Men in Green Faces (30 page)

Upriver, about three hundred meters away, Gene spotted a few of the hootches. From here, he thought, they would patrol, and come in from the jungle, behind the village. He lifted the cover from his watch. Almost 0200 hours. It would take about thirty minutes to an hour to sneak in and make the hit. And about thirty more, max, to quietly sneak back to the sampans. They’d need another hour to hook up with the waiting MSSCs. So they’d still have plenty of darkness—be long gone before any of the villagers woke to find their chief dead.

Dev gave the signal to move out. The squad dropped into file formation, with Gene in Marc’s place.

It wasn’t bad, moving through the jungle. The mud was not too deep, and the moon provided a little light so he could see, as he stepped carefully around and over the snaking tree roots, ducked vines, avoided the clutches of thick brush.

The steady hum of mosquitoes was a constant in the hot, wet night air as the silent squad patrolled closer to the outside perimeter of the village. They were using every possible shadow to cover their presence. The smell of human habitation began to taint the dark odor of the jungle.

Then they were there, at the edge of the clearing, halted by a signal from Dev. The layout of the hootches was just as described in the briefing, Gene saw.

At Dev’s signal, the squad’s security element took up position and moved in. Gene went in slowly, ensuring that each step forward was a silent one. His position would be more exposed than the others if a villager passed. He had to be in position not only to cover the village as a whole but to cut the target’s hootch in half at a three-foot level should anyone awake.

Search and destroy wouldn’t move in until security was set. He found a small wood pile and knelt, but found he was unable to see the right flank security. It was important that, from each security position, the men on his left and right sides could be seen so he could assist them as well. He moved more to the right side of the woodpile.

There, he thought, looking to the right. Freddy was in sight. He turned. Okay on the left side too. Both men were in position and ready to respond, in a split second, to any situation that might occur. As was he.

He caught shadows separating from darker ones and tensed. The search and destroy team was moving in. All three of them were bent over—crouched to provide a smaller target. They swept their weapons smoothly, steadily, back and forth across the area as they approached the entrance of the target’s hootch. The radioman went down on one knee, looking outward, past Gene’s and Freddy’s security positions, ready to provide cover fire to their rears if needed.

Gene kept his breathing steady, a control on the adrenaline racing through his body. The hootch was covered on all four sides now. Each man’s position was covered by at least two other men, one on the right and one on the left. He leaned forward just the slightest bit. The point and the PL were moving slowly into the dark doorway of the hootch. Once inside, the point man would make the hit while Dev set security for him. Anyone who woke before the task was completed would be eliminated by the PL.

Gene tried to swallow. He focused harder on the doorway. The point man would use a .22-caliber pistol with a Hush Puppy on it. Before firing, he’d look for an angle that would ensure the round would enter the brain, and not be deflected on hitting the skull. He listened intently, but heard nothing except insect sounds and his own heartbeat.

The point man and the PL exited the hootch.

Well done, Gene thought. Very damned well done. Less than two minutes had passed, but to him, slick with sweat, it had seemed like two hours.

The point and PL moved toward the jungle, and as they passed, the other members of the squad fell in behind them. In patrol formation, they disappeared into the dark of the jungle.

No one heard, Gene thought. No one knew that, in just a few hours, they’d find they needed a new chief. Smooth and silent. Exactly the way their ops were meant to be. Perfect. So far. He ducked under a branch. Vines slithered across one shoulder and the side of his neck. At least, he hoped they were vines. His stomach lurched. For a moment, his shoulders hunched, but he walked on, putting his concentration on making each step silent.

When they finally reached the sampans, it took less than a minute to get them back in the water. They boarded and started paddling out as silently as they’d paddled in.

Gene’s thoughts were still with the hit. He knew what it must have been like inside the hootch. He’d executed the same kind of op himself. Go into the dark, he thought. Try to focus. Count the sleeping bodies of wife and children. Locate the target. Take the angle and squeeze the trigger.
Puff.
The round goes off. The body twitches slightly.

And, he thought, the people sleeping would be shocked when they awoke. They’d wonder how it happened. They’d seen nothing, heard nothing. He dipped his paddle carefully, watched it cut into the dark water with barely a ripple.

The only problem he’d had running that type of op had occurred when the target, like this one, had a wife and children. It had bothered him, imagining how the children would respond—their sorrow and hurt over a father dead. But he couldn’t dwell on that, or it would chew him up inside. He had to focus on the need for the mission. The hit would save lives. Personal feelings had to be put aside.

Gene snapped out of reverie. They’d almost reached the MSSCs. The radioman made contact to let them know they were coming into the boats’ position. If for some reason they couldn’t have made radio contact, they’d have used blinking lights. They could not just paddle up to them without warning. The MSSCs would consider the squad enemy moving in and open up.

But things had gone well, gone as planned. Just as they did on most SEAL ops. And Freddy Fanther—skate that he was aboard Seafloat—hadn’t made a wrong move out in the bush, he thought as he helped get the sampans aboard the boats so they could head home.

Sitting on one of the benches as they neared the Son Ku Lon, Gene realized how comfortable he’d become in the bush. It had become part of him, as it had, he guessed, for others who had been there before him and all who would follow—no matter what branch or unit. If they lived long enough.

When they reached the Son Ku Lon, the MSSCs opened their engines up to full speed. Gene asked the boat personnel next to him for a cigarette and lit up. He thought about the next op and wondered how long it would be until he’d be back out. He just needed to find out who’d be going. It would be at least twelve hours more before the pills wore off. Until then, he’d be wired.

He stood. The boats were flying down the river. The surface was like glass, with no chop. The air rushed past his face and through his hair. It felt good. It was still warm, still sticky, but somewhat cooler out on the water. Seafloat lay just ahead.

The boat pulled into the Float and docked. Gene strolled into the briefing room, with the rest of Delta, for their debriefing. That would be short and sweet too, he thought, just like the op. And yet, same as with the business-type sampan, he had a feeling of incompleteness. It was frustrating. He’d been hyped to kill and hadn’t. Not one fucking round had he fired. Should be glad, but he wasn’t.

The debriefing over, he went to the cleaning table and sprayed some WD-40 on the 60, then tiptoed to his rack. Inside the hootch, everyone slept. Brian was curled up on the floor, the old man fast asleep in Brian’s rack.

Gene shook his head. Knowing the old man, he probably didn’t fall asleep. Probably passed out. The old coot sure could put hard liquor down. No doubt Brian wanted to make the old man’s last night the best possible. He sure did have a liking for Raggedy.

As quietly as possible, he took off his ammo belts and set them next to the 60. They’d stay there until he could find someone to go out with. The sun was starting to rise, and he could smell bacon and coffee.

He left the hootch and headed for the chow hall.

“Hey, Michaels,” the cook yelled, “where you been? Haven’t seen you in days.”

“I’m still here, Cookie,” Gene answered. “Been busy.”

He picked up a tray. Cookie was one big man. Stood six foot eight and black as midnight.

“How do you want your eggs?”

“You mean you’ve got real eggs and not that powdered crap?”

Cookie grinned. “Sure do.”

“How about two over easy?”

It wasn’t long before Cookie walked over and handed him a plate with four eggs on it. Fresh eggs were a real treat, and when they did get their hands on some, it was usually two to a person.

“Thanks.” Gene looked down at the eggs and then up at the big cook. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t mention it,” Cookie said. He leaned forward, big hands resting on the table. “By the way, do you think you could get me a North Vietnamese flag to take home?”

Gene grinned. So that’s what it was all about. “Good as done. I’ll bring you one down myself.” When they did bring flags back from an op, they sold them for forty or fifty bucks each in Binh Thuy. There were a couple in his locker. God, but bacon, eggs, and hot coffee smelled good. Worth a flag any day.

By the time he’d finished eating, people were standing in line outside, waiting for the chow hall to open. A new day, he thought, and wondered who he’d be going out with. The sooner, the better. He was ready.

L
ESS THAN FIVE HOURS
later, Gene was back in the jungle carrying the 60 for Sean and his KCS patrol again. Just hours after returning, he filled in for a still-sick Marc on an overnight observation op. There’d been an encounter with some VC on their way out. He remembered cutting one of them in half with the 60, but not much more. When he’d gotten back from the second op, he’d popped some more pills and pulled an overnighter with his own squad—an interdiction. Then they’d booked, and after a brief firefight at the pickup point, arrived back at Seafloat both muddy and bloody.

Days and hours got all mixed up. Gene began to mark time by whether he needed some more pills, or how long he had until next Warning Order or Patrol Leader’s Order. All that mattered was the next op and how many enemy had been eliminated during the one just finished. Willie’s death cut deep. That he hadn’t been with his friend on that last and final op was a torture. A lifetime of belief in God had died that day.

Karen’s letters continued to be dropped unread into the footlocker. They covered the Bible. Gene no longer even wanted to see it. The driving need to operate kept him careful around Jim, who thought he was sleeping between ops, and who thought he was eating when, in fact, he left most of his food untouched.

It was an effort to try and seem normal around the squad. In SEAL training he’d learned to be impassive and to conceal emotion. He’d put that training to use many times, but never as rigidly as after Willie’s death. With little food and no sleep, training and the desire to kill sustained him—and pills.

Hatred grew each time he put on green face. In the jungle, he killed any enemy holding a weapon that he could, so long as neither mission nor patrol was endangered. The record for silent kills was his. He ached to find Colonel Nguyen and watch him die. Johnny, at NILO, avoided him, knowing what he wanted and having no hard information to give.

In the hootch after one op, Alex showed him a snapshot just received from his mother. It was a photo taken shortly after SEAL graduation. None of them looked old enough to buy a beer. They hadn’t been, and most of them still weren’t. Later, while shaving, Gene had looked at himself and realized he’d aged ten years in the five and a half months since their arrival on Seafloat. The photo had depicted a boy’s face, a huge smile. Now he shaved a lined face gone cold and hard, the dark eyes darkened further, reflecting death. His way of life. He wondered what he’d look like at the end of the next two weeks, when their six-month tour of duty was up. They’d be flying back to The World then. There wasn’t much time left to find Nguyen.

Gene looked out over the black mass that was the jungle at night. Behind him, faint sounds of music came from the hootch. His fellow SEALs, over the past nine days, had been constantly busy, either on ops or drinking and playing cards, before going back out into the bush for yet another op. None had noticed that he hadn’t slept. They knew he operated with anyone going out and were used to seeing him coming and going. Only two had sensed something amiss.

Leaning against the hootch having a cigarette a couple of nights earlier, he’d heard Tommy ask, “What’s up with Gene?” and Roland had answered, “Nothing. He just loves to operate.” Murmurs of agreement had come from the rest of the squad. Tommy had replied, “Oh, yeah?” and his tone let Gene know he’d got the answer he had expected, but wasn’t comfortable with it.

Marc knew what was going on. Still, he’d kept his promise and said nothing. As the days passed, Gene was aware that the Eagle, though silent, was watching.

Moonlight reflected off the water. The Dexies were working. In a short time, their squad would be going out again. Just after midnight, they would be running a search and destroy mission to take out a weapons cache. Cruz had gotten the info on their hard target and had the okay from Jim to run the op. It would be Cruz’s first time as their patrol leader.

And that was fine, Gene thought, running his thumb along the edges of Willie’s cross. The squad had complete confidence in Cruz. They’d never question his abilities. He was a great operator. If shit hit the fan, Cruz would do what he had to do and would be mentally capable of handling anything thrown his way. He’d asked Jim to be his APO. Together, they were busy preparing for the early morning hit, planned to occur under cover of the darkness just before sunrise.

Intense, shaky, itchy to go, Gene studied the jungle and the river and waited. The Warning Order had gone down. The PLO was set for 0100 hours. The squad had prepared their equipment and, except for him, had gone to bed. Over the last seven days he’d allowed the pills to build up in his system, and before they wore off, he took more. He couldn’t sleep. He waited, and paced Seafloat’s deck when he couldn’t stand still.