13th Valley (62 page)

When he finally hit the far side Pop was seventy-five meters below point. He stayed low, pulled himself out of the water, signaled thumbs-up okay to the troops chasing him, and disappeared into the grass beyond the far bank. Five minutes later he reappeared directly across from Brooks. “Goddamn,” De Barti signed. “That ol drunk. I thought alcohol and water mixed. He had me nearly pissin.”

“This is fucked, Mista,” Doc Johnson said toward both lieutenants. FO stood beside Doc. He nodded his head in agreement. He was not impressed.

Brooks glanced at them then turned back to the river. Baiez had a coil of light nylon cord to which he had attached a weight. He looked across at Pop, hunched over, ground his feet into the mud, went into his wind-up and let his pitch fly. The coil backlashed and flew after the weight in a clump, snapping stopped out ten meters and kerplunking into the river. Baiez reeled it in and tried again. Then again and again.

“Bravo got three casualties,” Brown interrupted Brooks with a report of action up the valley. “They're really in it deep. They're gettin inta that complex.”

Brooks snarled angry and disgusted. Here Bravo was being chewed to pieces and he could not even get Alpha across a goddamned water obstacle. Brooks grabbed Baiez. “Give me that fuckin thing,” he snapped. Brooks jerked the cord and weight from the squad leader's hands. He recoiled the line loosely on the ground then threw the weight across the river.

Pop retrieved it. On the company's side they attached the heavier rope they had used in the tunnel and at the cliffs. Pop pulled the line across, anchored it to himself and signaled for the troops to come. One at a time, in full gear, the men waded in, treaded as best as possible, hung on to the rope, pulled hand-over-hand to the far side. “Fucked, Man, fucked,” Doc shook his head. The weight of their equipment forced each soldier under. After six had crossed, after Shaw had nearly drowned when he lost the rope, several boonierats stripped and recrossed and acted as lifeguards and guides. On the north side each man opened his weapon to drain the barrel of water, then disappeared into the grass enlarging the ever increasing perimeter. 3d Plt crossed after one squad of 2d. Then the CP crossed, then 1st Plt and finally the security teams. They reorganized themselves, emptied and squeezed water from their gear. It had all been soaked by the rain and most of it was not much wetter. But almost everyone's cigarettes had been saturated. This was a crisis. Cigarettes were carried in two-piece plastic boxes; boxes that kept out rain but they were not waterproof.

Alpha moved out in disgust. Ten minutes later they were forced into another delay. The valley north of the river was infested with a moist-land leech which seemed to thrive everywhere except in running water. The boonierats had unsuspectingly been assaulted by the leeches as soon as they had crossed. The leeches crawled like inchworms and attached themselves, boring painlessly into wet boonierat skin. Unless seen, a leech could suck its head a quarter inch deep before the area began to burn. After the tenth complaint, Doc Johnson ordered Brooks to halt the company. “Have em pair off,” Doc said. “Have the fuckas check each other out.”

Oh Christ, Brooks thought. What the hell next? Their progress had been very slow. He did not want to sit in the valley unnecessarily. He was embarrassed by the sloppiness of the river crossing. Several of the troops had lost gear in the river and the whole thing, though it began perfectly, lacked discipline. This wasn't his Alpha. He was sick. He checked El Paso's back and found a leech near the RTO's armpit. It was already late afternoon. Brooks wanted to get up to a high feature to NDP. “Goddamn leeches,” he whispered to El Paso as he snapped the tiny slimy body then dug in with his fingernails for the head. Get a hold of yourself, Rufus, he told himself. You can't lose it now. Fuck that bitch. You can pull this back together. “Augh no,” he sighed. He reached down into his pants. He could feel the cool clammy body of a sucker on his abdomen just above his groin. He opened his pants. The leech squirmed behind its sucking head. Brooks reached for his cigarettes instinctively. He opened the box. Brown tobacco juice water sloshed over his fingers.

It was still raining when the column reached the abrupt face of the north escarpment. They had come 400 meters from the river through elephant grass and bamboo without feeling any apparent elevation change and then they hit the road and the mountain cliff.

“Oh my Holy Mother,” Garbageman gasped seeing the road. 2d Plt had led off again after everyone had tightened and tied off clothing against the leech invasion. The point squad had changed from Catt's to Mohnsen's. Garbageman was at point, Smith, with his 60, at slack. Where they hit the road at the base of the mountain there was a ten foot wide all-weather road, not only reinforced with bamboo but solidified with gravel. It was adjacent to the cliff and ran as far as Garbageman could see in the fog in both directions. Elephant grass formed a cleanly trimmed wall along the valley side of the road, the cliff had been evenly cleaved on the other shoulder. Again, grass and bamboo had been woven into living nets to form a natural-looking roof. From the air the roof would appear to be unbroken jungle valley floor and it would conceal all road traffic. To Garbageman standing in the vegetation ogling the road, it was evident that NVA honchos had established the road here because of the difficulty helicopters would have molesting troop or munitions traffic. Garbageman had never seen an enemy road so wide, wide enough for two-way cart traffic, wide enough for trucks. It made the red balls look like animal trails. The surface was rutted with recent signs of activity yet showed signs of continuous care and maintenance.

Smitty up, Garbageman signaled. Smitty came forward. “Go back and get De Barti and Pop,” Garbageman whispered. “They gotta check this the fuck out, Man.” Word passed back. Pop Randalph came forward, then Lt. De Barti. “L-T gonna have to see this,” they agreed and they radioed the CP. The boonierats of the lead squad fanned out in the grass forming a T at the columnhead. The column halted.

Brooks, his three RTOs and FO worked their way to point. From the depths of the grass they all examined the road.

“What do you think, Ruf?” De Barti asked the L-T very quietly. They were separated from the others by six or seven feet. De Barti did not want to expose his deep apprehension to the troops. “I don't think we oughta use it.”

Brooks pulled out his topo map without answering and the two lieutenants studied it. “If we can find a way up the cliff …” Brooks began.

“No way we're goin up that shit,” De Barti said. “It's vertical.”

“It can't be vertical for very far,” Brooks said. The two mused over the map and peered out of the grass at the road. They could see only a small strip. Brooks removed his hat and scratched his scalp. Go back through the leeches and recross the river, go up the road, down the road, try to climb the cliff. All about him the boonierats were becoming more and more restless. It was getting near dusk. With a road like this, he thought, the NVA could have thousands of troops in here. Brooks went to Cahalan. “Get me Red Rover,” he said. “Bill,” he turned to FO, “have you ever come across a road like this?”

“No, L-T, can't say I have.”

“Can you get arty on it?”

“Yes Sir. Can do.”

“Good. Call in targets all along this contour.”

“L-T,” Cahalan whispered, “I've got the GreenMan.”

The GreenMan was at the forward TOC on Firebase Barnett. For him the day had held several torturous decisions, the most difficult having been whether or not to commit Bravo Company to a full-scale assault against the NVA bunker complex. Rain and fog had socked in the valley and the rear and all helicopter support except emergency medical evacuation had been cancelled. Bravo could retreat and attack tomorrow although they would run the risk of being hit tonight or Bravo could attack without helicopter support. Bravo attacked. When Cahalan reached the GreenMan, Bravo had overrun the bunker complex, killed seventeen enemy soldiers and suffered five wounded. The medevac bird from Eagle Dust-Off, along with four escort Cobras and a chase ship, a Huey on station to pick up the medevac crew should that helicopter be shot down, was approaching Bravo's location.

“Quiet Rover, this is Red Rover,” the GreenMan snarled after Brooks had reported briefly about the enemy road, “proceed to your echo by november echo ASAP. Caution your papa Sky Devil Six is to your november one kilo. Play ball with Sky Devil.”

“Who's Sky Devil?” De Barti asked Cahalan.

“Ah, that'd be Delta Company, Sir,” Cahalan answered.

“Oh fuck,” De Barti groaned. “Not that clusterfuck.”

Brooks described the road in greater detail, hoping the GreenMan would be able to assist him. He did not want to have his company march down the enemy road. It appeared impossible to cross the road and ascend the cliffs at that point, yet he felt he had to get off the valley floor. As he conversed on the radio the sound of helicopters above the valley pulsated the wet air.

“Get me a full reconnaissance of that feature,” the GreenMan directed. “And, play ball with Sky Devil. Out.”

Oh shit, Brooks thought. “Roger that, niner. Wilco. Out.” Brooks looked around. He directed Cahalan to establish communication with Delta Company to determine Delta's exact position and to see if the Delta Darlings had found a way up and down the cliff face. “Tell them,” Brooks said, “Red Rover wants us to rendezvous. It'll be a hell of a lot better if we can get up to them on the ridge than to have them come down here.” Brooks turned to FO again and asked, “Where do you think this road goes?”

“I don't really know,” FO said, “Like you figure, it probably follows the contours pretty close. If the dinks are moving heavy material, they'd a built the road as level as possible.”

“After we get out of range, have arty seal this thing off behind us. See if they'll drop some rounds west of here right now.”

It was 1800 hours when Alpha began moving again. Garbageman was still at point, Smitty and Pop walked a double slack. Slowly, apprehensively, Garbageman stepped onto the road and into the dark corridor formed by the grass wall and the cliff. He scanned up and back. Fog limited visibility to under twenty meters. The pointman turned right and began moving. Carefully he checked the mountain wall which rose to his left. The slacks emerged from the grass eight feet behind point, they split and walked one on each side of the road. Mohnsen and Jones emerged next continuing the double pattern set by the slacks, then Greer and Roberts, Sklar and De Barti, and El Paso and Brooks.

Oh Man, I don't like this one fucken bit, Garbageman whispered to himself. He stopped and crouched. Both slacks moved up and squatted by the point. “This is a Goddamned highway,” Garbageman whispered. “Man I don't dig this shit one fucken bit. This don't even make sense.”

“Want me ta walk point?” Pop asked, his eyes twinkling.

That was the ultimate affront, the most severe attack on the Garbageman's manhood and pride. “Naw,” he whispered. “I can do it.”

“Maybe we oughta both do it,” Pop gave him an alternative that he could accept without losing face.

“Ah, yeah,” Garbageman seized the chance. They rose and with one at each edge proceeded in double point with a single slack.

2d Plt was followed onto the road by the remainder of the CP. All the RTOs had folded their flexible radio antennas that protruded from their rucks and labeled them as valuable communication targets. El Paso had slid his antenna into his belt, Cahalan stuck his into a hole in his shirt, Brown rolled his in a loop and forced it back down into the ruck. 3d Plt followed the CP and 1st followed 3d. They moved very slowly, very quietly. It took almost half an hour for the entire column to turn the corner from the narrow jungle grass passage onto the enemy supply road. The boonierats continued the double column. They remained on the road, heading east, looking for an opening in the cliff they might ascend up to the ridge. They maintained wide intervals. By the time Silvers, at drag, finally stepped onto the road, Alpha was spread 125 meters long.

Silvers came onto the road behind Brunak. He stood at the intersection for several minutes, staring to the rear, allowing the column to progress away from him. An artillery round burst 700 meters west, the concussion rumbling up the road and echoing in from the south escarpment a fraction of a second apart. Silvers turned and quickly marched to catch up. As he reached a point 30 meters from where he had left the grass he turned to look back. A single explosive pop cracked the air. Silvers dropped in the center of the road. Every man in Alpha dove for cover. There was another crack. Boonierats dove into the grass, scrambled for concealment, searched for a target. Brunak had been hit by the second round. “Bravo Bravo,” a squashed tight-chest scream for a medic escaped from his throat. Boonierats raced through the grass toward him. No one had found a target. No one fired. Marko, Jax and Lairds surrounded Brunak. They expected follow-up fire. None came. Marko aimed his 60 down the road. There was nothing there. He aimed the weapon over Silvers' body which had collapsed backward onto the rucksack it had been carrying. Silvers' helmet had fallen off and rolled away. His legs had doubled beneath his body before the body had toppled backward and spread across the pack. The head slumped back over the ruck, the eyes stared upside-down motionless down the vacant road upon which Alpha had trespassed.

“Bravo,” Jax yelled from beside Brunak.

Egan, Whiteboy and Doc McCarthy came crashing through the grass. Others were coming back. Most had shed their rucks. Brunak screamed. McCarthy squatted by his side. 1st Sqd with Egan and several others maneuvered down through the grass past Silvers and formed a perimeter.

Cherry, Thomaston and Moneski's squad reacted second, rushing back and reinforcing the soldiers about Brunak. Doc Johnson sprinted down the center of the road running like a madman, his aid bag in one hand, a .45 in the other. Doc dove into the mud behind Silvers. He got to his knees and hunched over the body. There was a splat of blood in the center of Silvers' throat. Working quickly yet gently Doc lifted Leon's head. The neck no longer had a back. The bullet had entered through the soft flesh below Silvers' chin then tumbled and ripped its way out the nape of the neck carrying most of the cervical vertebrae, the surrounding muscle tissue, the trachea, esophagus, arteries, veins and a tremendous amount of blood.