Men in Green Faces (12 page)

Gene grinned. “No way out. They’ll want to know why the scramble. It’s going to be embarrassing as hell to admit we scrambled all that firepower on monkeys.”

“Never going to hear the end of this,” Brian whispered. “Shit.”

“They’re going to run it down our necks like there’s no tomorrow.” Doc scratched at his mustache. “Damn.”

“But they’ll never get to see anything like it,” Alex said very softly.

“Hoo-Ya,” Brian whispered in agreement.

Gene signaled for complete silence. The last of the monkeys were passing. He directed the squad into their previous back-to-back positions in the gathering darkness.

They settled in to wait again. He hated interdictions. Everybody hated them. Sitting for hours, and not moving. Just looking, watching, listening for the sound of paddles in the water.

Thunder rolled. The breeze came up again. A storm moved in with a downpour. Even drenched, half-blinded by rain so heavy it was like sitting under a waterfall, the storm came as a relief to him and, he knew, to the others. With it, they could move their cramped limbs a little without problems.

He shifted a bit to ensure his legs didn’t go to sleep. Stretched a bit, very slowly. Just enough to relieve stiff muscles. Nothing he could do about feeling so lousy. Half-sick. A long time later, he lifted the cover off his watch face enough to see the time, then secured it again. 0010 hours. Minutes past midnight. The storm passed on, leaving faint stars in its wake. He waited, watched, and listened to water sounds.

Beside him, Roland’s radio emitted a very soft click. Message coming in.

Cheek next to his, Roland relayed it. “TOC says sensors lighting up here. You have troop movement.”

Gene nodded, knowing already. Across the river, four real VC walked the bank. Large monkeys didn’t carry weapons. They were headed toward the Son Ku Lon. He signaled to let them pass.

“TOC contact,” Roland whispered five minutes later. “Sensors indicate large troop movement in target area on both banks and on the river.”

Gene signaled the squad to maintain position, knowing their self-discipline was such that none would move, none would fire, no matter what, until he initiated action.

Several more, either VC or NVA, passed behind them about twenty feet away. The SEALs were silently, utterly still, even their breathing controlled. They wanted the sampans, not a no-purpose firefight.

Thank God, Gene thought, most of the movement was coming from the far bank. And then he heard what they’d been waiting for—the sound of paddles breaking the water’s surface. The time had come. Element of surprise on their side.

The first sampan came into view, sliding through the water into their kill zone. The VC paddled expertly, guided it into the bank directly in front of them, no more than three feet away, and stopped. Gene watched unbelievingly as another, then another and another, drifted into the bank until nine of them, almost close enough to touch, were there. The smell of fish and oil and dirt strengthened, permeating the air he breathed.

The sampans rocked gently in the water. The VC sat quietly. Waiting, probably, for the diversion the intel said they’d planned, before they paddled the last three hundred meters to the Son Ku Lon and crossed it into the Twin Rivers.

Gene waited an additional fifteen minutes, making sure no more sampans were coming. Very slowly then, he lifted the 60 into firing position and felt the rest of the squad do the same. Between them, they carried two 60s, four Stoners, and Alex’s XM-203 grenade launcher. His flank men had electrical firing devices to set off the claymores once they opened fire.

The last second of silence split wide open when he squeezed the trigger. At the first sound of the 60, the rest of the SEALs bore down on the sampans, all weapons blazing.

Hit from so near, by so much firepower, bodies flew off the sampans, which were torn apart by all the rounds. Claymores exploded and flares from the 40 Mike-Mike lit the area, all within the initial burst of firing.

After that, the squad selected individuals—hard targets. Concussion grenades thrown into the river killed those who tried to escape by swimming. More were thrown into the surviving sampans.

Gene realized they’d received no return fire. Surprise had been total. The enemy’s three point elements were three hundred meters south. But they’d be coming back. He signaled a cease-fire.

Flares from the 40 Mike-Mike still lit the sky. Bodies floated in the water. The sampans were in pieces, some sections burning, set alight by the flares. The air was smoky, acrid with the smell of burning wood and gunfire.

Like ghosts, the SEALs left the scene, crossing the small stream behind them where earlier, Jim, Alex, and Brian had sat guard. They moved in file formation, southeast.

Gene halted at the Son Ku Lon. Roland whispered the latest intel from TOC.

“Large force movement all around you. Sensor boards all lit up. Both banks, and more sampans.”

He knew the enemy was coming. They could hear talking, yelling, from all directions. Roland whispered again.

“TOC, on radio. ‘You’re surrounded.’”

The squad froze. Over twenty of the enemy passed, just inches from their location.

“Tell them,” Gene whispered moments later, “to scramble. Emergency extraction. Pickup, five hundred meters east of target sight, on Son Ku Lon. Be ready to give support.” Things were going to get hot.

Weapons reloaded, they were ready. Survival depended on support getting to them before their ammo ran out. They only had what they’d been able to carry. From the weight of it, he thought he had close to 450 rounds left for the 60. Wouldn’t last long.

He pulled the squad in, pointed them into position, a back-to-back circle. On his command, they’d all open up, fully automatic, 360 degrees, get the enemy down, then move east to their extraction point.

Voices came from both sides at once, converging on their location. Gene felt a gut-tightening tension, felt the adrenaline surge, urging action. He allowed not an eyelash to move until the voices, the crunching steps of many boots, the brushing sounds of fabric against branches, made it definite the enemy was about to walk right into them.

At the last second, he triggered the 60. Hell broke loose. Their firepower cut jungle and enemy down in every direction, as the Sea Wolves came overhead.

“Blow the shit out of the jungle to our rear,” Roland relayed to them. “Riverboats do the same, when they come on line.”

Moving as fast and as quietly as possible, sweat pouring down their faces, shirts soaked with it, they snaked through the jungle, mud sucking at their feet, vine and branches snatching at their bodies, bullets smacking trees around them. Brian, ducking and weaving, found them a path through, their extraction point attracting him like a magnet. Where he went, they followed without question. He’d never led them wrong.

The MSSCs were waiting when they burst out of the jungle to pile aboard.

Gene counted heads even before the boat crew kicked the engine into high gear. “Is anybody wounded? Anybody hurt?”

“
Another
goddamned dick-dragger!” Doc, mad as hell, hyper, did a hands-on inspection, taking hold of each member of the squad, turning them around to satisfy himself they were indeed unhurt.

Nobody dared not turn when he turned them. They knew his concern was real. But they complained as much as they could without really setting him off.

They docked at Seafloat at 0145 hours. “Clean your weapons, then hit the rack,” Gene ordered. “We’ll debrief in the morning.”

The last thing he heard before falling asleep was “Boy, were we lucky.” The last thing he thought, smiling, was that they weren’t lucky, but in good hands. Thank You, he thought, and slept.

“H
OLD UP,
G
ENE.
I need to see you.”

Gene, ready to leave after the debriefing ended, closed the door. He crossed the empty room to join Jim, who was standing near the situation map. “What’s up?”

“I’d like you to go back to the target area and set up an observation post for any attempt at another crossing.”

They never went back to a place they’d just hit. “Okay. Sure.”

Jim, hands on hips, leaned forward, then back, stretching. “Riverboats, PBRs, will be banked about a thousand meters away. If you see any sampans, call in the boats to take them under fire.”

Gene nodded. “Anything else?” They walked out together.

“Take Doc. You need a corpsman.”

When Jim went off toward NILO, Gene set out toward their hootch. He had no problem with Jim’s request. He’d been on several two-man ops. The less men, the less noise, the faster they could get in or out. Since the riverboats were running the op, he and Doc would only be needed as lookouts, and to call the boats in on the target. No, he had no problem with that, but Doc would be another story.

The briefing, from a PBR lieutenant junior grade, was really brief.

“We want you people to insert about 1300 hours, patrol down about a thousand meters, then set up your observation post. If you see anything, call us in.”

Sure nothing like the Warning Order or Patrol Leader’s Order given by the Teams, Gene thought afterward. He guessed that in the PBR people’s view not much needed to be said. They just went up and down the rivers, never patrolling, never hitting anything deep in an enemy base camp area. Just rode the boats.

Half an hour later, he ran into Doc and grinned inwardly. “Ah, Doc.”

Doc stopped short. “What?”

“Boy, do I have a deal for you.”

“What?”

“You and I are going out.”

“When?”

“At 1300 hours.”

Doc scratched at his mustache. “Who’s going?”

Gene couldn’t help the smile he felt spreading. “I already told you.”

Doc’s light brown eyes grew to the size of boiled onions. “You’re shitting me.”

Gene shook his head.

Doc’s face went cherry red. Veins bulged in his neck. “No fuckin’ way! I’m not a fuckin’ SEAL. I’m not going. Blow it out your ass.”

“Wait a minute, Doc. I haven’t told you where we’re going.”

Doc’s eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened. “Where?”

“Remember where we were last night?”

He remembered. “No fuckin’ way!” he yelled.

“Now, Doc, if I can find another corpsman, you won’t have to go. But if I can’t, you will.”

“No, sir! What fraggin’ baboon-tailed, pus-contaminated, peacocking, bug-brained feather-ass says so?”

“Doc, it comes from Jim, dammit, but like I said, I’ll try to find another corpsman.”

“Right!”

Doc spun around and stomped away, yelling every four-letter word in the book, and some Gene couldn’t identify. Amazing, he thought, the number of cusswords Doc either knew or could make up, once he blew his top. Realizing his mouth was hanging open in wonderment, he shut it. Amazing.

But two ops back-to-back in the same area was dangerous. The enemy would set up, if they were smart, hoping they’d come back in for information or to take a positive head count. So the SEALs never ever did that. He corrected himself. Almost never did that.

He looked down the jungle-edged Son Ku Lon. Jungle dark, green, and treacherous. Just stood, watching the muddy river flow past. They never retraced their footsteps. That was one rule they’d learned in blood, in the first year of SEAL training. He’d remembered and practiced it on all his ops. No way would he bring it up to Doc, in case he couldn’t find another corpsman.

God, Doc was pissed. Grinning, Gene went into the hootch to start getting ready, then changed his mind and went back to the briefing room. There he studied the map again, even though they’d returned from the area less than eight hours before. The enemy’s position had been hurt by their having taken out the sampans trying to cross. Now they had to make sure no further supplies got through to the Twin Rivers area.

He studied the map a few moments longer before returning to finish mounting his gear out. To the 60 was added eight hundred rounds, two flares, two frags, two LAAWS rockets, compass, map, and flashlight.

Alex walked up. “What are you doing?”

“Going back out.”

“Am I going?”

“No, but find Doc. I need him now.”

“Okay,” Alex said, and went in search.

He felt a little guilty about not trying to find another corpsman, but why should he? Doc was the best. Going back in was dangerous. High-risk. If he was going to get shot, he’d need Doc to treat him as he continued to fight, until they were extracted or Jim sent in a team to pull them out. Dead or alive.

Doc arrived. “Did you find another corpsman?”

Gene braced himself. “No.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Doc said, despair in his voice. “Why do you pull this shit on me?”

There was nothing he could say, so he didn’t try. “Doc, I need you to have an XM-203 and twenty rounds. All high-explosive. Six hundred rounds for the M-16, one PRC-77 radio, four frags, two flares, both red, medical and surgical kits.”

Doc glared at him.

“Meet me at 1230 hours in the briefing room to go over our portion of the op.” He fitted the last belt of ammo around his hips. “Eat a big meal. We’ll be out up to twenty-four hours.”

Doc wore the look of a trapped man. “You’re ball-snappin’ nuts.” He stomped off.

1230 hours came fast. Doc was on time at the briefing room. Outside, Brian and Cruz stood guard. He walked slowly down the aisle between the metal folding chairs to join Gene at the maps.

For such a smart guy, Gene thought, Doc totally missed the obvious in asking why he was always their first choice of corpsman. All he had to do was be lousy, be undependable, untrustworthy, and he’d stay safe on Seafloat.

“TTiis,” Gene said, pointing to the map, “is where I’ll have the boats insert us on the Son Ku Lon. We’ll patrol to the OP, approximately one hundred fifty to two hundred meters in from the Son Ku Lon, and parallel to it.”

Doc nodded, his green-and-black-painted face expressionless.

“I have a radio being monitored in our hootch to ensure that if we need help, we’ll have SEALs coming in.”

Doc studied the map. “Radio’s good,” he finally said.