radio went with the listening post on the lower slope, and Bronsky checked with them every half hour for situation reports. The radios were turned down to their lowest squelch settings, and only Bronsky spoke. “Pounder to backfield. Pounder to backfield,” Bronsky whispered. “Sit rep. If your position is secure, key your handset twice.”
A short silence was followed by two distinct bursts of static.
“Roger, backfield. Back in thirty. Out.” There would be no contact with the other LP until morning.
Though it wasn’t raining, moisture was thick in the air, a physical entity the Marines could reach out and touch. It made breathing more difficult. It clung to their skin and seeped into the fabric of their clothing. It made the air itself visible. It accumulated on the leaves and wept down from their drooping tips. It also impeded sound. Faint noises would spend all their energy fighting their way through the heavy, wet air, giving the slightest of whispers very little hang time. It made everything seem close and claustrophobic. It made the jungle feel alive and the Marines feel even more isolated than they were.
Strader sat on the side of his cot looking through the screening into the blackness west of the wire. A few Marines from 3rd Platoon were asleep at the other end of the hooch, their breathing steady and deep as though regulated by a metronome. The rest were manning the lines. The base was completely dark. Some Marines were at their watches, monitoring radio frequencies, tracking units in the bush. Some were in bunkers, watching and waiting. The rest were in their racks and grateful to be there. Strader felt he was the one Marine out of place. He slipped out the door and walked to the embankment above the runway. Cloud shadows sweeping along the dark aluminum plates gave the runway a sense of movement like a channel of running water. The illusion was only slightly spoiled by a breeze coming across one of the two-hole latrines that carried the smell of fuel oil, fried maggots, and the menu from the evening mess processed through a few dozen Marines. Strader scratched at the ground with the tread on his Ho Chi Minh sandals. In a few days he would be on his way back to the world and Vietnam would be nothing more than a year of bad memories. But as he stood looking into the endless night of the distant Arizona, he had never felt so far from home.
Nguyen and Sau crept through their unit, carefully rousing each man in turn as they went. Before long, all were up and alert, listening as Nguyen laid out their situation in detail. They would get their equipment ready to travel without making a sound, then wait in absolute silence for the order to move while Sau and a group of his choosing dealt with the problem. Whether noise would matter when the order to move came would depend on the success of the night’s work, and that could be hours away. Pham and Truong listened intently.
“I volunteer to go with Sau,” Pham said.
Nguyen pretended not to hear. He nodded to Sau, who went through the group making his selections. It was evident from the speed of his choices that Sau already knew which men he wanted.
Pham didn’t like being ignored. “I said I’ll go.”
Nguyen moved close to Pham. “This is by invitation only, and you aren’t invited.”
“I don’t care if it’s dangerous,” Pham said.
“And I don’t care that you don’t care.”
Sau whispered to Co and two others, Binh and Duong, and sent them to prepare. Another man stepped out of the shadows. His leathery skin was the color of bronze, and his unusually high cheekbones gave his face a perpetual squint.
Nguyen put a hand on his shoulder. “Vo, you make five.”
Vo nodded and followed the others into the darkness.
Nguyen turned to the remaining men. “We will have to carry their loads as well as our own.” He looked into the darkness where the five were gathering what they needed and spoke softly, almost to himself. “And we may have to carry it far because I’m afraid there is little chance that they will be returning.”
Truong seemed shocked. “There is little chance?”
“Do not feel bad for them. If they fail, we will likely share their fate.” Nguyen seemed to stare at Pham rather than Truong. “If I were a betting man, I wouldn’t wager five dong that any of us will be smiling by this time tomorrow.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Now get ready. If there is any shooting, we will have to get away from here as quickly as we can. But if our comrades are successful, we will leave slowly and quietly. Unless you are like Pham and don’t mind the danger, you should pray they are successful.” He slipped into the darkness.
Truong followed Pham back toward their sleeping area. “For a minute there I thought our noble leader didn’t like our odds,” Truong said. “But I think it’s just you he doesn’t like.” Pham didn’t answer.
The heavy weapons were still being readied for travel when Nguyen returned. The five soldiers committed to the detail filed past like condemned men en route to their execution. They had stripped to black shorts and dark headbands, and each carried at least one edged weapon. Most of these were short, deadly looking knives with the blades darkened. There were a couple of long blades, machete-like, more tool than weapon, and Co complemented his own short knife with a hammer with a heavy, square head. They padded along behind Nguyen on bare feet and dissolved into the blackness of jungle clinging to the slope of the Ong Thu.
When it was anticipated that additional firepower might be needed, Nguyen had sent another man to join the sentry at the tree. He carried a Russian PRD light machine gun, an elongated AK with a drum magazine hanging from the receiver. Another drum was slung in a canvas bag over his shoulder. A bipod hung from the end of the barrel. Nguyen knelt beside them. “If things go wrong, empty your weapons into the valley,” he said. “Rake the mountain. We’ll need time to get clear, and you must give us that time.” The two nodded and Nguyen turned his attention to the others. “I’ve given them their orders should the worst happen. If you have to come back quickly, come low.” He rested a hand on Sau’s shoulder. “How long?” he asked.
A small gust of wind cooled the sweat on Sau’s body, and he shivered involuntarily. He hoped Nguyen didn’t mistake the shudder for a sign of fear. “Five hours, maybe more.”
“Chuc may man,” Nguyen said, patting Sau’s shoulder.
Sau looked at the men waiting in the shadows. They looked like a gang of cutthroat pirates from the South China Sea. “We won’t need luck,” he said.
Tanner was sitting in the bowl of his upturned helmet, his back against one of the trees. The helmet rim dug into his cheeks, but at least his ass was off the wet ground, and the irritation was enough to keep him from nodding off. The jungle throbbed with the squeaks and squeals of countless insects, broken occasionally by the distant screech of a predator finding prey. Tanner let the noise feed his mind. The primeval tune played over and over until he was sure that any sound that didn’t fit the natural track would draw his attention. He kept a hand on the grip of his M16 waiting for that sound.
The Chief lay a few feet away with his legs crossed and his arms folded across his chest like he was asleep at a picnic. His breathing was so shallow as to be imperceptible, and his face was a mask of serene composure. Tanner knew he wouldn’t snore or twitch or even change position until his watch.
