Tet (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 11)

by Eric Helm

  Tyme sat down again and rubbed his head. There was a pounding behind his eyes and a roaring in his ears. His eyes weren’t working quite right. It was like looking through a long tunnel, and he had no peripheral vision. He knew that he had a concussion and wondered how bad it was and if he was in any danger. The faster he could get out, the better off he would be, but there didn’t seem to be any prospect of getting out before morning.

  Two men appeared out of the growing dark. One was the crew chief and the other a pilot, the AC. Tyme noticed that the pilot was a tall, thin man with light brown hair who looked about fifteen years old.

  “You have a problem?” asked the man.

  Tyme saw the bars of a warrant officer sewn to the collar of the man’s jungle fatigues. The black bars were little more than a dark smudge in the advancing darkness, but the gold thread of the bars was visible.

  “No problem, sir,” said Tyme. “I was telling your crew chief—”

  “Sergeant Stanfield.”

  “Sergeant Stanfield, that we’d better move off. If Charlie saw us go down, he’s going to be moving in on us tonight. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  The warrant officer stood for a moment, staring into the thick green jungle almost as if he could see something in it. There was a rustling of wind through the leaves, a call of a bird and the scream of a monkey.

  “How far?”

  “Couple of hundred meters would be good. Give us enough of a cushion so that we could E and E if we had to, then we could get back here in the morning.”

  “Okay, Sergeant. That sounds good. We’ll get on it.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d also like to suggest that we take as much of the equipment with us in case Charlie finds the chopper. We don’t want to give him anything.”

  “Yeah. Stanfield, get your gear together. I’ll take care of everything up front.” He stood up and then looked at Tyme. “What about the radio control heads?”

  “If you can get them out, take them. If not, make sure you zero out the frequencies.”

  “I’m smart enough to do that,” snapped the pilot.

  “Yes, sir,” said Tyme. He hesitated. “We should hold it down, too. Sound travels a long way in the jungle, and it can lead back to us.”

  The pilot seemed to bristle for a moment, as if he wanted to retort to the smartass sergeant, then realized that Tyme was right. He nodded and climbed into the cockpit of the helicopter, using a survival knife to twist the quick-release screws on the radios.

  Tyme got up and walked around the downed chopper, studying it. There was so much that could be used by the enemy, so much that Charlie could use in his war effort. Even the metal skin of the aircraft could be useful. And the battery in the nose of the chopper, which weighed eighty pounds, was something the enemy would love to find. There was no way for the Americans to destroy it without making noise, and it was too heavy for them to carry away.

  The AC reappeared, holding up the small control heads. “You want to find us a place to hole up?” He was leaning close to Tyme and had kept his voice low.

  “Be happy to, sir.”

  “Good. We’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  Tyme nodded. He checked his weapon again, glanced around and then moved into the trees near the rear of the helicopter. It was the roughest terrain. They would have to step around trees and bushes and crawl under fallen trees. If Charlie tried to follow, especially in the coming night, he would have to make some noise. That would give them a warning. It made the whole thing perfect. Tyme eased forward until he found a good spot for them to hide until the sun came up and they could hope for rescue.

  Santini stood on the east side of the helipad, waiting for a chopper. Behind him was the airfield of Nha Trang where jets and propeller-driven aircraft landed and took off. Standing next to him, clutching his hands, was Co, the young Vietnamese woman he’d first seen earlier tied to a chair.

  The sun was gone, and he stood next to a fifty-five-gallon drum filled with trash, paper and wood that could become a landing light if the base electricity failed. Now there were four blue lights burning, one on each corner of the rubberized pad. In the dim light, Santini could almost see the symbol, a copy of the patch worn by members of the First Aviation Brigade, painted in the center.

  In the distance he heard the pop of rotor blades and the roar of the turbine engine. He stepped to the rear, down a slight slope and away from the pad. The woman moved closer to him, holding tighter, afraid.

  Santini looked at her and thought of his sister at home. He doubted that this woman, this girl, was much older than his sister. He felt his heart turn over as he thought again about how she had been treated by her own countrymen, and was appalled at the torture.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “The helicopter will be here in a moment.”

  He smiled at her and thought about the argument he’d had with Major Madden. The major had wanted to turn her over to the MPs just as soon as they could. Santini had argued with him for nearly forty minutes, finally convincing Madden that they should take her out to one of the Special Forces camps, let the men know her background and have her imprisoned there. It was the best compromise because it got her away from the Vietnamese at Nha Trang, who seemed to think of her as a plaything rather than an enemy soldier.

  Santini had then taken her to the PX and watched as she had moved among the items for sale, afraid to touch anything. He had finally convinced her that it wasn’t a trick of some kind and that she should select some clothes for herself. She had then changed from a suspected Viet Cong to a girl suddenly told to pick out a new wardrobe.

  Walking among the clothes, sometimes feeling the material, she would take something from the rack, hold it against herself, then put it back. In this manner she had orbited the clothing section where women’s clothes hung for GIs who wanted to find presents for their local girlfriends.

  Finally she had found something that she’d liked, and Santini had escorted her to the front so that they could pay for it.

  Afterward, he had taken her to the NCO Club and bought her dinner. They had eaten slowly, then gone back to the Fifth Special Forces Headquarters where they had waited for nightfall and the chopper that would take them to the camp.

  Now they stood together near the helipad. As the noise from the chopper changed from a dull popping of the rotor blades and the insectile buzz of the turbine to a loud roar punctuated by the rotor system, Santini moved farther down the hillside. He bent his head, holding his beret on with his right hand while the girl clung to his left.

  A light stabbed out, illuminating the pad, and then the chopper settled to the ground. As the skids touched the rubberized pad, the landing light went out. The red and green navigation lights blinked in the dark and the red anticollision beacon rotated in the rear.

  Santini started forward, ducking as the wash from the rotors tore at him. He felt a tug at his hand and saw that the girl was frightened now. He smiled and yelled over the noise of the chopper, “It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you. Come on.”

  She hesitated for another moment, staring upward at the massive machine with its men dressed in strange costumes and large helmets trailing black cords. She didn’t want anything to do with them.

  But then Santini was pulling on her hand, dragging her up the hill closer to the chopper. The winds increased as they approached the helicopter. She closed her eyes and let Santini pull her along because she trusted him.

  They reached the side of the aircraft, and she stepped up on the skid. Santini grabbed her around the waist and lifted her as she ducked her head. She stood still, with her head bent, touching the top of the cargo compartment. Santini climbed in and pulled her to the troop seat. When she sat down, Santini reached around her and buckled her in.

  Almost before they were set, the chopper picked up to a hover. It sat there for a moment, then spun to the right, charging across the ground as it lifted upward. When the ground dropped away, the girl grabbed Santini’s arm.


  She looked out the open cargo compartment door for a few minutes and then leaned against Santini, her eyes closed. He grinned and held on to her.

  The flight was short. Within minutes they were on the ground again. As the chopper landed, two men came out of hiding in the bunker line. Santini helped the girl from the helicopter, and as soon as they were on the ground and clear of the aircraft, it lifted off. The pilots had been told not to remain on the ground for very long after dark.

  One of the men came forward and shook Santini’s hand. “Welcome to our camp. This the prisoner?”

  “Let’s not think of her as a prisoner. I think the whole situation is a little suspect. We’ve got a chance to develop a real ally.”

  “Okay, Santini, have it your way. Come on in and we’ll get both of you settled.”

  “Thanks. You’ve got me scheduled out tomorrow?”

  “Manifested through on the morning chopper. That’s usually here about ten. That suit you?”

  “That’s fine.”

  The man slapped Santini on the shoulder. “And we’ve taken the liberty of plugging you into the watch system. You have the midnight-to-four.”

  Santini had to laugh. “Delightful.”

  “When you’re understrength and the people at Nha Trang want a visit, they have to work.”

  “I’ll warn everyone.”

  Gerber and Fetterman sat in the back of the room while three of the Special Forces men of Duc Hoa interrogated the prisoners. It wasn’t a rough questioning with bamboo under the fingernails. It was a quick firing of questions in French, English and Vietnamese, not giving the men time to think or time to answer. It was a relentless grilling. The three interrogators moved around the two prisoners, shouting at them, talking to them, arguing with them. And when they seemed on the verge of collapse, or one put his head down to rest, the three Americans swooped in, jerking him upright.

  One of the ammo bunkers had been hurriedly cleaned out so it could be used as the interrogation room. Two chairs had been set back to back in the center of wooden-plank flooring. The two Vietnamese sat in the chairs at a modified position of attention. There were two lamps on the floor, one shining into the face of one man and the other into the face of the second. Everything else had been removed so that the two men would have nothing to look at.

  The three Americans were dressed in jungle fatigues. The sleeves of each were rolled to halfway between the elbow and shoulder. They were sweaty men, who had been at it for nearly two hours. Their voices had become husky in the time they had been in the bunker, but they didn’t stop. Another sergeant brought them beers, which they consumed while the prisoners watched. It was all part of the psychological warfare they were conducting against the two men.

  Listening, Gerber and Fetterman stood near the door outside the circle of light created by the lamps. Fetterman had wanted to direct the interrogation, having seen Kepler from his old team do it a number of times, but Gerber had stopped him.

  “This is their show,” he had said. “Let them run it their own way.”

  Fetterman had understood the wisdom of that. It had been their friend who had been ambushed and killed. It was their duty to find the men who had done it and exact retribution.

  Gerber finally tired of watching the interrogation. It looked more like a group of teachers ganging up on two wayward students, shouting at them and threatening them, but with both parties knowing that nothing physical was going to happen. Only fatigue would break down the will of the prisoners and that could take hours, maybe days.

  Then, just when he thought he would leave the ammo bunker for the cool comfort of the team house, one of the prisoners bent over, his hands on his face. There was a racking sob, followed by a wail and a sudden burst of rapid Vietnamese that was so incoherent no one could understand it.

  One of the Special Forces NCOs leaped forward and jerked the other man to his feet. He was dragged from the ammo bunker and taken to another area to be held so that the remaining SF men could question the sobbing prisoner closely. They didn’t want him drawing strength from his friend.

  Captain Jewell came in, nodded at Gerber and Fetterman and then moved close. Albright whispered something to him, and the two men began a heated argument. Jewell made a move toward the prisoner, but Albright stopped him. Then Albright dropped to a knee in front of the Oriental and started talking to him slowly and quietly.

  Jewell moved out of the circle of light and walked around its perimeter like a vulture waiting for something to die. As he flickered in and out of the shadows, the prisoner’s eyes flashed toward him.

  Finally Jewell slipped back to where Gerber and Fetterman waited. He leaned near them. “We’ve almost got it.”

  “It?” said Gerber.

  “Yeah, the name of the man who organized the ambush. He wasn’t with them when they cut down Thompson.”

  Fetterman turned so that he was facing Jewell, his body no more than six inches from the captain’s. “Then you’re going after him?”

  Jewell had to smile. “In a guerrilla war you’ve got to keep the level of terror high. If we learn the name of the local Viet Cong who ordered the ambush and he dies within hours of Thompson, it’s going to make them all think twice about trying something else.”

  Gerber nodded his approval. “If you get a mission organized in the next couple of hours, I’d like to go along.”

  Jewell searched his face and asked, “Why? You didn’t know Thompson.”

  “Because he was Special Forces and because of the way he was executed. He wasn’t killed in battle but was shot in the back of the head at close range.”

  “Okay,” said Jewell. He turned to Fetterman. “And you? You want to go, too?”

  “Of course,” said Fetterman. “We do this right and it’ll make the local leaders think twice about helping the VC and about shooting prisoners in the back of the head.”

  Albright let out a whoop and spun. “We’ve got it,” he said. “He spilled it all.”

  “Okay,” said Jewell. “Okay. I want everyone to meet in five minutes in the team house. We’ll decide what to do then. Take the prisoner out and put him with the first man.”

  For an instant Albright hesitated, as if wanting to shoot the man for his part in the death of Thompson. Instead, he reached out and lifted the man to his feet. With one hand on the VC’s elbow, Albright guided the prisoner from the ammo bunker.

  “There’s going to be a fight about this,” said Jewell. “Everyone’s going to want to go on the mission. They’ll be pissed that two outsiders are going to go.”

  “Tell them,” said Gerber, “that each of them has a job to do here. As outsiders, we have the time to spare.”

  “That’s going to piss them off even more,” said Jewell. “That you don’t think they have the time to spare.”

  “What I meant,” said Gerber, “was that part of our job is to run these kinds of missions. Their job is training the Vietnamese here. I know how it sounds, but that job is important. We can do more damage to the enemy that way. Besides, we’ll let it be known, after the mission, that more Special Forces men came from Saigon to exact retribution. Another terror tactic.”

  “Yeah,” said Jewell. “I like that.”

  It had been a night to remember. Both Vietnamese girls had responded positively to the great dinner and the dancing. No cheap honky-tonk for them, either, only the best — dancing under the stars in the rooftop gardens of the Carasel Hotel. There had been many slow dances with Le Tran rubbing herself against Lockridge, molding her body to his with the promise of things to come.

  And when they sat together in the dimness of a corner table, away from the lights of the bar and overlooking the neon of the streets below, the promise grew. Lockridge casually put his hand on her bare knee, and she opened herself with no urging from him. He slid his fingers up the smoothness of her thigh as she spread her legs a little more.

  He glanced at the people on the dance floor, a swaying crowd of sweating men and women who see
med to have forgotten the music. Tall American men, in strange postures, their backsides thrust outward, towered over the shorter, smaller Vietnamese women as they tried to dance cheek to cheek with them.

  Lockridge kept his hand moving, describing circles on the flesh of Le Tran’s thigh, moving it even higher. She still didn’t protest as he finally reached his goal, a finger against her silk panties. Instead, she reached over and touched him lightly on the crotch. He wanted to rock back, his eyes closed while she solved his immediate problem, but was afraid that she would stop without his encouragement. He kissed her, his tongue in her mouth, his finger probing gently, insistently.

  She shifted around, holding him and moaning quietly. She was ready now. He could tell easily, but there were too many people in the rooftop garden. There was too much light. But he tugged at the elastic of her panties, sliding his finger inside until she let go of him and buried her face in his neck, a purring in her throat.

  Paradise was so close, yet so far. Lockridge looked up and saw Jones and Le Tran’s sister coming toward them. Reluctantly he straightened, drawing his hand free and letting it linger between her thighs as he pulled her skirt down so that the approaching couple wouldn’t know what had been happening.

  When Jones and his date stopped at the table, the girl said, “It is time that we go home now.”

  Le Tran smiled, her eyes half-closed as if she was about to pass out. She nodded. “Yes. Home. You may come in for a cup of tea.”

  The thought of tea wasn’t on Lockridge’s mind. But then tea would get them in the door and that was all he cared about.

  Surreptitiously he reached down to adjust his clothes so that he could stand up without embarrassment. He threw a handful of MPC on the table and then nearly dragged Le Tran downstairs to the street.