Men in Green Faces (35 page)

“Move out,” Jim ordered.

He watched the boat crew cast off. They were heading to an objective that some of them might not return from. The ride would take about two and a half hours. They had to insert at dusk because the tide was going out, and if the boat wasn’t headed back before dark, it would be grounded until high tide again.

The MSSC skimmed the water’s surface as it flew down and up rivers, and through fast, hard banks around turns. Gene sat silently, watching the other SEALs fiddle with their equipment. Every one of them was pumped to the max, he thought, ready to kill anything in their way.

The boat coxswain turned. “You guys look like you come from hell.”

Roland stared at him and, voice quiet, said, “Yeah. You’re right. We’ve been there before, and now we’re going back.”

The coxswain looked away and never said another word.

Gene ran his fingers over the 60, thankful for the breeze that came with the boat’s movement. It made the heat seem not quite so bad.

Jim peeled the cover off his watch face to check the time. Then he looked around and checked the map.

Gene knew he was keeping a close eye on timing and direction—same as he’d do if he were running the op. And, like the rest of them, Jim would be waiting to respond to any ambush they might run into while, at the same time, running over every detail of the op in his head.

Gene tightened his headband, fought the urge to wipe the sweat off his face for fear of losing face paint, and scratched the itch next to his crotch through the tough fabric of his Levi’s 501s. Jim flexed his shoulders, and Gene wondered if he’d ever sewn up his Levis the time Doc cut them open. He grinned to himself, remembering, heard a sound that turned out to be Doc shifting position, and sobered.

He didn’t need to psyche himself up. Hatred did that. All he wanted to do was get his hands on Nguyen. Prisoner, hell. Come morning, the colonel died. Fast, slow, it didn’t matter now. Only that he died. Images from the nightmare flickered through his mind. It had seemed so real.

“Ten minutes,” Jim said very quietly. “Get ready.”

As one, the squad got up and moved to the front of the boat.

Gene touched the 60, the bowie, and his ammo unconsciously. They had to get off fast and fade into the jungle. There would be no radio contact until daybreak, and no support. Once off the boat, they were isolated for the next twelve hours or so. Five thousand NVA, he thought, almost tasting the number. Five thousand to seven.

The MSSC slowed to an idle, then swung to the starboard side.

Silent, Jim pointed. Go!

Within seconds they were off the boat and about twenty meters into the bush.

Jim, arm lifted, moved his finger in a circle. They rallied to him and circled, waiting for the boat to head home, while they froze in place, looking and listening. Within a minute the MSSC was out of hearing range.

Sundown in ten to fifteen minutes, Gene thought. Damned blood-sucking mosquitoes were coming out. He could hear them hum.

It was dark when Jim, going to each man, whispered to him, “Keep your eyes and ears open. Moving out in five minutes.”

In the PLO, he’d said they had a good chance of running into an enemy patrol or even a company base camp. The closer they got, the higher the chance.

Snap!

Jim. They were heading out.

In file formation, the never-ending mud sucking at his feet, vines and God-knew-what brushing his face, Gene headed into the jungle. He figured they wouldn’t run into anyone until they were at least halfway to the objective. But still, they’d better be ready.

Their pace was good. They had to cover a lot of ground early on, because the closer they got, the slower they had to go to move in, silent and close. The night sky was clear, with a three-quarter moon, and studded with stars. The moon gave them some light and made traveling easier, but it was harder to conceal themselves. He could keep Roland in sight, ahead of him, with no problem.

An hour and a half later, Jim signaled a break, and they sat down in place. Each of them kept watch over a designated area.

In the total silence, Gene felt the sweat running down his face and body. He wasn’t tired, just hot. He found nothing unnatural in the sounds around him, and there was no smell of the fish oil that signaled an enemy presence.

After ten minutes, Jim, going from man to man, whispered, “Picking up pace. Close up.”

They’d been keeping six to ten feet apart, but now they’d close to three or four feet. He pulled Willie’s cross out of his pocket, looked first at it, then up through the trees to the stars. Then he looped the chain around his neck and tucked the cross inside, where his sweat-soaked shirt would keep it stuck to his skin. If the SEALs wore dog tags, he couldn’t have worn the cross. Couldn’t take chances with metal next to metal.

Jim signaled
move out.

In a slow run, they darted in and out of the shadows of trees and bushes. Fast, silent, deadly.

To Gene, who was just behind Roland, Jim, and Brian, it looked as if they were passing through the jungle on a current of night wind. Just slightly glimpsed, the three dark forms appeared and disappeared without sound.

They were making good time, covering a lot of ground, but mud was clinging to his boots, adding weight to every step. After a long time, his muscles began to ache. Sweat poured, and his eyes stung.

Another hour passed before Jim called a break.

Gene’s clothes were as wet as if it had rained. He sat, a little winded, heart beating more rapidly. Nearby the squad rested, shadows within shadows, but all at full alert, every sense working at its fullest, every sound analyzed within a split second to determine whether they’d been detected. Ready to kill.

Sitting, Gene studied the night as memories flashed—the R&R Center, explosions, claymores going off in the chase that followed, running for their lives. They’d been lucky to reach safety. Especially with so many enemy yelling, screaming, shooting, trying to stop them. And after the claymores, the sounds of the enemy’s dying—the cries. Yet they had kept coming. Yeah, they’d been lucky that night. And God knew none of them would ever forget the sight of that eerie fort. But this time they wouldn’t have the darkness to hide in. This time it would be bright morning, and they faced over five times the enemy force.

He let his breath out slowly, almost a sigh. If anything went wrong, if the helos were late, they’d never see the sun set.

Jim snapped his fingers, and they were moving again.

The mind’s funny-awesome, Gene thought. Takes everything in, analyzes the sounds—movement, insects, reptiles, birds. They had to spot the enemy before the NVA spotted them, and not make contact if the mission was to be completed. If they got into a firefight, the element of surprise would be lost, and no one—no one—would get close enough again for a long time. It had taken over six weeks and thousands of man-hours to locate Nguyen.

He dodged a branch and heard water running nearby. It was a creek. Small. Too small for sampans.

SpecWar Headquarters Saigon had given top priority to this mission. Gene wasn’t the only one who wanted the colonel, but he was the one who’d get him. Finally he felt at ease with himself. It wouldn’t be long until he could make things right, and keep his promise to Willie.

He sent a mental message ahead to Nguyen: We’re coming for you.

He snapped back. The patrol was slowing down—back to their normal speed. He needed a break. The 60 had grown heavy, and a good four inches of mud had built up on his boots again. His leg muscles were trembling, trying to adjust to the slower pace. He snapped his fingers, halted the patrol, and sent the break sign, first to the men in front, then to the men at the rear.

Jim came down to see who had called the break and to make sure someone hadn’t been hurt.

When he approached, Gene signaled that he’d stopped the patrol.

“You okay?” Jim whispered after moving in close.

“Just tired. Need five minutes.”

Jim nodded okay and returned to his position just in front of Roland.

Looking back, Gene saw Cruz leaning against a tree, catching his wind and scanning the brush and trees around him for movement.

Relax, he told himself. Slow, deep breaths. In your nose, out your mouth. Relax.

At the sound of Jim’s finger snap, the squad moved out again.

They must have passed the halfway point by now, Gene thought, tilting his head to avoid a vine. Small patrols would be combing the area, split up into company size and spread around the colonel’s perimeter. He was headquarters for all of the NVA’s operations in the Delta region.

The squad moved progressively slower as they closed on the colonel’s location.

Gene could feel his energy level rise, the adrenaline coursing through his body. They had to be ready in case they were hit, to cut loose with everything they had and then run like hell. Outright book! One slight metallic click, a cough, or the least human sound could bring Nguyen’s battalion crashing down on them.

Ahead of him, Jim’s fist went up. The patrol halted, and Gene watched Jim go forward to where Brian should be, at point.

Minutes passed. Two…three…And Jim returned. Hand signals came back. Visual contact had been made. Detour northwest. As indicated in the PLO, they’d keep the base camp to their right as they circled it. Jim had believed enemy patrols would be farther into the bush, and not just inside their own perimeter. The fastest and safest way for the squad would be to travel between the NVA patrols and Nguyen’s base camp.

Silently the SEALs, dark shadowy forms, moved left.

Now Gene could see the glow from the campfires, dim radiations through the tangled and dense jungle. He could hear them talking, but was too far away to distinguish individual words.

Jim signaled to Brian, fifty meters deeper.

Just a little too close, Gene thought.

Crack!

Branch broke. He froze. Came from just in front of him. Had anybody heard? Sweat rolled down his face and stung in his eyes. He wet his lips and tasted salt. Quiet. Not a sound.

They moved out, heading northeast, the camp now to their right rear. What they wanted now was more distance between them and Nguyen’s headquarters.

Listening to the sounds of the camp as they left, Gene took mental notes on its possible size, its location, how far away the squad would be come morning, and which way the NVA would come from to confront the planned diversion. The camp, he estimated, was some five hundred meters behind the squad now.

Again, Jim’s raised fist stopped them dead in their tracks.

Roland passed the signal back to him. Enemy patrol. The squad tracked them by their distance and direction.

Gene passed the signal to Cruz, behind him. Then, as Brian, Jim, and Roland had, he slowly turned his body to face left, and lifted the 60. You-O would signal Alex, who would signal Doc at rear security.

Gene strained to see. He could hear them now, but still couldn’t see. No, wait…there! Shit! First sported up front, some twenty to thirty meters away, they were now at about fifteen meters. Silhouettes. Had on helmets. NVA. Not Viet Cong. AK-47s. Moving back toward camp. They must be coming off patrol.

Don’t move, he commanded his body.

Now, at ten meters, the enemy was weaving separately through the area. Their weapons appeared to be at the ready. None of them talking, none smoking.

Don’t move, he commanded himself. Don’t breathe. Think black. Become the jungle. He willed himself into invisibility, willed the patrol to pass.

Crack!

He chilled, every hair standing, then realized that this time the sound, though again from in front of the squad, came from farther away.

The NVA patrol stopped short, looked left, and headed that way, toward the sound’s location. Once they were out of sight, the SEALs moved on.

Flexing his shoulders under the weight of the bandoliers of ammo, Gene let out a long, slow breath. A little too close for comfort. The objective couldn’t be much farther. They didn’t have but a few hours left to get there and get set. They’d busted their asses just to get as far as they had.

Roland, a shadowy, dark form, seemed to drift out of the dark place ahead and into another one. Gene followed him.

Damn. So close, yet so far until dawn. Keep moving, he told himself. Nguyen’s out there…The phrase ran through his mind continually. The closer they got, the more his hatred built, the more frequent the images of Willie in the body bag.

Jim stopped the patrol.

Looking hard, Gene could just make out the small flickers of dying campfires in the distance. He shivered. This was it. They’d made it.

Moving very slowly, the squad started out again, aware of every detail of their surroundings. It grew easy to see the small lean-tos sheltering the sleeping enemy. They were dark forms against the glow of burning embers. But it was the majority of men, hidden in the shadows behind bushes or just sacked out on the ground, who concerned him. If any of the squad stumbled on one of the sleepers, it would be over in the blink of an eye. The SEALs would die, like the soldiers at that eerie fort on the way to th? NVA’s R&R Center. Strange how that fort kept coming to mind. Spooky.

They were northwest of the area, keeping it on their right, just as they had with the base camp earlier. It was slow going and time ticked away. Seeing the fires ahead left no doubt in Gene’s mind that they were at the target area. The intel for the op had been extremely accurate, thank Christ. Now, if the location of the colonel’s hootch and the communications hootch was equally accurate…Time was getting critical.

They were still heading northwest. The targets were northeast of their location, and the camp area was too large to detour around. They’d have to move through it, as planned in case that scenario arose.

Seconds later, the squad changed direction. They were going straight through.

Moving with great caution so as not to disturb the sleeping enemy, the squad ghosted through the center of the camp. All weapons were trained on the sprawled men lying on the ground under the lean-tos.