Men in Green Faces (24 page)

At 0320, the sky was clear and Seafloat quiet. The only ones awake other than himself were the men standing watch. He walked the entire perimeter of Seafloat. Each man he passed spoke, offering a word or two. He moved on in silence, as though they didn’t exist, thinking of Willie, consumed with a soul-burning rage. Before, he had killed and hoped to survive. Now he wanted survival in order to kill.

Eventually the circle returned him to the hootch. He slipped inside, unslung the 60 from the side of his rack, and took it outside to the cleaning table. There he replaced almost every moving piece with a new one. Each part of the 60 was inspected and lubricated. When the weapon had been reassembled, he pulled on the cocking lever. All moving parts worked with ease, so smooth in their action they seemed to be made of silicone.

He looked up into sunrise. It had been his favorite time of day, the time he would normally have spent praying for the safety of all the SEALs, all the children, and for the end of war. Never again. Not after Willie. He turned his back to the rising sun, conscious only of the vow he had made the previous night: I’ll bring you hell.

It was almost 0600, and people were starting to move around Seafloat. He hung the 60 back on his rack and went to the chow hall. There he got two cups of coffee and headed to NILO.

Johnny was still asleep.

Gene stood in the doorway. “Time to wake up.”

Sound asleep, the officer didn’t respond.

Gene raised his voice. “Johnny, get up. I want to talk to you.”

Blinking, rubbing his eyes, he came awake. “What’s wrong?” He squinted up. “Who is that? Gene! What’s wrong?” He sat up. “What time is it?”

“Here. Drink some coffee.”

Johnny took the cup and sipped. “Thanks. What’s up?”

“Who hit Willie? What unit?”

“I don’t know for sure. I still have some people out who haven’t given a report.”

“Who do you think it was?”

“Right now, we believe they were part of Nguyen’s unit.”

A surge of adrenaline hit Gene so hard, he was almost dizzy with it. His head rang, blood pounded.

“The colonel and his men went down to New Nam Cam for a little R&R,” Johnny went on, looking down at his steaming coffee. “That hasn’t been confirmed yet. It’s still too early to know for sure.” He looked up. “We do know that they headed northeast, where we believe Nguyen is located.”

Gene clamped his hand around the bedpost. His knuckles went white. “Jim said the enemy knew.”

“I’m checking that out as well. They could have been tipped off, but it’s also possible they got there first, saw Willie’s people coming, and set up.”

“Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Get a fix on Nguyen.”

Sitting up in his rack, Johnny seemed to cringe—to draw into himself. “We’re trying!”

Gene leaned forward. “I want him.”

“I know you do. I’m trying.”

“Then send out all your people. Check with every intel source out there—PRUs, CIA, every military and civilian source.”

“Gene, I’m trying. I really am. We all want him.”

Through clenched teeth, the words came out. “Not as much as I do.”

Johnny nodded. After a long silence, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been released by the doctor.”

“Does Jim know?”

“Not yet. He will as soon as I see him.”

“He’s going out this afternoon,” Johnny said. He took a swallow of coffee. “He’ll be glad to know you can go with them.”

Gene straightened. “Good. I need to get off this damned Float.”

“Glad to see you healthy again.”

“Thanks,” Gene said, and turned to go. Halfway out the door, he stopped and looked back. “Find Nguyen for me.”

Before Johnny could reply, Gene had headed out to find Jim.

He ran into Doc on the way.

“Hey, I hear you’ve been released. How do you feel?”

“Okay. Have you seen Jim?”

Doc’s eyebrow raised. “Last time I saw him, he was still in the hootch. About thirty minutes ago.”

“Good.”

Just as Gene reached the door, Jim came out.

Startled, he stopped short. “Gene. How are you feeling?”

“The doctor said I can go back out.” He studied Jim, watching for reaction. “Johnny said you’re running an op. Put me down to go.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry. I’ve already got my list, and I’ve put the word out to those who will be going. Take another day’s rest.”

“Dammit, it’s not too late. You haven’t even had the Warning Order yet.”

“Sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.”

Jim grinned. “Tell Marc Kenau he won’t be going, but thanks. Warning Order is at 1400 hours.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Jim shook his head. “No, not this time. Everything is set until the WO. I’m going to chow. See you later.”

Gene suddenly realized he wore a slight smile—a strange reflection of the cold anger, the glacier of hate he felt. Inside the hootch, he looked for Marc.

The Eagle lay on his rack, staring at the ceiling.

“Well,” Gene said, “did you win or lose last night?”

Marc glanced around. The hootch was empty except for the two of them. “I made a killing. Do you need the money?”

“No. How much did you win?”

“I was down one fifty on the books. Now I’m up about six hundred.”

“Must have been one hell of a game. Who was the big loser?”

Marc grinned. “Everybody, man. I couldn’t lose.”

“It’s about time. Here’s another win. Jim said you could stand down on the op, and thanks for agreeing to go.”

Marc’s ice-blue gaze fastened on Gene. “Who’s the automatic weapons man?”

“I am.”

“You mean, you’re back?”

“Yes. Pass the word to anyone going out that I’m available between my squad’s ops. I’ll go out with anyone. Day or night.”

Marc studied him. “Can I ask you a question and get an honest answer?”

“I’ve never lied to you before, my friend. I’m not about to start now. Shoot.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. No temp, no cough.”

“I don’t mean that. How are you holding up? I know you took Willie’s death hard. We all knew how close you two were.”

“You really want to know?” He was cold, hard, without emotion. “I’m going out in the bush and kill anyone carrying a weapon, anyone who is known to be the enemy. NVA, VC…anyone supporting them. Doesn’t matter. All I want to do is fight. I’m going to avenge Willie. That’s all I care about.”

He stared at Marc, who didn’t move. “You keep your mouth shut about this.”

The big SEAL looked into his face, his own showing concern and distress. “Don’t go crazy on me, Gene. I lost a friend too. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Just pass the word that I’m available, Eagle. I’ll be okay.”

“You need someone to talk to, come see me. We’ve been through a lot together and I care. More than you know. More than I’ve ever told you. Especially since the Mighty Mo.”

He stood, and before Gene could react, hugged him.

“I understand what you’re saying,” Marc said. “Do it. But be careful.”

Gene headed for the briefing room. He wanted to check the situation map and all intel reports on Nguyen. He was out there somewhere, and he wanted to know where.

Jim had moved the Warning Order up one hour. Once everybody had the word, things moved fast, with each man preparing his basic equipment load. Their BELs included special equipment—LAAWS rockets, explosives, booby traps, and such. While the rest finished mounting out, he’d be preparing himself mentally, with a single intent. Kill.

At the designated time, he joined the others in the briefing room for the Warning Order and took his usual chair at the back of the room, next to the door.

Jim stood at the front. “Okay, guys. The objective is to search and destroy a small enemy camp of fifteen NVA and three tax collectors. We will be running a hammer-and-anvil ambush.”

Gene listened while Jim told each squad member what he was to carry along with any special equipment. Details about the op would come during the Patrol Leader’s Order in about—Gene checked the time—an hour and a half.

He felt the electricity begin to surge through his veins. Search and destroy. Just the kind of op he wanted. Perfect with hammer and anvil. They hadn’t used that ambush in combat yet.

They had run one in Basic Underwater Demolition SEAL training. Tommy Blade ran it on them, and he, with the rest of the students, had fallen right into the trap. Afterward, they’d heard Tommy howling with laughter. Not only had he and his staff “killed” them, they’d scared the hell out of them. Now it was for real. The enemy wouldn’t find it funny.

It was 1320 hours when they returned to the briefing room for the PLO. Most of the guys, Gene saw, were joking, playing grab-ass.

“Listen up,” Jim ordered.

Smiles vanished as they absorbed the details. They all realized it would be one hell of an op. Gene studied faces. They’d be flown deep into enemy territory by helo and rappel into their AO. Jim had intel that the three tax collectors had collected almost $100,000 in South Vietnamese currency from local sub-collectors. The three would be moving the funds north in the morning, under the protection of fifteen NVA. Though the SEALs would be in Colonel Nguyen’s area, there was no intel on his location, so enemy forces were unknown.

Jim, giving details, let them know they wouldn’t be able to extract by helo, but would have to make it through the jungle to a point where the boats could pick them up. They were going so deep that they’d have no communications for most of the op, and no fire support from the Sea Wolves or riverboats. They’d be on their own.

The squad went directly to the helo deck after the PLO. The choppers were waiting.

Gene put on his Swiss Seat and snap link, wrapping the half-inch nylon rope around his waist, between his legs, and tying it at his waist on the left side. He hooked the snap link on the rope at the belt-buckle location. Once at the objective, two hundred-foot ropes would be thrown from each side of the chopper, and the men—one at a time on each line—would tie their snap link into the rope and exit the bird.

He opened and closed both hands several times, flexing them, checking his grip. When he went out of the chopper, he’d have the 60 in his left and be holding the hundred-foot line in his right, whipping it out to the side as he came down. About five feet above the ground, he’d move the line behind his back, which would stop his descent instantly, then ease himself down quickly and get unhooked.

During the trip to their insertion point, Gene took no notice of the country’s beauty and, unlike past times, took no joy in the flight. Instead, his mind churned with thoughts of search and destroy. The edges of Willie’s cross bit into his palm. He didn’t recall taking it from his shirt pocket where Nguyen’s shoulder patch and the cross had replaced the small Bible.

Behind him, Jim passed the word. “Get ready.”

Gene tucked Willie’s cross back in his pocket and stood up, just inches behind Jim. Across from him, Roland stood waiting behind Brian. Seconds later, Jim and Brian jumped. When the ropes showed some slack, he and Roland went out, followed by Alex and You-O, and finally Doc. All of them, as they hit the ground, set security immediately.

The 60 ready, Gene crouched silently with the rest, watching and listening, wondering if they’d been seen. Above, the choppers would continue to fly north for some twenty minutes before heading west, then south, for Seafloat. For a while, he could hear them pulling away. Then they were gone. It was a cold feeling. Once on the ground, there was no turning back, even if they wanted to. The only way out would be to head south through the thick, enemy-infested jungle.

Deep in the brush below the trees, he stood immobile, breathing softly. Now their self-discipline was crucial. They must make no contact until they reached the objective—couldn’t risk being seen or heard. And once the objective was hit, they had to move fast and silent if they were going to make it back alive. Once they hit, they had to become invisible, make no mistakes.

He could feel the tension in the air. The surreptitious glances the others had been throwing his way had ceased. The squad was totally outer-directed now, tasting, smelling, feeling the air for danger, like wild animals. It was as if they all shared the same feeling. This op was it. Not all of them would be coming out alive.

Jim gave the signal to move out.

I
N FILE FORMATION, THE
SEALs filtered into the surrounding jungle. A short time later, sunlight faded as night set in. Brian’s fist went up. Danger area.

Gene set flank security at the small river—about, he guessed, eight feet across. Cruz did the same. Brian slowly crossed, and entered the dark jungle on the far side of the water.

As he waited, Gene scanned the area, listening to the hum of insects, the trees sighing above, aware of the dark green, earthy smell of the river.

Jim and Roland were ready to cross. Screened by foliage, they crouched, poised for Brian’s return.

Suddenly the brush across the river stirred. Brian stepped out to give the thumbs-up, all-clear, sign. Jim entered the river. Just as he started getting out, Roland slid in with barely a ripple, his weapon at the ready.

Cruz snapped his fingers. Roland, up to his ankles, froze in place and looked back. Cruz pointed left, down his flank, and whispered, “Sampan.”

Roland backed into the overhanging brush at the river’s edge and became one with it.

From his hidden position, Gene watched the sampan come into view. Two armed VC. Around him, none of the squad moved or made any sound. They wanted no contact, wanted only for the sampan to pass. Brian and Jim on the far bank made the situation especially dangerous. If the squad were seen, and had to open up, they’d be firing into their own men across the river.

The VC remained unaware of the SEALs’ presence. They paddled on, talking to each other.

For five minutes after their passing, the squad listened and waited, holding their positions. Finally Roland crossed the river, with the rest following as indicated in the PLO.

Gene, soaked to his waist, noticed the lengthening shadows. Darkness came fast under triple canopy. They’d have to slow down. When night came down it was hard to maintain visual contact with the man in front and the man behind.