the Last Run (1987) (42 page)

Russian raised a red-foiled package to his nose. "German Gouda. It is very best."

Rose smirked as he rifled through the stack, picking up cans, reading the labels, and discarding them. "This is all foreign shit, man. Ain't there any canned hambuigers or fries?"

Thumper picked an envelope out of the pile and handed it to Wade. "I think this is all you really wanted anyway."

Wade took the letter with a smile. "How 'bout you? Did Mary Ann write?"

The big soldier patted his breast pocket and winked. "You bet."

Childs walked out of the tactical operations center into the midday heat. In his hand, he held an unopened letter that Pete had just handed to him.

Childs stuffed the letter into his leg pocket. He already knew what his wife had written. She always wrote the same things. She'd tell him how much she missed him and what other improvements she'd made to their small house. The last few paragraphs would be the bad news-news of his friends who'd been killed or wounded and how their wives were doing. The words she didn't write were the ones that affected him most, the words that said she understood why he'd extended his tour instead of coming home. They were words she'd never write because they both already knew why. She was a professional soldier's wife and understood he loved his men as much as her. And for that reason more than for any other he cared for her so much.

The sergeant walked to the barracks and sat down on his bunk. As he opened the letter he felt empty inside. Her letters always did that to him. Her words were no substitute for her touch and smile.

Linda was a small woman whose hair had turned gray on the ends when he was gone on his first tour. Her face had finally wrinkled around her green eyes during his second. She was growing older without him, but loved him more each time he returned. They were friends as only a man and wife could be, special friends who needed and understood each other. Unable to leave his job at the office, he was cold and gruff to her at times, but she always ignored his roughness and touched his heart with her understanding. He loved her, but rarely told her so. He needed her and never spoke of his desire. He missed her and put the hurt somewhere else. Linda Childs understood all that and loved him anyway.

Jerry Childs read the letter, then crumpled it into a ball. He'd fight the empty feeling like he always did and promise himself he'd make it up to her. There was no time to think about that now.

Sergeant Thong held the bamboo pole steady and pushed upward. The green mango broke loose from the cluster and fell fifteen feet to the waiting brown hands of the old grinning sergeant. Thong had walked down the hill to the valley floor to gather wild fruit from the old Montagnard fields. The elephant grass had almost taken over, but near the stream there were still mango trees and wild pineapple plants interspersed with huge clusters of yellow and green bamboo. Thong sniffed the mango and placed the ripe fruit in a canvas bag. Tonight he would prepare a feast for the general to lift his spirits. The sergeant hefted the bag to his shoulder and walked along the streambed to collect bamboo shoots. The cooling shade and the crystal clear water beckoned to him.

Thong found young shoots and picked the most tender. He could already taste the meal he would prepare. He followed the stream until he was blocked by huge, rounded boulders that allowed only a deep narrow path for the water. Beyond, he could hear a faint roar. That meant there was a waterfall just past the boulders. Curious, he dropped his bag to the bank, rolled up his pant legs, and waded into the stream to follow its narrow path. The water came to his waist and forcibly pushed him forward. Only by bracing his hands against the gray boulders was he able to stay on his feet. Ten meters into the passageway the corridor widened, to reveal a magnificent pool. The quiet pool formed a wide oblong behind a rock dam. The land to his left and right first ascended gradually and then became steeper. Higher up it was covered by hundreds of large, green, moss-covered boulders. Thong paused; he could still hear the roar of falling water, but there was no spillway. He took a step forward. His foot didn't touch bottom but was pulled downward. He lost his balance and fell forward. His body was being sucked under. Gasping, he frantically fought the powerful undertow, kicking back toward the boulder. Regaining his footing in the shallower water, he climbed up the boulder and sat shaking. From the height of the boulder he could see at the end of the pool a large swirling hole in the water. A whirlpool the size of four men's heads churned in deadly silence. Thong stood and hopped from boulder to boulder around the pool. Jumping to a laige, flat-topped rock, he caught his breath and sank to his knees. Two feet away was a vertical drop of forty meters. The height and precarious position made him feel faint and weak. The pool had an underground passageway that led a few meters below the lip of the dam. There it spewed out to a rock-strewn stream far below. The spray misted upward in a cloud that danced with hundreds of rainbow prisms. Had he not been able to break the undertow's grasp he would have surely Men to his death.

Thong crawled back from the boulder's edge and slowly made his way back to the narrow boulder passageway. Afraid he would not be able to fight the current, he decided to climb over the boulder.

Twenty minutes later he sat down tiredly beside the canvas bag of fruit. His hands and legs were bruised and scraped from the climb. He lay back on the bank, looking up at the countless leaves of bamboo. He was too old to be curious. The stream had almost lured him to his death. A younger man would have had no problem, but his old body was too weak for exploring. Still, the thought of the adventure brought a smile to his lips. It would be a tale he could tell his grandchildren for many years.

The old sergeant rose and picked up his bag. He would collect two more of the mangos and place them in the spirit house. The Montagnards believed in making an offering to the spirits after a good hunt or a significant event. He didn't believe in spirits but it seemed fitting to thank someone for his life.

Thong walked up the bank with a spring in his step, feeling young again.

Ku Toan laughed loudly and raised his fish trap. The fish spirit had slept and let his family stray. Six small fish flopped madly at the bottom of the rattan basket.

Reaching into the small opening, Ku Toan grasped one of the smaller fish and tossed it back into the river. "Go and tell the spirit I release you."

Toan ran a reed through the fishes mouths and gills and tied a twig to its end. Holding up his catch to sparkle in the fading sun's light, he could see the mountains looming across the shallow river. The mountain had been his home for sixty years. He and two other free men had stayed when the tribe was moved to a resetdement village five years before. He was the only one left to appease the spirits until his people returned. The other men had died-one by snakebite and the other by sickness that had eaten his body from within. He alone, the tribe shaman, was left to watch over the mountains. The Sedang were strong people and would one day return and claim their rightful home. The low- landers that had come would leave soon. They knew nothing of the spirits and did not appease those who provided.

Ku Toan walked back to his hut and stirred the embers of the small hearth. The fish would be wrapped in mud balls and baked on the coals. His dark skin turned golden brown in the fire's glow as he squatted down and poured water from the rusted can to make his mud. Soon the rain would come and he wouldn't be able to climb the trail to his old village. He had to go quickly or he wouldn't be able to make the journey until the red-streaked fish mated.

The blackbird squawked beside him at the sight of the fish. Toan cut one of the fish into tiny pieces and held a portion in his fingers. The bird poked its head through the bamboo-strip cage, striking ferociously at the pink meat. Toan laughed and tossed the pieces into the cage. "Eat well tonight, my black friend. Soon you fly again over the mountain."

Toan placed a pot on the embers and put in a handful of maize with a little water. Tonight would be a feast. The spirits would provide strength to climb the mountain and see his home again.

The lowlanders may have gone and left his land alone. Only a full moon ago, the first had come. He had to leave before they saw him and made him their slave. If they were still there, he would have to return, but the spirits would understand. They knew of the lowlanders' ways.

The bird threw his head back, swallowed the fish, and pecked frantically for another piece.

Toan gendy laid the mud balls into the embers. When the mud split, the meal would be ready. He was happy. In only five days he would return to his home and enter the spirit house once again.

Chapter 22

The Huey plunged down into a valley at ninety-five knots, then pulled up abruptly to avoid a stand of tall trees. The Slick dipped and raised with every terrain contour and obstacle, always keeping as low as possible to avoid detection and becoming a target. The six passengers with camouflage-painted faces appreciated neither the pilot's skill nor the magnificent view. They sat on the floor of the aircraft, feeling sick and holding on for dear life.

The copilot turned in his seat and held up two fingers. Sergeant Matt Wade mumbled a "Thank God" and yelled to the others, "Two minutes!"

Wade wanted out of the chopper. The low-level flying had lasted for over twenty minutes, longer than any mission he'd ever been on. The extended time at low level was for his team's safety, but their stomachs hadn't understood. Each man felt like a landlubber in a dinghy in high seas. The abrupt sinking and rising had taken its toll. Rose had vomited first, and that had caused a chain reaction. The smell alone was enough to gag a maggot. Wade had emptied his stomach's protesting contents, but he kept on dry heaving until he thought his intestines would heave out. The vibrating floor was covered with half-digested breakfast food, as was the back of the chopper, which pissed off the door gunners and encouraged them to likewise add their stomachs' goodies to the countryside.

Wade scooted out to the edge of the open compartment and readied himself, as did the others. The copilot raised one finger.

Wade didn't need to yell out the one-minute warning. His men were positioned. They wanted out as bad as he did.

The Slick began its flare and Wade scooted farther out, stepping down on the skid in preparation to jump. The bird dropped into a small open area surrounded by thick scrub trees. Four feet from the ground, Wade jumped and hit the ground at a run. Preacher jumped to the earth beside him, but the weight of his pack with the added weight of the radio threw him off balance and he pitched forward face first. Russian pulled him to his feet with one hand and pushed him toward the tree line as the chopper pulled up and streaked away. Wade lay panting as his men fell to the ground in the standard wheel formation. Thumper tried to breathe through his mouth. He didn't want to smell his vomit- soaked fatigues. Woodpecker gagged and started another dry heave session among the team.

Wade disgustedly pulled the map from his leg pocket and confirmed his position. He wanted to find the closest river or stream so everyone could clean up. They couldn't begin the mission until they'd gotten rid of the horrid smell; the dinks would detect them a klick away. Wade sighed in relief. There was a stream only five hundred meters to the west.

Jerry Childs sat in the ops bunker, staring at the situation map, with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. Gibson had called in a few minutes before to report that he'd inserted the last team.

Childs's experienced eyes translated each team's location into a visual picture of mountains, draws, streams, and vegetation. He calculated their movement and how long before they'd laager for the night. His biggest concern had not come to pass-none of the teams had been hit upon landing. The silent radio told him the operation was going smoothly. If his men had landed close to a large enemy concentration, the dinks would have sent patrols out to investigate and would have been seen or heard by now.

Bitch lay sprawled on the cool cement floor at his feet. She raised her head and placed it on his boot. The sergeant broke his concentration and looked down at the yellow mongrel. "Just you and me again, huh?"

Bitch rolled her eyes up, but didn't move.

Childs looked into Bitch's eyes, wondering if she felt as empty as he did. Both of them had waited through coundess days, unable to feel whole until the teams were in. Bitch waited for Russian and he waited for them all. Maybe that's why she always waited with him. She needed someone to share waiting's torment.

Childs looked back at the map. The next few days would drag by, but somehow he felt better knowing the little animal resting on his foot would be there with him.

Rose, Woodpecker, and Thumper sat in the shallow stream, rubbing mud into their fatigues, while Wade and the others stood guard on the banks. The gritty mud would take out the foul smell as well as lye soap. Each of the men cleaned himself and his equipment, then exchanged places with the guards.

Minutes later, Wade walked downwind of the assembled team and sniffed the air. The mud bath had worked; there was no trace of their breakfast. Wade frowned as he motioned Rose to move out. Remembering Childs's rule of six P's-prior planning prevents piss-poor performance-he'd planned everything, in perfect detail, everything but the extended low-level flight. Damn, he should have known!

He reached in his leg pocket for his chewing tobacco pouch, but his stomach rumbled a warning-it wasn't ready yet. Wade brought his hand back up to his weapon in disgust. The mission hadn't started off any too hot and now he couldn't even chew. Goddamn fly-boys!