Tet (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 11)

by Eric Helm

  “And that’d work?”

  Bundt shrugged. “Who knows? There are many people who are loyal to us but who don’t want to be around when the enemy starts dropping mortars.”

  “They could warn you.”

  “But they do. The fact that they don’t show up warns us. It means someone has been around telling them there will be some kind of operation directed toward us. What more do we need to know?”

  “Time and location.”

  Again Bundt shrugged. “So before today it meant we could expect the attack within twenty-four hours, usually sooner. Today is different.”

  “Okay, sir,” said Santini. “I was thinking of heading back to Nha Trang today.”

  “I hate to lose you. We can always use the extra weapon and the extra man, but I understand. You going to take your prisoner with you?”

  “I thought I’d leave her here. I don’t like what those Vietnamese interrogators at Nha Trang were doing. She’ll be safe here.”

  “What do you plan to say once you get back to Nha Trang?”

  Santini rubbed his face and felt the stubble. His eyes felt like someone had thrown a handful of sand into them. He blinked rapidly. “I’m going to tell them that my prisoner suggested something is going to happen soon. I’m going to tell them what has happened here, that the civilians didn’t show up, and that the men in the field are getting worried.”

  Bundt switched his weapon from his right hand to his left. He surveyed his camp slowly. “Yeah, I think we’re getting real uncomfortable. Charlie is planning something. You can feel it in the air.”

  “The thing that worries me, sir, is that everyone seems to have that feeling.”

  Jewell met Gerber’s team at the helipad at Duc Hoa. He waited until the helicopter took off in a thunder of engine noise and popping rotor blades. As the silence of early morning descended, Jewell asked, “How’d it go?”

  “Fine. We got the man.” Gerber grinned. “Sergeant Fetterman added a nice touch. Left a green beret pinned to the chest of the target so that everyone knows why it happened and who did it.”

  Jewell looked at Fetterman. “Well done, Sergeant.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t want the wrong people getting the credit for it.”

  “Can’t hurt.” Jewell pointed toward the team house. “You gentlemen eat breakfast yet?”

  “No,” said Gerber. “I promised the team a good breakfast when we got in here. I hope you’re not going to make a liar out of me.”

  Albright stepped forward. “Sir, we’ve got a briefcase that was in the car. It’s loaded with papers. I thought maybe Sergeant Prewitt should take a quick look at it. If there’s anything of interest in it, Captain Gerber and Sergeant Fetterman can take it to Saigon with them.”

  Jewell nodded. “By the way, I’ll have to arrange for airlift. Didn’t know when you’d be coming in.”

  “That’s fine,” said Gerber. “I’d like to grab a shower, if that’s possible. Clean up a little.”

  “Water’ll be cold this early,” said Jewell, “but you’re certainly welcome to it.”

  “Thanks. Point me in the right direction.”

  “Come with me,” said Albright. “We’ll swing by my quarters for soap and towels.”

  “And give me the briefcase,” said Jewell. “I’ll see that Sergeant Prewitt gets it.”

  Gerber and Fetterman followed Albright. He got them everything they needed and then left them in the shower. Ten minutes later he was back with clean clothes drawn from the base supply.

  After another fifteen minutes, they were all gathered in the team house. Albright and the two Vietnamese strikers took over the duties of setting the table and putting the food on it. Once that was completed, they all sat down to cold cereal, scrambled eggs, toast and jelly, and coffee and orange juice. The food wasn’t as good as it was at the MACV Headquarters mess hall, but then, Duc Hoa didn’t have a general officer to keep happy.

  They were halfway through the meal when Jewell, accompanied by Sergeant Prewitt, joined them. Prewitt looked upset. His face was pale.

  Jewell pulled a chair away from another table and sat down so that the corner of the table was pointed at his stomach. He leaned forward. “That stuff you found is dynamite.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an order of battle drawn up by our recently late friend. It details a plan to attack us here, at Duc Hoa, plus the camps at the sugar mill and Hiep Hoa, not to mention assaults directed at the leg outfit at the old French fort.”

  “Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick,” said Gerber.

  “I mean, it’s a detailed plan. Gives the names of the units to be involved and who’s supposed to do what. Prewitt didn’t go through much of it. He thinks you’d better get this to Saigon so they can evaluate it.”

  Gerber nodded his agreement. “When does all of this start?”

  “Not long. During Tet. The beginning of Tet.”

  “Who all is involved?”

  “Our guy was a local, so he’s only got the plans for the local area, but the whole place is involved. I think we can assume it’s a widespread plan.”

  Gerber wiped his lips with his napkin and dropped it onto the table. “I think we’d better get this stuff to Saigon as quickly as we can.”

  “I thought you’d say that,” said Jewell. “I took the liberty of arranging a chopper. Should be here about the time we get to the runway.”

  Gerber looked at Fetterman. “If you’re through, Master Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir. Ready.” He stood.

  Jewell picked up the briefcase. “Everything’s in here.”

  As they left the team house, they heard the helicopter coming in. Over the tin roofs of the hootches they could see it. As they neared the runway, it flared, stirring up a huge cloud of red dust. Gerber and Fetterman ducked their heads and ran for the chopper. Once they were in, Gerber clutching the briefcase in one hand and his weapon in the other, the aircraft lifted off. It crossed the perimeter wires, climbing out. Before it reached the river, it broke around to the east, heading for Saigon.

  It seemed to be only minutes before they were diving under the runway approaches at Tan Son Nhut. They landed at Hotel Three, and almost as the skids touched the ground, both Gerber and Fetterman were off and running. They ran past the terminal, through the gate and around the edge of the field, skirting the world’s largest PX. In minutes they had secured a jeep and were racing through the morning traffic, dodging military convoys, MPs in jeeps, the cao bois on their Hondas and all the pedestrian traffic.

  At MACV Headquarters they hesitated for a moment, wondering if they should pass the briefcase to Jerry Maxwell, the local CIA spook, or if they should keep it in the family. Finally they ran upstairs and found the office of Major General Davidson. He had ordered them into the field more than once on sensitive missions.

  In his outer office, a big room with powder-blue carpeting on the floor, dark wood paneling on the walls and three large wooden desks, they were stopped by a major who demanded to know the nature of their business.

  Gerber held up the briefcase but didn’t speak right away. He was wondering where they all came from. Here was a major who looked as if a stiff breeze would blow him away. His skin was pale, as if he never got out into the sun. His black hair was chopped short as military regulations said it should be. He had a long, pointed nose and a pointed chin. There were a couple of razor scratches on his face, suggesting that he had tried to shave too close with a dull blade.

  Finally Gerber said, “Listen. We’ve come across some information that we thought the general would want.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” asked the major as he flipped through the appointment calendar on his desk.

  “Major,” said Gerber with great patience, “I think you had better alert the general that Captain Gerber and Sergeant Fetterman are here to see him. If you don’t I’ll take this down to Maxwell and your ass will be out of here.”

  “I don’t respond well to threat
s,” said the major evenly.

  “Fine. Then consider it a request, but please do it.”

  For a moment the major stood there staring at Gerber, but when the captain didn’t back down, the major spun and entered the inner office. He closed the door but returned a few seconds later.

  “You may go in,” he said.

  Gerber and Fetterman entered the office to find Davidson sitting behind his desk. He was working on a stack of papers. He signed one and then looked up. “What do you have?”

  “I would like someone to look at these papers,” said Gerber. “The indications are that the enemy is building up in Hau Nghia Province and that they plan to launch an attack.”

  Davidson rocked back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. He sighed deeply and asked, “When will this happen?”

  “Beginning of Tet.”

  “Shit. Just one more thing to go wrong.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE WIRE SERVICE BUREAU, DOWNTOWN SAIGON

  Robin Morrow sat quietly at her desk looking at the notes she had gathered during the day. Interviews with high-ranking officers who suggested that nothing was going to happen soon, but using very guarded language that said they knew something more. Interviews with the top civilians in Saigon, politicians and political appointees who were parroting Washington’s belief that the war was winding down. These men, and a few women, honestly believed what they had been saying, but Morrow hadn’t. And finally there were interviews with low-ranking officers and NCOs who were walking around like condemned men. There was definitely something in the air.

  She flipped through the pages again. Using a light blue pencil, she crossed out the nonsense given to her by the politicians and some of that spouted by the officers at MACV who were protecting the autumn of their careers. In the end she was left with the distinct impression that something was going to happen, and it was only hours away, Tet truce or no Tet truce.

  Finally she turned and looked toward the rear of the room where Crown sat impatiently, reading from the notes he had taken. He glanced up and saw that Morrow’s eyes were on him. He lifted his eyebrows in question.

  She waved at him. “Get over here.”

  Slowly he got to his feet and walked across the floor, avoiding the wastebasket that someone had set in the aisle between the desks. He pulled the chair from the vacant desk next to hers and straddled it, his arms resting on the back.

  “What?” he asked.

  “What?” she repeated. “You didn’t notice anything about all that we learned today.”

  “Only that what Mr. Hodges said is probably correct. This thing is about to end.”

  Morrow rolled her eyes at the ceiling and then stared straight at him. “Didn’t you listen to what was said today?”

  “Of course. I heard the ambassador saying that the enemy hasn’t launched any kind of an attack in weeks…”

  “Except at Khe Sanh.”

  “Yeah. The last gasp of the dying enemy. That’s what the ambassador said.”

  “Yeah,” said Morrow. “And there’ve been mortar attacks on Special Forces camps and there was a helicopter shot down near Tay Ninh.”

  “Sporadic resistance that doesn’t mean anything. The generals over at MACV have said that they see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “I don’t know what reporting is coming to,” said Morrow quietly. “Those generals are political appointees. General officers have their promotions approved by Congress. The Administration in Washington is saying that the war is winding down and the generals don’t want to rock the boat. They repeat what the Administration says.”

  Crown snorted. “Then who do you believe? Some rummy sergeant who is so dumb that after twenty years in the Army he’s still only a sergeant?”

  Morrow thought of Fetterman, one of the brightest men she knew, a man who enjoyed the limited authority his rank gave him and who wanted to remain right where he was because he was doing the job he wanted to. There was no incentive for Fetterman to get a promotion, because to do so would remove him from the field.

  To Crown, she said, “Given a choice between the sergeant who’s been in the field and the general who’s been in his air-conditioned office, I’ll take the sergeant. I tell you something is going to happen soon and it’s going to be big.”

  “That’s right Robin,” said a voice behind her. “You stick with that when all the facts point the other way.” Hodges moved forward so that she could see him.

  She grabbed her notebook and held it high. “Not everyone is convinced that the war is nearly over. I’ve… we’ve talked to a number of men who think that Charlie is about to fall on us like a ton of bricks.”

  “And who are these men with the crystal balls?” sneered Hodges.

  “I’ve got interviews with Sergeant Nubumb, Lopez and a Captain Padgett. All of them think that something is about to happen.”

  “And the generals?” said Hodges. “They don’t agree, do they? And who should we believe? Some sergeant or the general who has all the information at his fingertips?”

  “I’ll take the sergeant any day of the week and twice on Sunday,” said Morrow, “if he’s been in the field looking for the enemy.” She thought about all the things that had been played down recently. The big fight in the Hobo Woods, the assault on the Special Forces camp at Plei Soi and now the attack on Khe Sanh. It was obviously the beginning of something, but no one wanted to see it.

  Le Tran, dressed in an ao dai and looking like a petite Vietnamese girl out for a stroll by herself after dark, walked slowly toward the cemetery. Around her the city was awake and beginning to celebrate. The Saigon government, the puppet of the Americans, had declared that the normal curfew would not be in effect during the Tet holidays. There were hundreds, thousands of people on the streets.

  Le Tran turned away from the lurid neon and the noise of the bars and entered a quiet, peaceful street. She could hear the sounds of the city: a car horn in the hot, humid air, the roar of a motorcycle as a cao bois clamored for attention. Le Tran smiled to herself. The hooligans of Saigon would soon be in their places.

  At the cemetery gate she stopped and looked at the rows of grave markers. Here was a neat, well-kept park for the dead, with money spent on people who had no appreciation of it, money that could have gone to the sick and the homeless and the poor, if the people understood the diseases of society. After tonight that would all change.

  The lock on the gate had been broken, and Le Tran knew that some of the men were now in the graveyard, waiting for her. She opened the gate, being careful not to make any noise, and then closed it quietly. For a moment she stood there, staring into the palm-lined street, waiting for a shout or the running feet of someone who had spotted her entering where she didn’t belong, but no one came and no one shouted.

  She then crossed the cemetery and made her way over a slight rise that hid her from the street. In the distance, near a grove of carefully groomed palms, she saw a couple of figures hunched over. She knew that they were digging up a gravesite that was only a couple of weeks old. She had been at the funeral and knew that no corpse had been contained in the polished wooden coffin.

  She moved toward them rapidly, and when they heard her approaching, they dived for cover. She stopped and then started forward more slowly, giving the men time to recognize her. When there was a quiet whistle, she hurried toward them.

  “Almost there,” one of them whispered.

  She nodded and stood back as a shovel struck the hard wood of the coffin. One of the men dropped into the hole and used his hands to claw at the loose dirt. Another of the men tossed him the end of a rope, which he tied around the handles of the coffin. He leaped clear as three other men began to muscle the box out of the ground.

  As it came clear with a scraping of wood and rustle of loose dirt cascading into the hole, there was a sudden, low rumble from the street. Le Tran spun, but saw nothing at first. Then she climbed to the top of the rise and saw the blackened shadows of t
he front gate. Beyond it was a military jeep, an M-60 machine gun mounted in the back.

  She turned and hissed at the men. “Stay down. Stay quiet. American MPs.”

  She stood still, waiting, but the jeep didn’t drive off. Instead a small light appeared, the beam focused on the ruined lock.

  Someone appeared beside her and handed her a pistol. She glanced down at it and wanted to check it, but knew that the action couldn’t be concealed.

  “It is ready,” whispered the man lying on the ground beside her. “Round chambered and safety off.”

  Le Tran started toward the gate, moving slowly, the weapon now concealed at her side. Behind the light were two MPs, examining the lock. One of them pushed on the iron, and the gate swung open. They spotted Le Tran, and one of the flashlight beams stabbed out toward her.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded the bigger man.

  She pretended she didn’t hear and kept walking toward them. There was a burst of static from the radio in their jeep, and one of the men turned toward it.

  “I come to see father,” said Le Tran suddenly. The MP who had started to the jeep stopped.

  “You’re not supposed to be here after dark,” said the MP. “The gate is locked at dusk.”

  “Gate no locked,” she said. “I push. It open.”

  “Yes, well.” The MP moved away from the gate toward her. The shiny black helmet he wore reflected the dim lights from the street. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and a pistol on his hip. He looked bulky, as if he was barrel-chested, but it was the flak jacket he wore. It wasn’t bulletproof, but it would slow down almost everything unless fired from extremely close range and it would stop shrapnel.

  “Come on,” he said politely. “We’ll give you a ride home. You shouldn’t be on the streets tonight, alone.”

  As she neared them, wishing they would stay together, the other MP shouted. “She’s got a gun!”

  She snapped her hand up and opened fire. The muzzle-flash reached out and touched the chest of the MP. He grunted with surprise and sat down, clawing at the flap on his holster as she fired again, this time at his face. He flipped back and didn’t move.