Macv, p.9
MACV, page 9
“You have not eaten, yet,” she said, her breath warm against his body.
“Sure I have.” He smiled broadly and moved his hand to her shoulder.
“I meant food.”
“I’m not hungry. Besides, I don’t have time. I have to get back to work.”
“Why?” she asked. “You do not have to do anything.”
“Ah, but today I do. I must prepare the briefing for the general. This is the first chance I’ve had to brief the commander. It’s very important.”
Thi scrambled around and sat on the bed with her legs crossed under her Indian fashion. It was a position that she had learned from Reed.
He studied her body. The small high breasts. The taut skin of her belly. The soft smooth skin of her thighs and the sparse dark triangle of hair. Never had a woman turned him on as she did. He’d give almost anything to stay with her. At least for a while.
“You must brief the general?” she asked, almost in awe.
“Only because my boss is going to be out of the office helping get a patrol ready. One to search for the first that is missing.
“But you will be briefing the general. He will see just how intelligent you are.”
Reed laughed at her innocence. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be that big a deal. It’s a job anyone could do. I just happen to have the opportunity to do it.”
She touched him gently, felt his immediate response, and smiled. “But I am so proud.”
“And I am so sore.”
“You should not talk like that.”
Reed shook his head and then slipped to the right and swung his feet to the floor. “If I don’t get going, I won’t get the briefing done and there’ll be nothing to be proud of.”
“Then I shall go away, where you will not see me until I have dressed.”
“No,” said Reed. “That’s not necessary. I’ll resist the temptation.”
“Tonight,” she said, shaking her head and her hair, “I will serve you a dinner in celebration.” She used her fingers to comb her hair back over her shoulders so that it no longer concealed her nudity.
“Will we eat it naked?” asked Reed.
“Of course not. You would not eat the food then.”
“Good point.” He picked up his clothes and carried them into the bathroom. He washed himself quickly and then dressed. He used her brush to comb his hair, brushed his teeth with a wet finger and returned to the bedroom.
She sat where he had left her, still naked. “I’ve got to go,” he said.
She got up and walked to him. She tilted her head to be kissed and then took his hand. “Come. I will walk you to the front door.”
They descended the stairs together. She held his hand and turned to face him, letting him see everything. He reached out and touched a nipple, felt it respond to his finger, and wished that Maxwell had stayed around to brief the general himself.
“I better go now,” he said, “because if I stay much longer, I’m never going to go.”
“You just think of me naked while you brief the general,” she said.
“I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
With that he opened the door. He hurried toward his jeep parked on the side of the street and surrounded by a dozen children. When they saw him they swarmed forward, their hands out as they screamed for money, candy or cigarettes.
He turned and looked around once and saw the door close slowly. He knew that she was leaning with her back against it. He knew that she was hoping he would return, but that wouldn’t work. He had to get to MACV to prepare for the briefing or he’d lose his position.
As he climbed into the driver’s seat of the jeep, he thought he saw movement behind one of the upstairs windows. What he didn’t know was that she was upstairs scrambling into her clothes because she needed to make her report.
Maxwell met Gerber and Fetterman at the SOG building at Tan Son Nhut. It was a low structure with a tin roof and wooden-slat-and-screen sides. A few rooms were completely sealed. They contained small air-conditioning units purchased at the World’s Largest PX. In the rear was a warehouse, also completely sealed, that held a stock of supplies and equipment manufactured around the world. A Spike Team could be outfitted for any of the various missions it might be required to run.
Maxwell, wearing his ever-present white suit, wilted white shirt, and tie pulled loose, drove up in a jeep. He shut off the engine and sat there for a moment as the sweat blossomed on his forehead and under his arms. He took out an oversize handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his face. He blinked in the bright tropical sun and finally forced himself out of the jeep.
Inside he was stopped by a big man wearing jungle pants, yellow shower shoes and nothing else. “You can’t come in here, sir.”
“I’m Maxwell. Here to see Captain Gerber.”
“Ah. Follow me, then.” He turned and walked along the hallway. The dimly lit corridor smelled of mildew and sweat. He stopped near a door and pointed. “In there.”
“Thanks.” Maxwell opened the door and found Gerber sitting in a chair at the head of a table, eating cereal.
Gerber waved his spoon in greeting. “Hi, Jerry.”
Fetterman was sitting on a couch against the wall, reading a magazine. There were two other men Maxwell didn’t recognize. A black man who looked uncomfortably hot even in the air-conditioned room, and a small white man who had light hair and a bad sunburn.
“You ready?” asked Maxwell.
“Anytime.” Gerber set his bowl on the table and swallowed. “What you got?”
“I need a map.”
Fetterman got up and spread one on the table. The other two men moved closer so that they could see.
“Who you got with you?” asked Maxwell.
“Leon McCarthy, late of the Army Rangers but now sufficiently trained to be Special Forces, and Bruce Hoffs, a newcomer to our climate, which explains his sunburn.”
McCarthy asked, “Who’s this?”
Fetterman smiled. “We’re not supposed to know. His identity and job are a secret, but we believe he’s Jerry Maxwell of the CIA.”
“Funny,” said Maxwell. “Now, if you’ve a few minutes to be serious…”
“Go ahead, Jerry,” said Gerber.
“Not much to tell you now. They’ve failed to make every radio check, including the emergency checks in the last hour. Naturally we’ve failed to raise them.”
“Could be they’re sitting right in the middle of an enemy company and have to lie low until the enemy moves away,” offered Fetterman.
Maxwell shot him a glance and shook his head. “I’d feel better if we checked this out.”
“Sure.”
Maxwell pointed at the map, at a portion northwest of Tay Ninh City and west of Nui Ba Den. Jungle — a few streams and one open area that was swamp — and no rice paddies.
“We put them in here, to cross into Cambodia and head for Kampong Trach, here. A sneak-and-peek operation. See if the enemy was building up in the vicinity. Nothing too elaborate. Avoid contact.”
“What LZ did they use?”
Maxwell pointed again. “In here. Got the coordinates from the pilot. He’ll be taking you out there today so you’ll hit the same LZ. Then it’s up to you.”
Fetterman wiped a hand over his face. “Militarily it doesn’t make good sense to use the same LZ. Charlie could be waiting for us there.”
“That’s up to you,” said Maxwell. “If you want to use another LZ and then try to find the trail, go ahead. I’ve given you the jump-off point and the destination.”
“What can you tell us about their itinerary?” asked Gerber.
“They were going to cross the border at night, so they moved slowly during the day. That’s about it.”
Gerber looked at Fetterman. “Tony?”
“I’d feel more comfortable if we gave them a chance to report in. We might walk up on them and compromise them. I sure as hell wouldn’t want some hot dog from Saigon fucking up my mission when I had everything under control.”
Maxwell pulled out one of the chairs and sat down in it. He glanced at Fetterman and then back at the map. “I don’t think we’ve got that problem. I’ve a gut feeling.”
“You keep saying that, Jerry,” said Gerber. “I’d feel better with something more concrete. Now, anything else?”
“Chopper’ll be at Hotel Three at noon, as requested,” said Maxwell.
“Anyone have any questions?” Gerber looked at each of the men, and when there was no response, said, “I think that’s got it, Jerry.”
Maxwell stood up. “What about check-in?”
Fetterman said, “Not with your boys. Not if you think you’ve got leaks…”
“Sergeant Fetterman!” snapped Maxwell, nodding toward the two new men.
“Jerry, these guys are going out into the field with us, they have the right to know what’s going on around them. Besides, they’re trustworthy.”
Maxwell shrugged then. “I don’t like everyone knowing my business.”
“It’s not just your business, Jerry,” said Gerber. “If you can ask men to risk their lives, you can let them know why it has to be done.”
“Okay. Okay.” Maxwell held up his hands.
“If there’s nothing else,” said Gerber, “we’ll get ready to hit the field.”
“That’s all I have for now,” said Maxwell.
“You going to be at Hotel Three?” asked Fetterman.
“I think it’ll be better if I avoid that. Let the competition wonder just what the hell is going on. I’ll hang around here, though, if no one objects.”
Gerber smiled. “Hell, Jerry, you can go with us, if that makes you feel any better.”
The quiet rustling woke Kinson. He snapped awake, his eyes flying open, but he didn’t move. He felt his ears move, like radar dishes, trying to focus on the noise, afraid that it was a snake crawling toward him. And then he was afraid it wasn’t. He could easily defeat a snake. Then he heard a voice, quiet, the words lost on the light breeze. The creatures walking through the jungle were human.
Slowly Kinson took inventory. He could feel his pack, canteens, first-aid kit and pistol belt pressing into his body. His rifle sling was still wrapped around his hand, which now ached from the tightness of the sling. But he didn’t dare move. That was death in the jungle.
He was soaked in sweat. It was funny. He had gone to sleep fairly dry, even after his march through the nighttime jungle, and now he was wringing wet. It was almost as if sleeping was such hard work that he sweated from all the activity. But he knew he hadn’t moved in his sleep. He was in the same position, facing the same spine-covered trunk of the bush that hid him when he’d gone to sleep.
He closed his eyes, listened, and then was overwhelmed by the odor. Rotting vegetation, the pungent scent of the bright flowers and the stench of something that had died and hadn’t been picked apart by scavengers. Heat, humidity and now a rotting body.
And insects. He could hear them buzzing, some of them close and some of them in the distance. The insistent sounds suddenly grated on his nerves. One of them darted close to his ear, sending chills down his spine, but Kinson didn’t move and didn’t swat at it.
The voices came to him again. A quiet buzz barely audible above the rustling of the breeze through the trees, but not loud enough for him to pick out words. There were people close, but he didn’t know whose people. The safest thing was to stay where he was, frozen against the trunk of the bush, hidden until he learned if they were Americans.
Kinson turned his head slightly, looking into the shadows that played across the jungle floor. There was a flash of color, but it was a bird diving in. There was a quiet rattling of a bush as a lizard climbed it, and to the right, a spray of gray. A spider’s web caught in the light.
But there was nothing human around him. It was as if he were lost in a Mesozoic world, where animals ruled and the human race was still a hundred million years in the future.
Then the voices came again, but now he could pick out words. Vietnamese. Maybe a South Vietnamese patrol, but more likely the Viet Cong. Now he was glad that he hadn’t moved out when he heard them.
He closed his eyes, resting his head on the ground. He listened as the rustling in the bushes came closer, and he wondered if it was a snake or his imagination. The sound of the voices drew near and he wondered if they were searching for him. They seemed to be too calm to be part of a search party. Searchers would move silently, hoping to catch him off guard.
This had to be a normal patrol, looking for signs that the Americans had been in the area. Kinson wouldn’t move, almost didn’t dare to breathe.
And as he lay there, his back began to itch. First had come the sounds of something moving through the brush toward him, and then he was sure he could feel something rubbing up against him. The skin on the back of his neck crawled as he waited for the beast, the snake, the lizard, to sink its teeth into his flesh.
But he refused to move. The sweat trickled, tickling him, and the skin on his back seemed to be on fire, but he refused to move. Any motion could be seen, no matter how slow, and he knew the enemy was out there, not far from him.
His whole body revolted then. He wanted a drink of water, the thirst suddenly overwhelming. His shoulder, hips and legs ached with the enforced immobility. His bladder seemed ready to burst, and his guts suddenly cramped.
Still he refused to move. He listened as the Vietnamese voices faded and the last rattle of equipment disappeared. Again the jungle was silent, or rather, was without human sound. There were insects buzzing, the quiet drip of water and the calls of the animals.
Kinson told himself that the enemy was gone. He convinced himself that slight movement would not betray him. He reached down with one hand and unfastened his fly. He began to urinate, a slow, almost painful process as he restricted the flow so that there was no noise. A quiet feeble stream, and after an eternity he felt his belly loosen and his bladder relax. One source of discomfort was gone.
He rolled onto his back and wiggled slightly, carefully, and the itching vanished. Now he lay flat and the pain in his body faded away. Finally he opened his third canteen and took a small drink.
Lying there, staring up into the canopy, he felt better. He could see the dark underside of the foliage. A monkey ran across it, launched itself into space and caught another branch, flipping itself up into the thin vegetation and vanishing among the leaves.
It was midday, but Kinson wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t tired. He wanted to get the hell out of there but knew that could mean death. The enemy was out there searching for him, and since he was alone, the only thing he could do was stay hidden until he could move safely. That would be after dark.
He slipped away from the puddle he had created, rolled to his side and concentrated on the last football game he had seen. He worked at bringing it into sharp focus, reliving everything from the opening kickoff to the final gun. It wasn’t that spectacular a game, but it did occupy his mind, and that was the whole purpose. Fifteen minutes later he was asleep again.
Fetterman entered the jungle at the point he thought the first patrol had used. As they had flown in, Fetterman had been crouching between the pilot’s seats, studying the terrain in front of them. He thought he could detect a slight discoloration of the grass, as if someone had moved through it a day or two earlier. The paths seemed to converge at a point on the western side of the LZ.
As soon as the chopper had landed, Fetterman had been out, moving forward. He ducked beneath the rotors and ran toward the jungle. He stopped short and crouched, studying the ground around him.
The single helicopter lifted, hovered in a cloud of dust and loose grass and then took off. It climbed over the trees and then leveled off to the north. The roar of the turbine and the popping of the blades faded rapidly, and they were left in silence.
Gerber, with Hoffs and McCarthy, followed about ten yards behind. Fetterman glanced at them once, pointed to the right and left and then moved forward into the trees.
Gerber caught him there and Fetterman indicated the ground. “They regrouped here,” he whispered. “Took some time about it, and then moved off in that direction.”
“You sure?”
“Fairly positive,” said Fetterman. “You can see points where the men rested. Grass and vegetation beaten down a little more than that surrounding it.”
“Then let’s get going,” said Gerber.
Fetterman followed the trail blazed by the first squad. He moved carefully, keeping his eyes on the ground in front of him, but also looking for booby traps. He doubted he’d find any. The first squad would have tripped them if there were any. And if that happened, there would be evidence of it.
He moved for ten minutes and then stopped. Behind him Gerber and the other two men spread out in a rough circle for security. Each man listened for sounds of the enemy. They were making sure that the enemy hadn’t found and were following them.
After the brief rest, Fetterman was up again. Slipping through the thick vegetation, he stepped carefully so that he didn’t leave any sign. He ducked under low-hanging branches and lifted his feet over small trees struggling to push up through the thick carpet of decaying vegetation. He tried not to scuff his feet. He set them down toe first, rolling his foot to the rear. A long, involved, tiring process that left the carpet undisturbed and gave him a chance to react if he found a tripwire and a pressure plate.
He kept going for fifteen minutes and then took another rest. He listened to the noise around him. The animals and birds didn’t seem to be concerned. They were moving around as if nothing were out of place. Fetterman knew that large patrols of sloppy men caused the animals to flee, but a small, intelligent patrol of soldiers who knew what they were doing could slide through the jungle without disturbing the animals.
They started again, heading along the trail. Fetterman veered off, paralleling it now. He would cross over to it, but now that the jungle was thicker, he could see the path taken by the others. They might have thought they were moving like a fog, but they had left signs enough for anyone who knew what to look for.
