the desk, and moved to the map pinned to a wall. “You have an American here.”

  “Yes…a difficult case. He defected from Imperialist forces and fought on our side during the war.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He is weak-minded and an insincere communist. In the recent past, when he was informed that he would be retained in this camp for the foreseeable future, he made a request to leave and be repatriated. Under orders from the Regional Political Officer, he is currently being treated as a prisoner. It’s all in my reports. I have a very detailed file on this man.”

  “I will read it. Has he made any attempt to escape?”

  “No. He is under constant watch and isolated from the others.”

  “And he could not have communicated with anyone outside this camp?”

  “Of course not, Comrade Captain. We are very isolated here as you can see.” Dang felt sweat dribbling down his rib cage. He suddenly remembered the missing militiaman. Could that have something to do with the arrival of additional security forces? It was unlikely, but the Militia Commander would have to answer for that.

  “Comrade, I can be of much greater assistance if I know the nature of your mission here.”

  Loan turned from the map and dug a cigarette out of his uniform pocket. When he had it lit he blew smoke at the ceiling and then crossed his arms. “I am here because of a rumor, Comrade. One of our diplomats heard a rumor in Bangkok and he passed it on to his superiors in Hanoi. They passed it on to the Ministry of Defense and my commanders passed it on to me.”

  “And this rumor concerns Camp 413?”

  “The rumor is that some Americans are headed here to rescue their former countryman.”

  Dang’s mouth dropped open in shock. The reaction clearly pleased Captain Loan who flipped his cigarette out a window and headed for the door. “This camp is now on full security alert. I will issue further orders when I’ve had a chance to look around.”

  j

  Clattering rotor blades sent Willy Pud scuttling like a beetle through the muddy brown water of a Black River tributary. He struggled to the base of a tall banyan tree, tucking himself into the tangled roots and feeling his boots sink into the muck. Freeze, he told himself. Stop, stand still, think, and don’t panic. If he churned up much more mud and silt, if he cut through the water leaving a wake like a fucking destroyer, the aircrew would spot him whether they were looking or not.

  He scanned the lattice of pulpy succulent vines that formed a low roof over the mangrove swamp. Through a ragged green hole in the canopy, he caught the flash of whirling blades over the sky-blue belly of the aircraft. No telling why it was in the area. It could be a routine resupply or something else, but he felt sure the helicopter was headed the same place he was: Camp 413. His map, updated and revised by Keo back in Laos, showed no other installations or major settlements in the area except for a ferry landing and some buildings downstream at a place marked as Lai Chau. If the helicopter was headed there, it would be flying in the opposite direction.

  A solid intersection plot he’d made at sunrise gave him his position, about three clicks from the camp, and he’d covered about two of those before he spotted the helicopter. Was it important? Did the helicopter mean something that would affect his plan…such as it was at this point? Keo said things in this remote area moved on foot, by boat or occasionally by truck on very bad roads. There was just no telling until he got close enough to do a reconnaissance of the camp.

  Willy Pud closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pinch and pull of leeches infesting the tender spots around his ankles and at the back of his knees. Two hard days of humping over jungle mountains, probing and picking his way through the thickest of it to avoid obvious patrol routes, had nearly sapped his strength. Shortly after crossing the low range of craggy fingers that jabbed into Vietnam from Laos, he was forced to admit the sturdy torso and legs that carried him through the war would be a while returning from civilian exile.

  He gutted it out, moving mostly at night on short reaches, following the luminous needle of his compass. It was familiar mental and physical stress, the mule-beaded business of putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the painful scrape of belts and straps, coping with the irritating snatch and scratch of jungle vines. To win a game like that you had to just talk yourself out of losing.

  At this point, Willy Pud knew his long dormant bush senses had come back on line. He’d only encountered one People’s Militia patrol during the trek. They were alert but unskilled, like a band of country boys on a squirrel hunt who stuck mostly to main trails or large animal tracks. Smugglers filtering across the border or a Chinese recon patrol would likely be spotted by the militia, but a good man determined to stay out of sight could do so easily enough. Willy dug a rice ball out of his pocket and chewed for while. The helicopter had landed somewhere and he could hear nothing but the feral sounds of the mangrove swamp. He pushed on, shoving slowly through a raft of lime-green algae, ignoring stinging squadrons of mosquitoes that rose to defend their festering turf.

  After another wet and miserable hour of wading, he hauled himself onto a small pad of dry land and checked his navigation. His options were clear. He could continue directly east through the swamp or he could turn north toward high ground overlooking the camp. If he plowed through the swamp and into a tributary that ran close by the camp, he could save a little time, perhaps as much as a day. If he went for the high ground, he’d be in much better position to conduct the vital reconnaissance and refine his plans for getting to Salt.

  He’s got to be there, Will Pud told himself. I know he is…must be. Pepper had survived and all the evidence said Salt had also. He was at that camp! If he spent the time to go for the high ground, he’d spot the man he was after and then figure a way to get him out. Willy Pud refolded his map, shoved his compass into a pouch, and headed north, confident that he was on a credible course and Cleveland Herbert Emory would be there when he arrived at the objective.

  At dusk, headed up into the tangled underbrush coating a hill about 600 meters west of Camp 413, Willy Pud cut a trail and nearly ran into the left flank of a militia patrol. Fortunately, the troopers in this particular stand of bush were pissed off and careless. They were bitching loudly and stomping heedlessly along the trail. Willy slid behind a patch of prickly vines and watched them out of sight. When they were gone, he continued upslope and found a good position that gave him a panoramic view of the camp layout. It looked almost exactly as Dinh had described it. Willy Pud pulled his binoculars out and began to study the place in the gathering gloom.

  The militia patrol walking back into the camp in a loose file passed some much more professional-looking soldiers, and Willy studied them closely. Those guys were major-league players. They were kitted and uniformed much like regular NVA infantry Willy Pud remembered from the war…only better. Their gear was tight and well-configured for quick movement and ready access. They carried shortened,
folding stock versions of the bog-standard AK-47s the militia carried. Neither Dinh nor Keo had indicated Camp 413 might be so well guarded. Willy Pud swung his glasses and spotted the helicopter sitting on a nearby pad. It was an Mi-8, armed and well-tended. He had two important pieces of additional information: The helicopter had been carrying combat troops rather than supplies, and he would be dealing with pros rather than amateurs.

  He laid out the gear he would need at sunset and snuggled into a narrow recess beneath a rotting log, wondering about the changes from what he’d been told to expect. Setting the silent alarm on his watch, Willy decided he’d try to sleep as much as he could until well after dark and then begin a slow, careful perimeter tour of the camp.

  He woke to the pulse of his alarm at 1900. A chilly wind blew through a cloudless sky over his hide-site, but he should be able to see clearly enough through the night-vision scope. At his back, some 50 meters away on top of the hill, a stand of bamboo shivered and rattled in the wind. It was a sound that regularly spooked troops in the jungle. Willy Pud closed his eyes and remembered another odd thing about bamboo. He had the first glimmers of a plan.

  j

  The image was ghostly, devoid of dimensional detail, but Willy Pud could plainly see the helicopter parked in a bean field behind what Dinh said was the Camp Commander’s hut. There were two men standing guard around the aircraft, both regulars rather than militia. A helicopter like the Mi-8 could carry about a dozen men, and that meant he was facing at least that many competent hands. There were two pods of rockets pinned to the helicopter’s stub-wings which made it a threat he’d have to deal with, probably on the run out after he’d snatched Salt. So far in his reconnaissance, he’d counted about a dozen militiamen milling around on nighttime chores, but no sign of Salt or any other camp residents. They were likely tucked into the huts that were laid out in a line on the other side of the camp where he could see some dim light from what were probably candles.

  He panned slowly with the night-vision scope, taking his time, searching for heavy machine-gun positions, mortars, or other support weapons. Dinh said they didn’t bother with wire fences, and so far Willy Pud had confirmed that. Getting in and out would not involve having to cut through wire. As far as he could tell after just one complete circuit of the camp, there were no intruder alarms and very few standing lights. The only crew-served weapon he’d seen was a single RPD machinegun in a bunker near the river.

  All that worked in Willy Pud’s favor, but he was still one man against 30 or so, a cat burglar trying to steal from a houseful of cops. Willy Pud knew his best shot was a plan that would get the job done and get him and his prize out before the crime was even detected. He killed power to the scope and carefully moved on, skirting the perimeter counterclockwise, heading for the banks of the river on the west side of the camp. He wanted a look at the central hut where Dinh said Salt was living under guard.

  There was a tree-shrouded spot on the river bank that gave him a clear view into the camp’s central area. He squirmed up out of the water and flattened himself in the mud with his boots dangling in the stream, feeling the shove of the current. It was sluggish but running in the right direction if he planned on using the air mattresses to float him and his captive away from the camp. And so far, that was the best scheme that had taken shape in his imagination.

  A sentry passed the spot, wandering idly and barely glancing at the river. Militia this time and Willy hoped maybe the pros were leaving regular walking posts to them. The man shrugged at the sling of the SKS carbine on his shoulder and then stopped to light a cigarette. A guard standing post near the entrance to a nearby hut walked over and got a cigarette from the walking guard. They stood chatting while Willy Pud examined them through the scope. He heard a soft voice calling from the hut. One of the men said something and then walked away back toward his post. There was more from someone in the hut, and the militia guard responded with a little heat.

  That’s when Salt stuck his head out of the darkened doorway and held out his hand for a cigarette. In the light of the sentry’s match, Willy Pud saw his objective, saw that the speculation was true. Cleveland Herbert Emory was alive and sucking on a cigarette about 50 meters from where Willy Pud lay watching in the mud and slime.

  He needed to be dead sure before he risked everything going after this man. He desperately wanted a better, closer look. The smeary image in the scope didn’t much resemble the man who lived in Willy Pud’s memories. This guy was darkly tanned, skinny with unkempt, sun-streaked hair hanging over his ears. He wore glasses but lots of people had faulty eyesight. Willy Pud needed to be sure it was Salt and not some other European that the Vietnamese were keeping in the jungle for unknown reasons. It was unlikely as hell in Willy Pud’s mind, but he would be risking a lot on this one-time, one-chance effort. He wanted a closer look.

  He slipped back into the water, thinking to move slightly upstream where he might find an unguarded path to approach the hut where the white man stayed. He’d have to find a way to avoid the front door sentry and get a look through a window where there was candlelight glowing. He really had no solid plan, but Willy Pud was hoping he’d hit on one once he was a little further along the water course. A moonbeam flashed on something just over his head. It was a line, stretched tight and dripping dew along its length. The other end of it was tied to a tree on the stream bank. He looked to where the line dipped into the current and realized it was a fishing line. There was a float bobbing with the current to his left in mid-stream. It looked like an inverted plastic jug. He’d seen this kind of thing before when the old man rigged trot-lines to snag mud-cats on camping trips in the Ozarks. He always tied a tin can full of pebbles to the line to alert him when he had something that would constitute a catfish meal.

  Willy Pud gently tugged on the line and heard a tinny rattle. Apparently the old fisherman’s trick was universal. There were a couple of cans tied to this line near the tree which anchored it. And then he remembered another thing Dinh had told him about life in the camp. Salt was employed as Camp 413’s primary fisherman because his injuries wouldn’t abide stoop labor in the fields.

  Willy Pud maneuvered slowly upstream, searching with his hands until he found a rotten branch that pulled silently out of the mud. It was long enough for what he needed. He waited until a pair of sentries passed along the stream and then snagged the line with his branch. He tucked himself behind a fallen tree and then jiggled the line. The cans rattled loudly. He gave the line another shake and then waited in the dark shadows, up to his neck in the water and hoping for a response.

  He heard voices followed by footsteps in the dark. Two men were approaching and he could see the glare of a cigarette in the gloom. A tall figure stood on the bank about ten meters away, puffing on a smoke and talking to another man who carried a rifle. The taller man was the Caucasian Willy Pud had spotted in the door earlier. The flare from the cigarette hanging out of his mouth glinted on his glasses as he squatted and began to pull on the line awkwardly and favoring one arm. It was Salt, no question. The man pulling in the fishing line and chatting in halting Vietnamese was Cleveland Herbert Emory, Junior. Willy watched silently as they checked the line, fighting the urge to lunge up out of the water and simply grab the man. But that wasn’t smart and Willy Pud needed to be smart, to control his emotions. Grabbing Salt right then and there would be immensely satisfying and equally fatal.

  There was some bitching and laughing when the trot-line turned up empty. Willy Pud watched Salt re-bait the hook and then send the float back out into the stream. Salt stood and walked back toward his hut with the guard following. When they were gone, he slowly and silently made his way back downstream, letting the current carry him to a point where he could safely get out of the water. He was certain of his objective. Now he needed a plan to achieve it.

  j

  He was exhausted, soaked, and shivering two hours before dawn as he sat in his hide-site wrapped in a poncho liner. Bamboo rattle
d again on the top of the hill and Willy Pud reached into his rucksack to check something he’d need very shortly when he put his plan in motion at nightfall. Nestled at the bottom of the pack were three pyrotechnic grenades, two smoke canisters for signaling and the one he wanted. He felt the tapered bottom on one of the cylinders just to confirm that it was a Willy Pete, a White Phosphorous. If you wanted to start a major blaze, nothing beat Willy Peter. And nothing beat a major blaze for an effective diversion.

  Willy Pud camouflaged his site making sure a passing patrol on the trail below wouldn’t spot him sleeping away the day and lay down to try and get some rest. If he survived undiscovered all day, he intended to create a king-hell diversion around the camp that night, drawing attention away from what he had planned to reach Salt. When he made his move from the river, he wanted every man in that camp looking in the opposite direction. He wanted to upset the placid little scene in this area, create a sensory overload and keep the bastards bouncing around like pin-balls while he snatched Salt right out from under their noses. He was half asleep, massaging details in his mind when the incoming started.

  The first round caught Willy Pud just above his right ear. He scrambled out of the hide and rolled down slope, waiting for the detonation of what he presumed was a grenade. There was nothing as he scanned the slope pointing into the dark with his pistol. He expected a burst of gunfire from the patrol that had spotted him, but all was silent except for the croak of cicadas and the whistle of wind through the bamboo stand. He slowly climbed back toward the hide-site, hoping he could retrieve his gear. There was furtive movement in the bush above him but Willy Pud kept crawling. If there was going to be a firefight, he needed the AUG and ammo. Two more projectiles hit him in the back but there was no explosion. They weren’t grenades. Somebody was pelting him with rocks.