Cambodian Hellhole (20 page)

Stone did a rapid scan for inmates, and found a group of them huddled tight against the north wall, another clutch making their way through the front gate, breaking for freedom. He let them go, knowing he could round them up once the threat from the compound's garrison of defenders had been dealt with effectively.

Two Vietnamese broke through the drifting smoke, heading for Stone on a collision course. He hit them with a searing burst, waist-high, and dropped both of them writhing in their tracks. Another soldier was a pace or two behind them, and he bolted backward, making tracks at the sight of what had befallen his comrades.

Stone chased him with a wild burst, then dismissed him from consideration. If he left the camp, he would keep going, and if he remained behind, there would be time enough to deal with him later.

Tracking on, he picked out Wiley by his voice first, then saw him, crouching with one of the Hmong warriors, struggling to beat back a fierce counteroffensive by perhaps a dozen of the guards. Fighting from the cover of the former CP hut, Hog and the tribesman were dropping soldiers when they got the chance, but the survivors were closing a ring around them, keeping them under cover with enfilading fire long enough to edge in closer, getting into effective firing range.

One of the soldiers bolted, charging, his arm cocked to unload a grenade. Stone stitched his spine with a short burst of armor-piercing rounds and tossed him over in the dust, a flopping rag-doll figure that suddenly disintegrated with the explosion of his grenade.

The rest of the attack force faltered, their attention divided now that fire was coming in upon them from two sides. It gave Hog the chance he needed, and he flanked them, roaring out of cover like an angry giant, his CAR-15 cutting a bloody swath through their ranks, mowing down the half-dozen of them closest to him, driving the rest of them back into Stone's line of fire.

The crossfire was murderous, and terribly effective. Within a matter of seconds the attack was broken, a dozen riddled bodies scattered on the ground in mute testimony to the efficiency of teamwork.

Stone and Wiley shook hands briefly, gravely, and went on about their business on the killing ground. There was no time for words, no need to speak; they were professionals, each man doing his job to the best of his ability, slaughtering as many of the opposition as possible.

Stone's rifle was empty, and he ditched it, relieving one of the fallen soldiers of another AK-47, snatching up his ammo belt at the same time and looping it around his own waist. At least now he would be able to get through the duration of the firefight without suddenly finding himself empty-handed against the enemy.

As suddenly as he had met Hog, they were separated in the swirl of battle. One instant they were shoulder-to-shoulder, fighting side by side, and the next, Wiley was nowhere in sight, lost in the drifting smoke and din of combat.

Stone moved in the direction of the cages where the invalid prisoners were held. But he never got that far. A grenade exploded in his path, the shockwave staggered him—and suddenly a flying body struck him, knocking him sprawling to the ground.

A voice was jabbering excitedly at him in Vietnamese, cursing, railing hysterically. He fought to rid himself of the weight that bore him down, struggling to reach his captured rifle, but the AK had been jarred out of his hands and out of reach by the initial impact of the tackle.

He rolled over, taking the soldier with him, and Stone was on his back now, the Vietnamese astride his chest. Slender fingers raked across his face and fastened on his throat, trying to choke off his oxygen.

One hand.

The significance of that struck him immediately and Stone looked up through narrowed eyelids and saw the long blade of the knife whistling down toward his face, mere inches from impact.

T
errance Loughlin reached the battleground late, but he was still in time to see his share of lethal action. As he left the water, near the gate, a group of P.O.W.'s burst through the open portal, breaking to the left and following the line of fence into the surrounding darkness. Loughlin watched them go, resisting an urge to call them back, knowing they could never hear him anyway, with all the gunfire and explosions close at hand.

Close behind the P.O.W.'s, two Vietnamese came through the gate, both of them armed with AK-47s. They were running from the battle, not in search of it, and they were disappointed at the sight of Loughlin there before them, like some elemental killing spirit from the jungle.

He hit them with a short, precision burst from the CAR-15 he carried, lifting both of them off their feet and spinning them around, dropping them backward across the threshold of the gate like crumpled welcome mats.

He moved around them, entering the camp and breathing in the smells of combat. Blood and smoke and sweat. The elusive but nonetheless real smell of fear.

No more explosions now, and Loughlin saw that most of the buildings in the camp had been reduced to rubble or were burning brightly in the darkness. Scattered firing continued from the other side of the compound, beckoning him toward the action, and he followed its lead, crossing the killing ground and moving among the bodies of those who had already fallen.

A P.O.W. leaped in front of him, a captured rifle leveled from the waist, but at the final instant he seemed to recognize Loughlin as an ally, a Westerner, and he turned away, vanishing again in an instant, into the roiling smoke.

Ahead of him, two figures were locked in mortal combat, rolling about on the ground. A uniformed Vietnamese was uppermost, one hand locked around his assailant's throat, his other hand holding a long, wicked knife which he seemed intent on driving through the second man's face.

It took Loughlin all of half a second to recognize the man on the bottom as Mark Stone.

Instantly he dropped to one knee—a position that would let him have the flattest possible trajectory of fire. His thumb found the fire-selector switch and hooked it onto semiautomatic even as his finger curled around the trigger, exerting steady, lethal pressure.

One shot, at a distance of perhaps twelve feet.

There was no way to miss, but Loughlin aimed anyway, just in case. No point in taking unnecessary chances with a comrade's life.

The bullet struck his target just behind the ear and exited through his left cheek, taking most of his face with it as it exploded through flesh and bone, spewing blood and brains across the compound. For an instant the body teetered upright, still leaning over Stone, the knife still poised as if to strike, and then the American wrestled it away, dumped the lifeless thing over onto its side, and struggled free.

He saw Loughlin at once, grinning as he made it to his feet, and retrieved his lost rifle, an AK-47.

"Glad to see you," Stone cracked, dusting himself off.

"Glad I could make it," Loughlin answered.

There was nothing more to say, not with a war to fight, still going on around them. The sounds of battle were declining, winding down by slow degrees, the pockets of resistance being gradually eliminated now that most of the P.O.W.'s had managed to arm themselves. They were hunting down their tormentors, and it was a hunt that Loughlin would join gladly, wiping out the final traces of the parasites and sadists who had kept these men in foul captivity—for how long?

The question would not bear asking, could not be answered. Loughlin put it out of mind and went about the task of killing, confident that, for the moment at least, killing was enough.

"H
ow many did we lose?"

"Five dead," Lynch told him solemnly. "And of the twenty-one surviving, three are wounded."

Stone looked around at the carnage and nodded grimly. The P.O.W.'s were formed into ragged ranks behind Lynch, not quite a military formation, no, but close enough for his purposes.

It could have been much worse, he knew. So damned much worse.

Four of the dead had been the invalids, shot down in their cages before they had a chance to realize that freedom was upon them. The fifth—his momentary cagemate, Page—had sacrificed himself and taken three Vietnamese along with him to knock out the field telephone before a report of the raid could be relayed to any larger strike force.

Thanks to Page, they had the time they would need.

"Everybody up to traveling?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Ready as we'll ever be," someone cracked from the ranks behind Lynch.

"Shit, man," another offered, "I've had my bags packed for thirteen goddamned years."

A ripple of laughter went up around the little team, and Stone allowed himself to share in it. It cleansed their recent wounds, and might, with time, assist in healing some older ones.

"I can promise you a hike," he told them. "And we don't have much to eat."

"As long as it's not rice," Lynch said, and everybody laughed again.

"No rice," Stone promised.

Quickly, helped by Hog and Loughlin, he selected half a dozen prisoners to serve as squad leaders in the event that they got separated. Others—the strongest of the lot—were detailed to help carry the dead with them when they left.

Mark Stone would not be leaving any of their casualties behind. If need be, they could bury them along the trail, but he—and all the P.O.W.'s—were determined that the Vietnamese would have no bodies to display, to mutilate, when they finally got wind of what had happened here tonight.

The other prisoners, Vietnamese and Hmong, had melted into darkness when the battle started. Those who lived were long gone, and Stone dismissed them from his thoughts. They were on their own now, by choice. He had his hands full with the people he had come to find. And they would demand every bit of his attention on the long walk home.

He looked around and saw another camp, this one with all the prisoners dead, but as he looked, the scene began to fade, reality returning, bringing with it a feeling of accomplishment.

Of peace.

"Come on," he said to no one in particular, already turning for the open gate and hoping his emotion was inaudible. "We've got some people making supper for you, and you're late."

T
he debt was paid, at least in part.

Mark Stone still owed the P.O.W.'s something. They had sacrificed their youth, their lives, in valiant support of a cause doomed to failure.

A cosmic debt, written in blood, which could never be fully repaid.

A debt owed by all men to each and every one of those who had suffered, who are suffering still.

And the debt would be repaid in kind.

In blood.