Tet (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 11)

by Eric Helm

  When the man tried to slip the woman’s skirt over her hips, she pushed him away and ran into the bedroom. She stood there shouting, her fists on her hips. As the man came at her, she pushed her skirt down revealing the white wisp of cloth covering her. Then she disappeared.

  For more than two hours Gerber watched men arrive and no one leave. He checked the time carefully, pulling the camouflage cover from his watch to stare at the glowing hands. As it got later, the lights began to fade and the men started to leave. One or two of them dragged the naked girls onto the porch with them. There were squeals of mock outrage as the men teased them.

  Soon the jeeps were pulling out frequently and the number of vehicles parked outside dwindled until there was only the truck brought by the ARVN soldiers and the car driven by their target.

  It was now just after midnight. The noise from the brothel had faded along with most of the lights. Gerber slipped back across his island until he was out of sight of the building. He took the tiny portable URC-10 from his pack and turned it on. Holding it close to his ear, he adjusted the volume by listening to the carrier wave. When he was satisfied, he keyed the mike and spoke. “Band Two, this is One.”

  He waited, repeated the call and then heard, “Go, One.”

  “Target sighted. We move in one-five minutes.”

  “Roger.”

  “You have responsibility for the back. See you inside.”

  “Roger.”

  Gerber collapsed the antenna and put the radio away. He then moved to the front of the island and said, “We go in fifteen minutes. You ready?”

  Albright nodded and moved to the left so that he could pass the word to the Vietnamese striker.

  Gerber silently counted down the minutes, and when the time had expired he moved forward. He slipped into the water quietly, glanced to the right and saw the dark shape of Albright. He was joined by the Vietnamese striker, and all three of them began to slow-walk to the brothel.

  As soon as Fetterman received the message, he turned off his radio and stored it. He checked the time, and when fifteen minutes had elapsed he touched the striker with him and they slipped into the water. They lost sight of the building as they moved into deeper water and the grasses were over their heads, but Fetterman could still hear the music.

  He stopped once, listened carefully and started again, angling toward the rear of the building. The water, which had been waist-deep, dropped away, and Fetterman slowed his pace as he neared the target. He crouched, the grass at eye level. The building loomed in front of him. He was looking at a corner of it and the rear. There was a single door there. On the ground floor there were a couple of windows and a row on the second story.

  Fetterman watched the door for a moment and listened to the music. Hearing no voices, he pointed to the left, and the striker moved off. Fetterman came out of the water, stopped and then started again. He reached the corner of the building and flattened himself against it, pressing an ear to the crumbling stucco-like material that covered it. From the inside came the quiet beat of rock music and a murmur of voices.

  Fetterman slid to the right, his back against the wall. He saw the striker move in the shadow, then drop to the ground. As that happened, Fetterman reached the rear door. He touched the knob and twisted it. When it turned, he let go of it and moved around it until he could look through one of the windows.

  The inside was lighted by a dim red lamp. A man lay on top of a woman who had her legs wrapped around him, her feet locked together and pressed into the small of his back. She was whipping her head from side to side, moaning loudly.

  Fetterman ducked back, crawled under the window and looked in from the other side. From that angle he could see the man’s clothing: black pajamas, Ho Chi Minh sandals and a pouch for AK-47 magazines.

  He moved on, glanced in the next window and discovered that the room was empty. Reaching out, he touched the window. It swung inward with a quiet squeak. He motioned to the striker, holding up a hand to tell the man to stay put. With that, he climbed in the window. As his feet touched the rough wood of the floor, he heard voices outside the door. To his right was a wardrobe that nearly touched the outside wall. Fetterman stepped to it and slipped into the space there, sliding down so that he was kneeling. By turning his face to the wall, he was nearly invisible in the shadows if they didn’t turn on a light.

  A Vietnamese man and woman entered. The man pushed the door closed and then grabbed the woman. She spun toward him and he grabbed at her blouse. He peeled her out of it and then took off her pants. As she sat on the thin cot, the man stripped and then jumped to the end of the bed, landing between her knees. He laughed as he spread her thighs and collapsed onto her.

  Fetterman knew the man was one of the VC, since he had seen him arrive with their target. He wanted to kill the man, but he’d have to kill the woman, too. There was no way he could leave her alive if he was going to continue his search. He decided to wait.

  The room filled with the musky odor of sex. There was a wet slapping as the two bodies thumped together. Fetterman watched the show for a moment, then, afraid that he would psychically communicate his presence to the couple, he looked away. He kept his eyes on the floor, listening to the moaning of the woman and the grunting of the man.

  The tempo increased and the woman cried out. There was a single shout from the man and the pair stopped moving. They were breathing heavily.

  The woman muttered something and pushed the man onto his side. She got out of bed and stood there for a moment as if to let him admire her body. Then she picked up her clothes and scampered out of the room.

  The moment the door closed Fetterman unfolded himself. He drew his knife as he lunged at the bed. The man turned, startled. He began to sit up as Fetterman hit him. As the man collapsed, Fetterman clapped a hand over his nose and mouth and used the knife. There was a whisper like the ripping of silk. The man bucked once. As he died, his hot blood splashing over Fetterman’s hand, there was the stench of released bowels. When the tension drained from the man, Fetterman moved away. Then, before he left the room, he pulled a sheet up so that it looked as if the man was sleeping.

  At the doorway Fetterman stopped. He reached down and touched the knob. Pulling open the door, he looked out into the hallway. It was empty. For a moment he stood there, quietly waiting.

  Gerber, Albright and the Vietnamese striker worked their way toward the front of the building, keeping to the shadows and using the cover available. One by one they filtered along the edge of the swamp to the clump of bushes that was between them and one of the windows. Getting out of the water, they moved silently toward the car that the target had arrived in.

  Gerber worked his way to the driver’s side and looked in the open window. He wanted to open the door and rifle the glove compartment to search for documents, but was afraid of the dome light. He motioned to Albright, and when the Special Forces sergeant arrived, Gerber whispered, “You tell your man I want him to search the car quietly once we’re inside. He’ll have to crawl in the window. He’s to steal every scrap of paper he can find.”

  Albright nodded and held up a thumb, indicating he understood. He then moved to the front of the vehicle to pass along the instructions.

  Gerber and Albright then moved forward until they were lying on the ground at the base of the porch. Gerber lay with his face pressed in the dirt, inhaling the dank odor and listening to the sounds from inside the building. There was a throbbing beat from rock and roll and the discordant strains of Vietnamese music as two stereos fought for supremacy. A tickle of laughter sounded above the music.

  Gerber crawled forward until he reached the corner of the porch. Slowly he got to his hands and knees and peeked over the edge of the porch. It was still vacant, the table and chairs standing empty.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Albright waiting. Gerber motioned him to rise, and the two of them stepped up onto the porch at the edge of the pools of light. Gerber slung his weapon, then leaped up and caught
hold of the balcony overhang. He lifted himself until his eyes were level with the flooring. Again there was no one around to see him.

  Using the muscles of his shoulders and arms, he pulled himself higher until he could hook his foot onto the edge of the floor. His hand then shot out, and he snagged the top of the railing, lifting until his knees were on the balcony. Once he had gained it, he scrambled silently to the left and flattened himself against the rough wall, concealing himself in the shadows.

  Seconds later Albright appeared, hesitated and then stepped over the railing. He dropped to one knee and pulled his rifle around so that he held it in his hands. He nodded to Gerber.

  Gerber slipped along the wall until he reached the French doors that opened onto the balcony. He looked through the window. The room was empty. Crouching, he reached across the pane to the ornate, curved handle. He pulled down on it and felt it give. Without a word to Albright, he opened the door and entered.

  A moment later Albright followed him. The room was dark, with only a little light filtering in through the French doors. There was the long, gray shape of the bed and a mass against one wall that might have been a wardrobe.

  Gerber moved to the door and opened it slightly so that he could look out into the hallway. The rock and roll music suddenly died, and Gerber jumped back, his heart pounding. But the Vietnamese music continued. No one had heard anything. The enemy wasn’t alerted.

  Again he moved forward. The hallway, lighted by small lamps on the walls, was empty. Gerber opened the door wider and stepped out. He slid along the wall until he reached another door and then hesitated. The last thing he wanted to do was kill the wrong people. But he didn’t know where the VC leader was. Pressing an ear against the door, he heard the unmistakable sounds of two people in the room. He moved back to the doorway.

  “How do we find this guy?” asked Gerber softly.

  Albright shrugged.

  “Okay, then. I’ll stay here and watch the hall. You get back on the balcony and peek into the windows.”

  Albright nodded.

  As he moved to the door, Gerber, his back against the wall, stared into the hallway. At the far end, almost out of sight, he saw a shadow move and then Fetterman appeared, moving upward quietly.

  Just as Fetterman reached the hallway, one of the doors opened and a man stepped out. He was a thin, short man wearing a towel wrapped around his waist.

  Fetterman ducked back down the stairs and out of sight. Gerber didn’t move but kept his eyes on the man.

  He stood quietly, turning his head from side to side like a man watching a high-speed tennis game. He put one hand on his hip and took a deep breath. He shouted something in Vietnamese and the music died. When it did, he nodded once and turned to go back to his room. That was when Gerber saw the scar that ran from just under his left eye across his face to the right jaw. The tip of his nose was missing.

  Gerber glanced at the French doors, but Albright had already disappeared through them. The Special Forces Captain opened the door wider and stepped into the hallway as Fetterman entered it at the far end. Gerber pointed to the right side of the door, and Fetterman nodded his understanding. Both of them moved forward, staying close to the wall where there was less chance of a floorboard popping.

  They reached the door and flattened themselves against it. Gerber was aware that at any moment someone else could open a door and all hell would break loose. Still, he had to move carefully because they didn’t want a firefight. Just a quick, quiet assassination.

  When his hand touched the knob, Gerber looked at Fetterman, who nodded once. The master sergeant was ready. Slowly the captain turned the knob to its limit. Then he nodded to Fetterman, who centered himself on the door.

  Gerber pushed it open, and as he did Fetterman swept into the room, his knife ready. The captain moved in behind him. There was an impression of two naked people on the bed, one on top of the other. The man came up, spinning as he did. Fetterman hit him once, and as the VC fell, the master sergeant clamped a hand over his mouth and nose. The VC leader kicked, his bare foot striking Fetterman in the hip. With one swipe, the master sergeant cut the enemy’s throat. The room was immediately filled with the coppery smell of hot, fresh blood.

  The woman, at first frozen in panic, came off the bed in a single, fluid motion. She dodged around Fetterman and the VC and came right at Gerber. With one hand, she tried to push him aside, and when that didn’t work she opened her mouth to scream.

  Gerber restrained her. She dropped to the floor.

  Fetterman turned and pulled a stained beret from his pocket. He dropped it on the chest of the dead man and pinned it there with a Randall Combat Knife. He then looked at Gerber.

  Gerber jerked the sheet from the bed and ripped a strip from it. He tore it in half, jammed part of it into the girl’s mouth and used the other half to tie the first section in place.

  Fetterman got the idea and tore another strip, handing it to Gerber. He used it to bind the girl’s hands behind her back and then brought the end of it up to fasten her ankles so that she couldn’t run out into the hallway. It would take her twenty or thirty minutes to free herself and that was plenty of time for them to get clear. With that kind of head start they could easily outdistance anyone who tried to organize a pursuit.

  Together, Gerber and Fetterman moved into the hallway. They walked quickly to the room Gerber had used and then to the French doors. They stepped onto the balcony into the heat and humidity of the night. Albright saw them and moved back to them. Silently they dropped to the ground.

  Fetterman broke away, heading to the rear of the building to pick up the striker hiding there. As he did, Gerber worked his way to the car. The striker appeared, holding a briefcase up like a trophy.

  Now they all headed toward the swamp. They slipped into the water as Fetterman and his striker joined them. Hurrying along, they put distance between them and the house, afraid the girl would free herself and shout the alarm. But the minutes slipped by and there was no indication that anything had happened or that the body had been discovered.

  For an hour they slogged their way through the swamp, moving as quickly as the water would allow them. The only noise they made was an occasional quiet splashing as they hurried. Albright stopped at a small island of dry land, but Gerber motioned him onward.

  They kept at it until they reached the tree line they had used earlier. Here they fanned out in order to take a short rest. Then Gerber got them on their feet again, and they moved west, staying inside the tree line as long as they could. They reached the end of it and once more entered the swamp, continuing on through it rapidly now. Around them they could hear birds as dawn approached. Overhead, jets returning from missions roared, and there was an increased noise from helicopters.

  With dawn approaching, the light from the sun smearing the horizon a fiery red, they came close to Hiep Hoa. The swamp birds were now all awake and shouting their existence to the world. The noise of dawn drowned out the other sounds.

  With Hiep Hoa a dark smudge on the horizon, they stopped and waited for the sun. Gerber decided against using the radio to alert the defenders that he and his team were out there. It would only be a few minutes before the sun was up, and that would give them a chance to rest for a few moments. Gerber told them to eat the rest of their C-rations if they were hungry, or if they could wait, he’d make sure they got a good breakfast at Duc Hoa if they could get a chopper fast enough, or at Hiep Hoa if they couldn’t.

  When the ground around them was bright, they left their cover, moving slowly toward the perimeter. As they approached, they waited to be identified visually, then alerted the camp by radio that they were coming in.

  The camp commander met them at the gate, and Gerber asked that he arrange for airlift.

  “No problem. We’ve a morning chopper and he’s due in about thirty minutes or so. I take it that your mission was a success.”

  “Most definitely,” responded Gerber.

  “Then I’l
l arrange your transport. We should be able to get you back to Duc Hoa in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Now if we could get a cup of coffee while we wait.”

  “Follow me,” he said as he turned, marching toward the team house.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE SPECIAL FORCES CAMP WEST OF NHA TRANG

  Santini left the tiny makeshift prison where his four female prisoners waited and walked out into the middle of the compound. He had been surprised to learn that the camp had three other female prisoners; then he wondered about that. Obviously the VC were equal opportunity employers. The sun was up high enough so that the buildings were a dark gray and the ground was a gray pool. He could see dark objects, a pile of sandbags, the bottom half of a fifty-five-gallon drum and a tire for a jeep scattered around. Beyond all that was the bunker line where the entire camp had been on alert since midnight. But nothing had happened.

  As he neared the gate in the redoubt, Captain Bundt loomed out of the grayness. “How are the prisoners?” he inquired.

  “I’ve got them locked in. Nothing, huh?”

  Bundt shook his head. “It’s always been reliable before. The civilians don’t arrive and we get mortared sometime in the next twenty-four hours. Couple that with what your girl is telling us and I was sure something was going to happen tonight.”

  “What time do the civilians arrive?”

  Bundt held the underside of his wrist up in front of his face so that he could look at his watch. “I’d say they should begin arriving in about thirty minutes.”

  Santini turned and looked back toward the tiny structure where the female prisoners were grouped. He then looked toward the village, situated a half a klick from the camp. In the half-light of dawn, the mist squeezed from air that was heavy with moisture, there was nothing to see. It was as if the mist had swallowed the village.

  “If they don’t get here?”

  “Then the assumption would be that something big is going to happen. I might take my intel NCO downtown and see if we can learn anything.”