Tet (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 11)

by Eric Helm

  “Let’s head north toward Bao Trai.”

  “Yeah,” said Albright. “That road is fairly good and the enemy hasn’t mined it.”

  “You sweep it often?”

  Albright shot a glance over his shoulder. “Don’t have to. Farmers use it. They keep it clean. If they don’t dig up the mines to get rid of them, they step on them and explode them.”

  “Wonderful system,” said Fetterman.

  Albright dropped the jeep into gear, spun the wheel and took off in a cloud of red dust and flying dirt as he popped the clutch. He slid around a corner, throwing up dirt, and jammed on the brakes, sliding to a halt near the gate. Two Vietnamese strikers wearing OD shorts and a bandolier of ammo ran from their bunker to open up.

  The jeep roared through the gate, and Albright turned onto a dirt road that was a red scar through the plush green countryside. Gerber put a hand to his eyes to shield them and then wiped the sweat from his forehead. He dug into his pocket and took out his sunglasses. Normally he didn’t wear them because he didn’t want to get too used to them, but the sun reflecting from the water of the swamps and the canals made it almost impossible to see. He turned and saw that Fetterman seemed not to be bothered by the brightness.

  Gerber stared at the people in the fields. There were the normal number of old men and old women, dressed in black pants and rough cotton shirts. Nearly everyone wore a coolie hat for protection from the sun.

  Fetterman tapped Gerber on the shoulder. “Awful lot of people of military age in the fields.”

  Gerber nodded but didn’t say anything. He had noticed it, too — young men who would normally be hiding during the heat of the day if only to keep out of the way of the South Vietnamese military and the American Army. Now they were in the fields wearing black shorts and no shirts. They didn’t look down when the jeep passed but returned the stares of the occupants.

  They came to a group of three young men walking on the side of the road. Unlike the peasants, they didn’t leap into the ditch but stayed where they were, glaring. Gerber met their gazes and felt the hatred behind the eyes. As they drove by, Gerber turned in the seat, keeping his eyes on them.

  “You think we should check their IDs?” asked Fetterman.

  “Wouldn’t do any good,” said Gerber. Then he reached out and tapped Albright on the shoulder. “Stop the jeep!”

  Albright jammed on the brakes, and they slid to a halt. Gerber got out, his weapon in his hand. He didn’t have to call to the men because they hadn’t moved. Gerber felt Fetterman’s presence beside him and asked, “You notice anything about those guys?”

  “You mean like they’re all military age, they don’t look like farmers and they all have muscled shoulders suggesting that they carry backpacks?”

  “Yes, and that big guy is wearing an NVA haircut.” Gerber slipped off the safety on his M-16. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Albright was standing behind the jeep, his weapon cradled in his arms.

  Fetterman advanced on the men and said in Vietnamese, “I would like to see your ID.”

  They looked at one another, pretending they didn’t understand. Fetterman stood like a thin, smiling Buddha, waiting. He stared at the man in the center, eyes locked on those of the young man, who finally dropped his gaze and reached to the rear. Fetterman tensed, but the man produced a laminated government issue ID card.

  Fetterman took it, held it up so that Gerber could see it and then handed it back. He bowed slightly and thanked the man, wishing him a safe journey. With that Fetterman turned and headed back to the jeep.

  “I knew it,” said Gerber. “NVA.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Fetterman. “That ID is a dead giveaway. I’ll bet if we asked one of the farmers for his ID he either wouldn’t have it or it would be a worn, tattered document.”

  “You two satisfied?” asked Albright.

  “Well, those guys answered one question,” said Gerber. He waited until Albright had the jeep heading down the road again and said, “Are there a lot of men like that around here?”

  “More than normal and more showing up all the time.”

  Gerber turned and looked at Fetterman. “You seen enough, Tony?”

  “Let’s check out the marketplace before we head back.”

  “Sergeant,” said Gerber.

  “Couple of miles more.”

  They entered a small town of mud hootches with rusted tin roofs. There were bright signs on some of them and mud fences that separated the doors from the roadways. One building had a dilapidated porch. Two young Vietnamese girls sat in the shade and were surrounded by young men. Gerber tried not to stare, taking in as much detail as possible as they drove by. Again he noticed that men stared rather than looked away and that they all had short hair with white sidewalls. More NVA trying to blend into the countryside.

  They came to a long, low building with a thatched roof and only a few walls that separated the stalls from one another. At one end there were seven or eight fifty-five-gallon drums, wooden crates, tin cans and the remains of C-ration boxes. Tied to a pole near them were two pigs. A boy sat nearby, watching them and ignoring everything else.

  Gerber could see that there was food stacked in some of the stalls. Meat was hanging from the roof, some of it seeming to move as the flies crawled on it. A group of people, mostly young women, sat talking to one another.

  “Looks kind of dead.”

  Albright pulled to the side and stopped. “Normally this place is jumping. You can get anything you want here. I mean everything.” He pointed to the women. “They’re available most of the time, but now, who knows? Couple of guys from the Twenty-fifth said the women now claim to be hostesses. No longer are they whores.”

  Gerber put a foot up on the dashboard. For a moment he wished he smoked. He wiped a hand across his forehead, then on the front of his fatigue jacket, leaving a ragged sweat stain.

  “Tony, you seen enough now?”

  “I’ve seen plenty, Captain. There has to be three times the normal number of military-age men around here.”

  “Then we know that something is happening,” said Gerber. He didn’t need to explain that a buildup of enemy forces meant that something was coming.

  “I guess we can head on back.”

  “That is,” added Fetterman, “if you’re sure the same thing is repeated all over the area.”

  Albright nodded. “It’s the same. One day there are barely enough military-age males around to do the work and the next there are twice as many. No signs of weapons or military equipment, but you can bet that if we ran a search-and-destroy we’d find a lot of it.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Orders from Saigon. They don’t want us making waves now. Contact is down, casualties are down and no one wants to stir the pot.”

  “Yeah,” said Gerber. “I’ve heard all that before.”

  Albright turned in the seat so that he could back up. He worked the stick, grinding the gears. As he pulled out onto the road, there was a pop from the radio in the back, a burst of static and a garbled message.

  “What’s your call sign?” asked Fetterman.

  “Warlord Seven.”

  Fetterman picked up the handset and squeezed the button. “Say again for Warlord Seven.”

  “Roger, Seven. We’ve lost contact with Warlord Two. He was traveling in your vicinity.”

  “Wait one,” said Fetterman. He moved the handset from his ear and leaned forward. “You have any idea where Two was going?”

  “He said he’d be heading toward Bao Trai and then over to Ap Tan Hoa. That’s a village complex out near Hiep Hoa and west of Duc Hue.”

  “You want to swing up in that direction,” said Gerber, “feel free to do so. It’ll just give us all the opportunity to take a longer look at the AO.”

  “Sounds good, sir.”

  Fetterman raised the handset. “Warlord Base, this is Seven. We’ll swing through the Alpha Oscar and see what we can scare up.”

  “Roger, Seven.
Be advised that Six wants a report every thirty minutes on your progress.”

  “Roger that.” Fetterman dropped the handset back onto the seat and asked, “This unusual?”

  “Nah. Two is always running off on his own and forgets to check in so that we have to go looking for him.”

  “Seems pretty slack,” commented Gerber.

  “Well, sir, you know how it is. Can’t always make radio check when you’re supposed to so that everyone gets his balls in an uproar. You can’t blow it off because it might be the one time the guy needs help.”

  “I’m not complaining,” said Gerber. “I’m merely pointing out that your Six lets you run around with a little more freedom than I would.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They approached a hamlet from the southeast. This was another of the mud-and-thatch villages. There was a network of roadways that were little more than tracks of bare ground full of potholes and stagnant water. Paint had been splashed on some of the buildings in an attempt to make them more presentable. Signs in both Vietnamese and English marked the two bars that stood opposite each other. On the porch of one, at a small round table, sat three Vietnamese girls. They didn’t look up as the jeep approached.

  Albright turned toward the bar and stopped. He shut off the engine. “You wait here and I’ll find out if they’ve seen anything.”

  “I take it you can speak Vietnamese,” said Fetterman.

  “Some. But the girls can speak some English. I’ll be able to talk to them.”

  Fetterman shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  As Albright got out of the jeep, taking his weapon with him, Gerber closed his eyes and let the silence wash over him. Far from Saigon and the American fire support bases scattered around Highway One, there was little sound except for a birdcall in the distance or a shout and the discordant music of the Vietnamese from a radio the girls had.

  Gerber opened his eyes and watched one of the girls stand. She was short, under five feet tall, but slim and perfectly proportioned so that it was impossible to tell a thing about her until Albright approached. Then it was obvious that she was tiny. She wore black pajamas that hid her shape but not her long, silky hair. She grabbed Albright’s free arm, pressing herself to him, her voice cool and seductive.

  The other girls sat quietly, waiting for either Fetterman or Gerber to make a move but unwilling to start it themselves. They stayed where they were, neither smiling nor waving.

  Albright sat in the free chair. One of the girls got up and ran inside, returning with a Coke bottle made from clear glass. She set it and a glass with a single, large chunk of ice in front of Albright. He poured the Coke in, let it fizz for a moment and then took a drink. With the ritual complete, he began talking rapidly, his hands waving animatedly.

  After a few minutes Albright drained his Coke and stood. He bent over and kissed the tiny girl on the forehead and then made his way back to the jeep. Putting his weapon between the seats, he climbed in.

  “They said one of our jeeps came through about two hours ago. They didn’t pay much attention because the man driving didn’t slow down. I think it was Thompson.”

  “You know,” said Fetterman, “you could have brought us each a Coke.”

  Albright shrugged. “You could have bought your own.” He started the engine and fought it into reverse. He backed out and started off again.

  As they drove through the village, Gerber took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his face. The wind from the motion of the jeep cooled him slightly.

  They left the village and turned onto a road that was little more than a track across the high ground. High weeds grew in the center, and there was water from the swamp on both sides. Right and left was a sea of grass and reeds, broken occasionally by clumps of trees or high, dry ground.

  Far in front of them, a mile or more, was another of the small villages. Hootches with flashing tin roofs were hidden in a clump of trees.

  “That’s Ap Tan Hoa Four,” said Albright. “It’s a hotbed of Communist activity.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Just that if there is a Communist cadre in the area, they live there. They maintain a low profile and cause trouble once in a great while. I don’t think there’s a lot of support for them in the villages.”

  They came close and slowed down. Finally Albright stopped the jeep and sat staring at the village for a moment. There was nothing to see, just the hootches, none of which were painted like those of the last ville. No signs and no people. The fields around it were deserted.

  “I don’t like this,” said Fetterman.

  Albright didn’t turn to look. He just said, “I don’t like this, either. Something’s wrong.”

  Bromhead was sweating in the midafternoon sun, wondering if he shouldn’t delegate this job. He couldn’t remember Gerber ever helping to string barbed wire, but then, he did remember his former captain filling sandbags and stacking them. He also recalled Gerber helping to rebuild the team house and working under a jeep. It wasn’t that Gerber refused to help string barbed wire, he just never had the opportunity.

  Bromhead wiped the sweat from his face, then looked toward the sun, wishing there were a few clouds in the sky or that a rainstorm was brewing. Anything to break the heat.

  As he bent to continue staking down one end of the wire, he wondered if it did any good. He had seen a demonstration put on by a former VC sapper. The man had shown how easy it was to penetrate the concertina around the American bases. He had moved through the thickest of it as if there was no barrier. He didn’t even rattle the beer cans that were hung all over the place. When he finished, he had pointed to ways to make the wire more effective, telling his audience that the wires around the camps were little more than ways to slightly slow an attack. Sappers could get through them quickly and silently.

  Bromhead had asked if they should just forget about the wire and the man had said no, that the wire was important. It meant that the enemy had to plan their attack with it in mind. A large-scale assault meant the enemy had to send in the sappers to blow holes in the wire and that gave the defenders some warning about the attack.

  Given that, Bromhead tried to hide the trip flares and mines he was putting in so that the sapper wouldn’t see them as he tried to work his way through the wire.

  He stood when he heard a shout behind him and turned to see Mildebrandt hurrying toward him. While he waited, he mopped his face with his sleeve, soaking it.

  Mildebrandt halted and gulped air. “Got a radio call from Hornet Operations in Cu Chi. Wanted to know if their aircraft had been here or not.”

  “And you told them it had been.”

  “Yes, sir, sure did. They asked for the takeoff time and their destination. I told them we thought it was heading for Tay Ninh. And I found out that it apparently never got there. They were backtracking, to see if they could locate it. They wanted to know if the pilot had reported any trouble to us.”

  Bromhead looked at the ground and kicked at the small box. “Shit.”

  “I figured we’d get a couple of squads into the field—”

  “And do what?” asked Bromhead. “You know what those things cruise at. A hundred miles an hour. They took off a couple of hours ago. They could be hundreds of miles from here. Where do you plan to look?”

  “Tyme’s on that chopper.”

  Bromhead felt a cold hand on his stomach. He stared at Mildebrandt. “I know that Sergeant Tyme was on the aircraft, but I’d like to know what in hell I’m supposed to do about it.”

  “Captain, we’ve got to do something.”

  Bromhead was going to respond and then thought about it. There was almost no chance that a ground patrol would be able to locate the chopper if it had gone down in the jungles around Song Be. If something had happened and they had managed to get to one of the American camps, then Tyme would be calling in. But he knew that he had to do something, even if it was only a token gesture.

  Bromhead touched his lips with the back of his hand. �
�Okay. First we’d better see if we can get any airlift support. Then I’ll want a couple of patrols ready to go. If we overfly their route we might spot them. If not, then we’ll go in on the ground.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mildebrandt. “I’ll take one, and Sergeant Bocker said he wanted to take the other.”

  Bromhead picked up the cardboard carton, then looked at the sun again. “It’s going to be close to dark before we can get anyone into the field. Maybe we’d better wait until first light.”

  Mildebrandt nodded. “Militarily it makes sense to wait until morning.”

  Bromhead wrapped an arm around the cardboard box and held up his hand. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably right. It’s just that I don’t want to sacrifice a couple more men in a gesture. Between you and me, you know that anything we do isn’t going to help all that much. There really isn’t much we can do without aviation support.”

  “So we give it up,” said Mildebrandt.

  “No. But we don’t run off in fourteen different directions, either.”

  They reached the gate, and two Vietnamese strikers came toward them. Bromhead handed over the box and turned toward the commo bunker.

  As they entered, Bocker said, “Captain, I’ve talked with the CO of the Hornets and the battalion commander down there. Hornet Six said he’d give us anything we needed and said that a couple of choppers would be here in thirty minutes. We could deploy them as we saw fit. Black Baron Six, the battalion CO, said he was pulling in aircraft from the Crusaders, too. Have them begin a search starting in Tay Ninh.”

  Bromhead moved to a map that was mounted on the wall. He looked at Song Be and then Tay Ninh. “That’s an awful lot of territory we have to search. An awful lot.”

  CHAPTER 5

  DOWNTOWN SAIGON

  Le Tran took the happy Marines through the wide streets with their heavy traffic of jeeps, trucks and Lambrettas. She led them past honky-tonk bars that wailed with country and western music, around more bars that blasted rock and through crowds of prostitutes who tried to steal the Marines with offers of everything the Marines could imagine. Finally Le Tran was tired of the challenges and yelled for a taxi. It swerved across several lanes of traffic, amid squealing tires and blaring horns, and screeched to a halt inches from them.