13th Valley (93 page)

“Yeah,” Egan agreed. “The whole thing seems higher too. Map's got its top at two hundred meters, only sixty meters higher than the river. I'd guess it's more like a hundred. Those trails and the trench were almost exactly on a north-south line.”

Back they went to the trails, to the guards. McQueen said he guessed only half the guards changed at a time. Four came down, four went up. “Bet they had four more up there,” he said. “They changed at 0530,” he added. “If we hit em we should hit em at the end of their shift when they're gettin ready to quit. 0500 or 0515.”

“I love it when you guys are thinking,” Brooks smiled. “They must have an incredible vantage point from up there when the valley's clear.” He scratched his scalp. “They could see the entire valley. They could … with scopes, they could have seen us when we came off 848.”

The debriefing continued. Egan told them all the story of the cart. It had been so simple, he said, that it made him feel silly. “It was like a college prank,” he said. They had followed the first red ball away from the knoll to where it intersected a second road that seemed to head upriver. They followed the second for 400 meters and found the cart parked, just parked, at the edge of the trail.

They looked around and found four soldiers asleep nearby. Egan and Cherry watched them as McQueen pushed the cart up the trail. It rolled very easily. When he was what they estimated a hundred meters away, they left the enemy and caught up to McQueen. Then they simply rolled it to the river and Cherry had swum across with the bow rope. It had been the easiest part of the recon, the easiest mission he had ever had. They had all laughed about it until Hellman decided he wanted to extract the damned thing. “You know the story from there,” Egan said glumly.

During the afternoon Campobasso turned into a hot fetid swamp. The boonierats who had been rovers attempted to sleep. They were weary, wet, as odorous as the swamp itself. Their eyes had sunk deeper into the sallow hollow sockets of their faces. Tongues swelled in dry mouths. They were out of decent water. They were filthy. The slack period gave them the time to realize it and the heat highlighted it. CP soldiers pulled LP/OP, platoon personnel who had remained at Campobasso pulled berm guard. Mosquitos rose in swarms by early evening. The place, like the entire north valley floor, was infested with land leeches. And the insect repellent had again run out. The sleeping boonierats wrapped ponchos around their heads and over their hands. The mosquitos and the leeches found their way in. The entire company was nauseous and spent. Everyone, that is, except Egan.

Egan had his letter from Stephanie. And what a letter. He wanted to scream, to holler in joy. He took her picture from his wallet. He had not looked at the picture in months. Now he caressed it, ran a gentle finger down her cheek. The photo had cracked and faded. It had been wet for so long, mildew grew on the back and on the edges. Egan wiped the paper carefully. God, she is beautiful.

My Daniel (the letter began. It was dated August 13th, 1970. It had crossed his in the mail.) Do you know what a soul looks like? It looks like a tree with branches, a sapling but with many branches that extend throughout one's body. To some people you show an extremity, a leaf. To others you let them lie in the branches. Well, when you came along I let you look at the whole thing. You asked me if you could take it for a day or so and examine it. You had seen the whole thing so I said, sure and you plucked my soul leaving only the roots behind. But before you returned the next day something must have happened and you did not come back. I didn't get my soul back and I've been without one ever since. I thought I might grow a new one from the old roots but that takes so much time. It would be easier if you would bring my soul back. Oh Daniel, I've been thinking of you so much. I worry about you. Please write to me. Tell me you're all right. I know your time there is almost over. When will you be home? Can I meet you at the airport? I'm dying to see you again.

Love,

Stephanie

At 1640 hours on the 24th of August sixteen mortar rounds landed within the perimeter of Firebase Barnett. Two American soldiers were killed and three wounded. At 1730 hours the NVA hit Delta wounding five Americans. One enemy soldier was killed. Through it all Brooks continued to be hassled by Major Hellman, then by the GreenMan. It took four calls but finally he convinced the command his plan was sound. He spoke with them only over the krypto radio and still he spoke in code.

“Red Rover, Red Rover. The game is to be played on the Ides plus ten on the home court. The spectators should arrive by five. Goodyear over the stadium standby. Left forward driving to the hoop, center feeding. Over.”

“Quiet Rover this is Red Rover,” the GreenMan answered. “The Star-Spangled Banner is over. Play ball. Over. Out.”

“L-T,” Doc whispered after the transmission.

Brooks looked at the medic. He did not look good. He looked worse than most of the others. “What's up, Doc?” Brooks said trying to lighten his mood.

Doc shook his head slowly and said, “L-T, this a suicide mission. Aint none of us gonna come back we cross that river again.”

“Doc,” Brooks said soothingly yet with encouragement, “we've got Charlie Company two klicks west. They'll move in at dawn. Bravo's two and a half klicks east but they're tightening down right now. They'll NDP less than two klicks from our objective. Recon's on the side of 606 squeezing down. They'll be two klicks away. Those dudes in Delta are right above us, and thank God they're going to stay there. FO's got an arty prep lined up. We've got Tac Air and a pink team on call. This'll be a piece of cake. And I've got really good news. We're going to blow an LZ on the knoll and be extracted. We're scheduled for a week of firebase duty.”

The afternoon bore on. The sun had turned the swamp to steam. The steam wilted the boonierats. There was very little to do except lie and wait and hide. Because of the knoll observers Brooks had instructed Alpha to stay beneath cover and not move. The steamy stillness was as torturous as the cold stillness. Perhaps it was worse for in the cold wet they were stalking, trapping, ambushing. They had been the hunters. In the heat they waited and hid and knew that the NVA were now hunting. There was little to do except clean weapons and sleep and read the mail Major Hellman had thrown to Doc.

El Paso received his monthly letter from Father Raul. It contained inconsequential and insignificant news. His mother was well though worried as always. Cherry received a letter from his mother and father. His father said he wanted him to know that he was very proud of his son. There were assorted letters and small packages for twenty-eight others. There was nothing for Brooks.

El Paso confiscated the
Newsweek
that had come for Leon Silvers. It was the August 10th issue. He read the articles dealing with Vietnam and those about world politics. Red China, it was reported, was about to establish full diplomatic relations with Yugoslavia. The USSR had tested a Minuteman SS-11 ICBM which had decoy warheads and radar fooling metallic chaff. South Vietnam's President Thieu had finally agreed to devalue the piaster against the dollar. Ah, here's an interesting one, he said to himself.

HANOI TAKES NO CHANCES

Bombing raids against North Vietnam have been halted (except for a rare strike to protect scout planes) since November 1968, but Hanoi is not relaxing. It still maintains a net of 4000 Ack-Ack artillery and machine gun sites, almost 500 radar points and 40 batteries of Soviet missiles.

“Goddamn little rice-propelled bastards sure seem well equipped,” El Paso mumbled. He jumped to the sports section. Vince Lombardi, coach of the Washington Redskins, formerly of the Green Bay Packers, had been hospitalized with cancer of the colon. Mexico's in the running in World Cup Soccer.

Jax slinked over cautiously and handed El Paso a stack of newspaper clippings he had received with a short note from his brother-in-law. “How far we from O'Reilly?” Jax asked.

“Fifteen klicks,” El Paso answered. “Maybe, give or take two. Why?”

“Shee-it. Read this, Man,” Jax said pulling one article from the stack. El Paso read the UPI article:

RED BUILD-UP IN NORTH OF VIETNAM

Saigon—Heavy fighting between North and South Vietnamese forces was reported yesterday in the jungled mountains of the far north near Ripcord, the abandoned United States artillery base.

More than 1000 enemy troops are believed to be massing for an attack on a South Vietnamese base.

U. S. and South Vietnamese fighter-bombers and helicopters attacked the North Vietnamese positions with bombs, rockets and napalm throughout the day. First accounts made no mention of casualties.

SIGHTING

A newsman reported from the South Vietnamese First Division Headquarters at Hue that four battalions of North Vietnamese troops were sighted Sunday along a ridge a mile west of Fire Base O'Reilly.

O'Reilly is a former U. S. 101st Airborne Division base reopened by the South Vietnamese First Division in March. It stands atop a 1500 foot ridge less than five miles north of Ripcord, the 101st Division artillery base abandoned under heavy enemy pressure July 23.

The article went on about enemy troop movements from Laos into the O'Reilly area and about South Vietnamese attempts to break up the troop concentrations.

“They doan even mention us,” Jax moaned.

“We weren't even here when this was written,” El Paso said. “It's datelined the eleventh. What else you got?”

“Here one on the Soledad trial,” Jax handed him the article. El Paso began reading:

SOLEDAD TRIAL SITE IN DISPUTE

Presiding Superior Court Judge Carl A. Allen said yesterday he will do “everything he can” to have the Soledad Brothers murder trial transferred from San Francisco Superior Court to San Quentin Prison.

Trial of the three convicts—George L. Jackson, 28; Fleeta Drumgo, 25; and John Chutchette, 27, accused of last January's slaying of Soledad guard John V. Mills, 26 …

Jax interrupted El Paso with “Here one on the My Lai Trial. Read the last sentence there.” Jax pointed it out.

“Man, that's old news. That shit was on the radio when we were on stand-down.” El Paso went back to the Soledad article.

… Judge Allen's comments yesterday stemmed from last Friday's gun battle at the Marin County Civic Center in which Superior Court Judge Harold Haley was taken hostage in his courtroom by San Quentin convicts and shot to death.

Two of the convicts and a youthful confederate, Jonathan P. Jackson, 17, were also shot and killed in the melee. Young Jackson was a brother of George Jackson, one of the Soledad convicts …

“That ain't nothin,” Jax interrupted El Paso again handing him a follow-up article from the next day.

THE MARIN GUNS—ANGELA DAVIS LINK

Purchase Records Traced

by Charles Raudebaugh

Investigators said yesterday that two of the guns used in the Marin County courtroom kidnapping tragedy last week were originally purchased by Angela Davis, 26-year-old former UCLA philosophy teacher.

Superior Court Judge Harold Haley of San Rafael and three other persons were killed in a gun battle which followed an attempt …

Jax interrupted again. “Whut we dowin ta end injustice?” Jax said to El Paso.

Doc came over and sat down with his two friends. He had heard Jax' question and he repeated it as he sat. Then he said, “We are injustice. We bein injust just bein here.”

“You're soundin like Jax,” El Paso told him.

“Maybe my eyes been opened,” Doc said.

“You're feelin bad, Man,” El Paso said, “cause a Minh.”

“That's right, Mista. Over Minh. Over Soledad. Over the Panther trial. Over Nam. Over Nixon. Over law and order. I had it.”

Egan had fallen into a deep sleep. He had wrapped his entire body in his poncho and snapped it tight from feet up over face. He had lain down beneath bamboo stalks, on his back, in his usual resting position, and he had fallen quickly to sleep. The afternoon's still heat was blown away by an early evening breeze before the dream mutated, before the pleasures of a fantasized future with Stephanie transformed to terror. It did not happen all at once. They had been in a strange land. They were marching away from nothingness toward a dark medieval castle of heavy stone, damp and moldy and old, toward the last bastion of ignorance and hate. Somehow they had become the leaders of a revolt against established, protocolled forms of deceit. They were on the verge of storming the Bastille with their hordes of bedraggled followers when Daniel lost sight of Stephanie. Then it was all nothingness, empty, barren. His bones quivered, his teeth chattered.

“The last bastion of hate?” he screamed, cried. “Nay,” he moaned subdued. “It is not a bastion of hate. It is a bastion of wisdom and knowledge and love. Love and truth locked behind stone walls, hidden from a hateful world by massive enclave walls. What I lead is an army of hate set upon destroying it. Is that why you leave me? Are you inside? Were you a clandestine angel come to save my soul, and I, a recruiter for my devil? Why do I storm knowledge and love?”

The light flickered, flickered a single star in a black heaven. Then darkness and in the darkness the sapper. The star twinkled on the silver machete in his hand. It glittered on the blade as the dark form raised the huge knife higher, higher, cocked his arm and struck. Egan tried to move. He was immobilized, trapped in the poncho. The machete hit his face, it hit him across the eyes. Now he watched it from outside his body. The motion slowed. The blade severed his nose, his eyes, impacting on his brain slicing through severing the top half of his head cleanly.

Egan awoke startled, frozen. He dared not move. It was dark in his poncho cocoon yet light seeped in at several cracks. Slowly, very slowly he moved a hand to his head. He felt the side, the bridge of his nose for the cut. Slowly he opened the poncho. Cherry sat over him staring into his face.