Casca 14: The Phoenix (11 page)

Gomez nodded. "Okay, I'll get him here in the next couple of days because that's all the time you have before Troung arrives."

Dai Uy Troung came into town dressed in the guise of a field-worker. A conical hat of woven straw held to his head by a band of faded black cotton accented his standard peasant's dress of worn, threadbare black pajamas and rubber sandals. On his shoulders he carried a yoke, balancing two large earthenware jars containing smoked carp, ostensibly for the town markets. He came in the morning when traffic from the outlying towns was the heaviest and the road the most crowded. To his front and rear were others, also in peasant dress,
who carried weapons and grenades beneath their jackets or in their baskets. If he was stopped they were to intercede, even if it meant having themselves arrested, or by creating enough confusion with their weapons that Troung could escape.

The security guards at the inspection posts never gave him more than a cursory glance. If they had, they might have noticed that his features did not have the worn-out, beaten look of reluctant acceptance of one's station in life that was characteristic of the peasants. That they didn't was just as well. One of the two security guards from the ARVIN on duty that day was a member of the local Vietcong Company and when he was not on duty for the Saigon forces he moonlighted for the Viets. If Troung had given a certain phrase at the inspection station the VC sentry would have killed his companion.

A column of Armored Personnel Carriers passed him. They were filled with American soldiers heading for the field. He hated the sight of the pale, young, cocky faces, a cockiness that he knew would leave the first time they came under serious fire. These were not the real danger to his country. The young faces would go home or die here. The greatest danger, as always, came from the masses. Whoever controlled them controlled the country. And control came from more than money. A great portion of it came from fear and he had studied under a master. He would bring fear to this city and in so doing advance their cause.

That was ostensibly his purpose, in coming to Song Be. Only he and Ho knew that what they really wanted was vengeance. Vengeance for the pain Troung had suffered and for the loss of face of his master. The attack on their camp was too great an insult to be tolerated. It should not have happened. Everything was the scar-faced sergeant's fault. He had given them more trouble than any of the American combat units or intelligence agencies. He had to be stopped. In the dark recesses of their minds both also knew they had to kill their own fear of the scar-faced man and the only way to end that fear was to face it. He would do that, but on his terms and with his weapons. When he had the American in his power then all the nightmares and pain he had suffered since that unspeakable offspring of a gutter dog had cut his hand off to get the briefcase would end.

Once inside the checkpoint Troung together with his escort moved by a circuitous route through the streets and narrow alleys to make certain they weren't being followed. At different points a member of his escort remained behind to stop anyone who might have been tailing them. Troung reached his destination, a bakery which supplied the local American garrison with bread and rolls for their tables. Across the alley from the bakery was a welding shop where plows and wrought iron fences were made or mended and sometimes weapons for the local guerrilla forces were repaired.

Colonel Tomlin called Casey and Gomez to him. There was a new secretary fresh from the States sitting at the desk. The Sp/4 had been reassigned to an Air Cavalry regiment and had been happily
manning an M-60 light machine gun as a door gunner. Two days later he was in a body bag being sent back home. Heroes do not have much longevity.

Tomlin was agitated, his movements quick and jerky. His ashtray was full of half-smoked butts. He lit another one as he locked eyes with Casey and Gomez.

"He's here. The cock-sucker is here and I know he's coming after me,"

They knew who Tomlin meant. Gomez spoke for both of them. "Where is he? How many are with him?"

Tomlin put out his smoke. "He came in this morning. Right now Troung is at the bakery. One of the people there works for us. I just got the word ten minutes ago. Now I want you to take care of him and find out where Ho is and come up with some way to finish him off, once and for all. And that's a goddamned order."

Both of them were pleased to hear the news and so were Van and Phang who were back at the transient barracks waiting for them. They would have to move fast. Since they'd made the hit on Ho's headquarters another sixty South Vietnamese big shots and eight Americans had been killed by Ho's
Ke' sat Nhan
squads. Now that Troung himself was on the scene the killings would probably triple.

Gomez asked them if they wanted any help but it was refused. Phang had brought a few of his own men with him when he came in. This had been their party from the beginning and they would see it through to the end.

Troung questioned his agents about where the one called Romain was. It was good to find out that the Kamserai leader Phang was with him. That way he could even all the scores at one time. For now he was tired. It had been a long march and he needed to rest. By tonight his men would have the scarred one located, and he would see that he was dead before the next nightfall, even if it took the lives of every agent in Song Be. But for now, he would rest a while in the bakery shop.

Phang moved through the alley with the tottering steps of a man nearly blind
drunk. His gray hair and posture were that of an old man who only found solace in his drink. The Vietcong in the white shirt and slacks watching the alley saw nothing unusual about the old man. He was just another example of the loss of dignity that had overtaken his people. He looked at the old man with disgust as Phang nearly lost his balance and went into a drunken sidestepping trot as if trying to catch his balance. He came close to the Vietnamese, his head hanging down, lips slack, eyes focussed on nothing.

Slurring his words, Phang mumbled as he nearly bumped into the guard,
"Toi hoan lai Ru cu Viang?"

Raising his hand to push the drunk on his way, the guard told him, distaste dripping from his words at the sight of the old man, "I have no wine you old fool. Go away before you get hurt."

Phang bowed his head even further at the abuse,
"Xin Loi."

He apologized then straightened up, his limp hand now filled with his knife. The blade sank up to the cross-guard in the Viet's throat. Phang leaned against him, pushing the man back against the wall
holding him up as he forced the blade in deeper. Waving at Casey and Van he signaled with his arm for them to come over. Casey helped move the body out of sight behind the bamboo crates as Van stood watch.

Casey would have preferred not to have killed the guard but that was the only safe way they could get close enough to the building to get a look inside. If it was necessary they'd take the body with them when they left and just let Troung wonder what had happened to his man. It was always possible he'd think that he'd been picked up by a roving patrol.

Phang signaled for Casey to come closer. Pointing with the M-3 he showed Casey the window of the welding shop. From inside came a dim glow. He and Van moved silently to where they could get a look in the window. Behind them Phang and his Kamserai gave cover.

Troung stood with his back to the window talking to the welder-blacksmith. One other man stood with them, an American M-1 carbine held in his hands. Casey motioned for Van to come closer to the window. He could hear the people talking but couldn't understand all that was being said. Van leaned his dark head closer to the window and listened. Moving back from the window he whispered. "The one called Troung says that he is going to see that you and Phang are dead by tomorrow evening. Then he will get on with the rest of his mission. He plans on being in the city three days,
then he will return to Colonel Ho in order to bring him up to date on the progress of their operations in this area."

Looking back at the window Casey sighed, "Well that's it then. We have to take him now before he gets away. If he gets out of the city and into the countryside we'll never be able to find him. Now, let's figure out how to do it."

Phang smiled, showing his betel nut stained teeth. "Just be patient, my friend. The one you want will have to come out sometime. There are only two exits and we will have both of them covered. When he does come out, we'll be waiting for him."

That plan made as much sense as anything else. If they broke in shooting, Troung might get killed before they had a chance to interrogate him. Troung would have to be taken alive and it would have to be done quietly. As for the others he didn't care, except that noise of gunfire might bring help to the enemy.

"All right, Phang, but it has to be quiet. When the door opens and Troung and his escort come out we'll take them, but I don't want anyone to start shooting. I'll take care of Troung myself. You and your men take out the one with the carbine and the blacksmith."

Phang bobbed his head in agreement,
"Xa Phai!"
He left Casey to give the orders to his men. Their firearms were put on their shoulders and knives brought out. One man went to the rear of the welding shop to cover the door there. It was not likely that Troung would use that door as he was known to be sleeping at the bakery across the alley.

Phang returned to the window to watch. Casey placed himself out of sight to the side of a door behind a stack of bamboo crates. Casey had Van change shirts with the dead Viet and
take his place on guard. They were near the same size and, in the dark, from the back, Troung was not likely to notice the change until it was too late.

Phang watched Troung and the others inside. When he saw the Vietcong captain check his watch, he hissed at Casey, "Get ready, I think he's coming out!"

Nodding, Casey tried to make himself smaller in the shadows. Wearing the dead guard's shirt, Van moved so his face was better concealed from casual view.

The door to the shop opened. Troung was weary. It had been a long day and he had far to go tomorrow. He looked forward to his cot across the alley where the good smell of baking bread gave one comfortable dreams. His escort went out first, Troung followed close behind. The B
o Doi with the carbine talked to the back of the man with the white shirt he thought was his comrade. "Let's go."

He was sandwiched instantly between Phang and Van. Both had their knives moving at the same instant. Troung had no chance to make an outcry before his windpipe was squeezed shut by a strong hand and he was thrown to the ground. Inside the shop, the welder saw Troung go down in the open doorway and headed for the rear exit. His escape attempt was futile. Casey heard a muted cry from outside the rear door. Phang's other man came back in the door and held up his knife to show the blood on the blade.

Casey rose from Troung, looked at Phang and nodded with approval. "Nicely done, Old One. Now let's get the bodies back inside where we can have some privacy. There are a few things I have to ask this one when he comes to, which should be in just a couple of minutes." He pointed to Troung lying unconscious at his feet.

Van
brought him some water from a bucket in the shop. A dousing combined with a few firm slaps across the face from Van's hand brought Troung back into the real world, a world which suddenly had become quite unpleasant.

Casey watched Troung's eyes as they frantically searched for any source of aid. There was none. In no face did he see any sign of compassion. Van's was especially discomforting. There was something very sinister about the look the handsome smooth-cheeked Vietnamese had in his eyes. Troung tried to move away and found he couldn't. His good hand had been chained to a steel ring welded on the anvil. The pulse in his temple pounded against the thin skin covering the bone. Casey said nothing; he had time. How much Troung could not have dreamed
of. Van waited quietly by the brazier. Phang stood at his shoulder, his M-3 submachine gun held with the safety latch open, the bolt drawn back. He did not want his friends to be interrupted during this night's work. Outside on watch were two members of his tribe, both of them hard men who hated the communists for reasons of their own. They would stop anyone from becoming too inquisitive if Casey's questioning became a bit loud.

Troung suddenly saw everything in the welding shop in a new and sinister light. The only light came from the charcoal brazier. Its illumination did nothing to make things better, for it only gave off blood-red shadows that quivered and moved with the night. Van stood behind the brazier. At Casey's nod he removed from it a steel rod, the tip heated to white hot. He lit a cigarette with it then set the rod back in the brazier.

Casey spoke gently, almost regretfully. "Captain Troung, I think it is time you answered a few questions for me. You know that you are already a dead man, but if you do as I say your death will be swift and painless."

Troung's throat was very dry and foul with the taste of fear in it. This was not supposed to be the way things were to have gone! And Americans were bound by the Geneva Convention. Hi found his voice.
"Sergeant, I demand that you turn me over to the proper authorities!" His eyes pleaded with those of the silent Van. "You are a South Vietnamese officer. Tell him that I am your prisoner." If he could be given into the hands of the South Vietnamese there was always a chance that his escape could be arranged. Van spat a hunk of phlegm into the red burning coals where it popped, sizzled and disappeared in a tiny cloud of steam.